What Passover Means To Me

It may shock you to discover that I have some, erm, issues with my religious upbringing. Not shocked? Oh, well, I guess I don't do a good job of hiding it, what with my references to Zionist Summer Camp and the like. But I do enjoy a good Passover. For only some of the right reasons. It was a holiday that both my parents always got really into and, during my early childhood, one they shared with their friends, Jewish and non-Jewish alike. As we children got older and my parents made friends at synagogue, the seders became more a gathering of the people we saw every Saturday. This made my father happy because he didn't feel like he needed to explain things to the assembled crowd, but it made, and continues to make, me a little sad.

Let me examplify: for years, my parents had a crudely written handbook for our non-Hebrew speaking friends. It was a detailed transliteration of the songs so that our repeat guests could learn to sing along without learning Hebrew. I have such immensely fond memories of seeing their friends sing along with us because they could. It was an incredibly inclusive pair of evenings. I also remember how colossally pissed off my father was when the rabbi of our synagogue said that Passover shouldn't include non-Jews; livid, actually, would be how I would describe my father's response. But then, somewhere along the line, our seders, year after year, were composed of only Jews. And in all honesty, I think we lost something.

Now we split the seders. My parents do one and devoted partner and I do the other. My cousin and her four children have been coming for many years, and it is their only exposure to Jewish tradition. I imagine it can be boring. Because in those years when the seder was all synagogue people, we upped the Hebrew, upped our religiosity, and lost those little transliterated songbooks. Yes, the kids remember a little bit from year to year, but I must remember to ask my parents why they haven't resuscitated the books. For my teenage cousins, it might be just the thing to make them more active participants.

Our seder is a little different. It is almost entirely in English and I think that reflects our family of two, one who can read Hebrew and one who can't, far better. We read the story in its entirety, but I skip most of the singing. Devoted partner knows the blessing for the wine and has, over these many years, picked up a bit of song here and there, but I would say that out seder is more about assembly and less about ritual. I'm not doing a fish course this year because a) I hate making fish but also b) it's not part of our personal repertoire.

But why do I like Passover. It's not the text which I find simultaneously simplistic and deeply resentful; it's not the commemoration which, after years of indoctrination regarding All The Bad Things That Have Ever Happened To Jews And Which Will Happen Again Especially If You Marry Outside The Faith, has about as much import as a Nicolas Cage movie; and frankly, it's not the food - dietary restrictions based on uncorroborated mythology strike me as especially non-essential in my post-religious world. No. For me, Passover has always been about our family and our extended family of friends. About making and sharing a meal together.

Judaism is not an inclusive religion, just try to join up and you'll see. While eradication of a people based on the stuff they think is never the answer, and while Jews and the passover text make copious mention of how everyone was always out to get them, you have to remember that until the 20th century, Jews were the fundamentalist Mormons of the world: weird habits, cloistered, unfriendly to outsiders. I don't think that's reason enough to want to dispose of them, but it's not like 15th century Jewish communities were ever, "hey, we're having funny flat bread dinner tonight, wanna come over?" Also, when in conversation religion comes up, no one likes to hear you bragging about being God's chosen. Just saying.

So I try to ignore all that crap. I try very mightily to ignore the text that, in the face of current Jewish political practices, is so hypocritical as to make me wonder why no one else is mentioning it. I try to ignore the pages upon pages of sucking up to God. And instead I like to think of it as Stuff Jews Do: An Open House. Come one, come all, and let's sit around a table together and read a story. I'd probably also enjoy an evening of grape leaves, ouzo, and spanakopita while we read D'aulaires Greek Myths (no, I'd definitely enjoy that).

We have two first-time attendees to our seder and that makes me happy. I like that devoted partner and I have created a tradition where our guests don't have to pay to play. I don't know what we'll do if we make small ones (it occurred to me last night that I have no intention of wasting their neurons on learning a language as relatively useless as Hebrew, but that means I'll need to write up some of those transliteration songbooks), but I do know that I grew up in an environment where everyone was welcome at the Passover table and I'm immensely pleased that devoted partner and I continue that admirable tradition.

Xmas Dinner, Take 1

Despite the years of hebrew school and zionist summer camp, there once was a time when our family celebrated Christmas. In grandma and grandpa's brick house on the corner lot. With a tree and lights and seasonally colored Hershey's Kisses in glass container's and carolers outside and chocolate mousse pie and aunts and an uncle and cousins. While my dates may be spotty, I think we did this yearly until a year or two after my grandfather died. We have pictures to prove it including one I wish I had to share of me in a pink cashmere sweater, pink and grey tartan skirt, with a pink wand - I was 6ish. Yes, our family also brought a menorah when the holidays overlapped and we were certainly not chomping down on bacon in the morning, but there was Christmas and I liked it.

Then there were the non-Christmas years. The stay in New York and see a movie on Christmas day years.

Then there were the in-law years. I went to church. Two years ago I fell asleep in church. After that I chose not to go to church (jewish folks: church is a lot like synagogue except in English and there's slightly less getting up and sitting back down).

But Christmas never recaptured those early years for me. Perhaps it's that devoted partner's family wasn't my family. And there are no small children which, though I despair of spending time with them in general, do add to the Christmaseyness of Christmas.

So this year, now that our families are soon to be joined officially, I requested that we host the Christmas meal. And by requested, I think I said something like, "that's it - I want US to do Christmas this year." But, you know, nicely. Not like some crazed shrew harpy. Honest.

And that brought me to the next obvious question: what to cook? But not really. I've known what I want to cook for Christmas dinner since 2005 when, in the john at Ed's house I paged through the December issue of Food and Wine magazine. There it was: the perfect Christmas dinner. My mouth watered reading about it. So when we started planning, the Food and Wine website was the first stop. Here, in fact. Do you not want to start eating this immediately?!?

I cut back on some of the three million dishes both for expediency and the simple fact that our Christmas dinner will be serving 8 (9? Stupid Kate), not 20. Also, my dad won't be eating a lot of this because of his dietary restrictions. I've ordered my roast and I know it will not be cheap, so we didn't want to leave its preparation to chance. Also, while I'm confident I can whip sweet potatoes on the fly, I was less confident with creamed carrots. So last night I made a single rib and some creamed vegetables. And I'm so glad I did.

My meat was delicious but decidedly medium - and we're a rare to medium rare kind of group. So now I can adjust cooking times. The vegetables were good, but our tastes run to the more intense, so I'll be adding more ginger and more horseradish and, in a nod to having something without heavy cream, I think we're going to saute the mushrooms in sherry vinegar instead. It was also useful from a timing perspective. Anyone who was at our inaugural Passover dinner may remember that we ate in the round because the meat took way longer than expected and I spent most of the meal in the kitchen with The Boy finishing the lamb on the stovetop. Now I know what can be made ahead of time (all initial vegetable cooking for example - if they get finished with the cream sauce, they will heat up again, and that cream sauce need not be made a la minute). And I just bought a chafing dish which will help immensely since I despise serving lukewarm food.

I'll give credit where credit is due, though, and the credit belongs to devoted partner. I absolutely tend to wing it on cooking, figuring stuff will be good enough, and it drives devoted partner crazy because sometimes I fail. Mightily. And while for some dinners, I think the pre-cooking is unnecessary, for this, our first Christmas meal, it made a lot of sense and I think it will prevent me from overcooking 200 dollars worth of cow.

Now if only he'd tell me what time his family is showing up, we'd be golden!

Anticipation

Far be it from me to give Carly Simon any more airtime, but she seems to have cornered the meme-o-sphere on this word, and sadly, the word is apt.

Gift giving is tough in our family. Not because we don't want things, more because we don't want things that fall within the gift giving budget. My mental wish list has several sub $20 things - that new nail polish color, 12" circular knitting needles - and expensive things - furniture, electronics, trips to Thailand. In the middle there's not much.

So we've gotten in the habit of pooling financial gifts to come up with the thing we wanted - even when that means, like this year, my brother and I will be exchanging envelopes with the exact same amount of cash in them. And, in the spirit of making sure the thing I wanted wasn't sold out, I pre-ordered it and picked it up last night.

And now, like the adult I am, will stare at it in its packaging, until we open gifts on Christmas (the day we'll also be celebrating a very late Chanukah). Which will be very very difficult to do and draw on the reserve of willpower I am currently using to not eat.

Because the gift is a colornook.

That I want to open and play with and customize and mess with like the gearnerd I am.

But I will not, for I has adulthood. And I will spend the next (oh my god) month thinking about how much fun I will have with it in January. But if you have spent any time in a Barnes & Noble recently playing with the nook, you will know how much fun it is RIGHT NOW. My salesperson, Erika, helped me a great deal by refusing to open the packaging to put my anti-glare plastic thingy on the screen, saying that once the box was open, temptation would prove to great, but then she put the whole kit and kaboodle in a bag with photographs of the colornook in action on the outside.

So now I have a very compelling bagvertisement in my house that contains the very item the bag is bagvertising.

Fine. I'm going back to thinking about food and how much I'd like to eat some that isn't composed of finn crsips and chicken breast.

Not All About Me

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Originally uploaded by reallyct

Except the part where I woke up at 6:30am to drive into Manhattan to drive to Staten Island via New Jersey to return to Manhattan and find a place for my car to take a subway to Queens, etc. etc.

But the star of the day, in my eyes, was The Boy. Of 45,000, I only had eyes for him. Which was tough because there are a lot of not-unattractive people who run this thing. In good shape. Sweating. But, really, I wasn't paying attention to that because I was scanning the crown for 30-759.

Except when I was tearing up at the beautiful, inspirational runners who made Benetton ads look like so much uniformity. I shouted at the girl with the Moroccan flag shirt twice because I didn't think all that many other people would have been able to identify it and, without a place name or a proper name, it's hard for people to cheer for you. I loved all of the Gunthers and Hiros and Esmereldas and Yvonnes. I loved the people in funny costumes and the people running for charity and the people running for family members and with family members; the people for whom this was a first marathon, the people who were just married, the people who volunteer to accompany a disabled participant all 26.2 miles. I loved unexpectedly seeing a guy from my high school and screaming at him as he ran by; I loved how happy people looked when you called out their name; how grateful they looked when you did it as they were struggling.

Look at this to get your fill of how beautifully diverse in ethnicity, age, sex, place of origin, the marathon is.

I had never paid attention to one until last year when The Boy ran his first. I'm sorry I missed it before that. It is a terrific event and the camaraderie is palpably heavy. If you've never gone out and watched for an hour or so, please do yourselves a favor and show up next November. If you don't live in New York, plan to stop by your own city's marathon. And if you want to see a sampling of the 2010 marathon through my eyes (it's very Boy-centric), you can check out the photos.

Shit My Mom Says

First email: "Dear Yelena, Went to my "insert address" button and it came up saying 'you have no addresses in your book' Now I didn't do that!!!!!!!!!! so.....here's the recipe and could you please tell me your address again so I cab create a new book? [recipe redacted]"

Second email: "Dear Y, I plucking hate using e-mail to send A RECIPE Do you know how long it's taken me? And all that list shit and tab and enter and pluck pluck pluck....... anyway Arrange on a heated platter and spoon the sauce over top. I served with soba noodles, but you can eat it over a pile of shit, you computer junkie,,,,,ALL my love, mom Also, I type with so many mistakes that I spend half the time backspacing and correcting But I do know how to iron"

I wasn't going to post today, summer and all, but then this arrived and I had to share it. I think it pretty much stands on its own.

Taking Stock of the Things I Can't Do

My mother has been on vacation since last Monday (yes, my father has too), and her absence, though certainly not debilitating, has caused me to take a cold hard look at the things I'll miss, not most, but most unusually, when one day, far in the future, she takes the Great Vacation. My mom and I have a very close relationship. Aside from approximately years 13-14 where unladylike words were hurled, my mom and I have always had a very close relationship. Mostly cause my mom doesn't suck. While the if-it-makes-you-happy philosophy of parenting may have contributed to the fact that neither I nor my brother is a neurosurgeon, it did keep family strife down to a minimum even when, say, said progeny was caught: smoking and drinking at bar mitzvahs, improperly using school computers, failing out of college, etc. Again, though, no neurosurgeons.

But what I lack in medical acumen has more than been made up for in actually liking my mother and liking to spend time with her. Witness our trips to the USQ greenmarket most weeks and you'll see we're not like the mother/daughter paradigm so oft portrayed on television. I think it stems from an utter and complete lack of competition between us. Possibly helped by the fact that my mother is a tall slender Italian-speaking bikram yoga practitioner, and I am a busty scuba diving bibliophile couch potato.

And my mom's pretty nice too. I mean, when I think of the things I would have asked her to do for me in just this past week....well, those things are both embarrassing and worthy of sharing.

I don't iron.

Ever.

I don't know if we even own an iron.

Once or twice I've seen devoted partner iron over the years. Not a pretty picture.

Ironing seems to take a very very very long time especially considering how little one needs to pay SOMEONE ELSE to iron. Also, I own a lot of things that don't wrinkle. Those that do generally go to the dry cleaner's or are worn wrinkled. However, with this whole knitting thing, sometimes things need to be ironed so that I can determine if they fit/look right. On these occasions (and only these - I don't stop by my parents' apartment with an armful of shirts needing ironing), I ask my mom to do it for me. Am I really going to have to learn to iron before she dies?

Also, my mother is an expert at what I call not-letting-the-man-screw-you-out-of-15-cents-worth-of-toothpaste. This is a woman who can get the last gram of any substance out of whatever container it was once in. She cuts open plastic containers like it's a holy mission and, using a complicated collection of scoops, paddles, and sticks, gets out the last bit of whatever it was thereby depriving Big Plastic Packaging of its wasteful delight. Ordinarily I find this behavior odd at best, and other things besides. But I recently started experimenting with some hair crap I saw on TV and this stuff is not cheap (likely, it is not expensive either, more that if I ordinarily pay 15-18 bucks for shampoo and conditioner and now I pay 30 bucks for this fancy stuff, I consider that expensive). It also comes in a pump bottle, the least efficient of plastic dispensers. Naturally, there's about 1.5 inches of the glop in the bottom of the bottle that won't come out with the pump and is also kind of persnickety about coming out when I upend the bottle and whack it against my open palm. So now I kind of want mom to come home so I can bring her my bottle and have her mine for the last (literally) shower's worth. After all - that might be worth 60 cents.

Of course, there is a price to pay for this: my mother isn't exactly what you'd call computer proficient. Guess which child she calls to ask about her "why won't it click" problems?

Now Here It Is, Your Moment of Zen

UPDATE: This might just be the answer. Thanks Tony! (Why did I never think to call you Tony before? You'll hate that!)

So, I've been angry recently. Really really
really really
really really really
angry.

At everything and nothing, at myself and other people, indiscriminately and pointedly. If you were to ask me to choose one word to describe myself, it would be angry.

This weekend The Boy and I went away to see our DC-area relatives. There was nothing particularly special about the trip except that it was a break in the routine. A chance to drive one of the least interesting parts of the I-95 corridor, and in between talking to one another, this gave me a chance to reflect. I didn't come up with a list of answers, but I may have given myself the challenge to structure my life so that I am less angry.

Because a lot of what I'm angry about (or that I identify myself being angry about) is stuff that I can change. The stuff I can't change? I might temporarily borrow from 12-step programs and just decide to be serene about it.

Cool.

Catherine Deneuve.

Step 1: When I am angry at you, if I think the anger can be ameliorated, I'm going to tell you. Not angrily. Just normally. Because you probably don't know I'm angry. And you'd probably like to have the opportunity to either tell me to shove it or to modify things. For situations I think are unfixable. I don't think I'm going to tell you. Much like I don't like when relationships end and you hear stories of the parties giving parting shots, "yeah, well I slept with your sister," I don't think there's any point in giving vent to anger within a relationship that isn't going anywhere anyway.

Step 2: I am going to give myself more to do in an effort to permit myself less time to brood (angrily). That table project from months ago? I'm starting it. I'm not commencing with any new knitting projects until the mostly finished ones strewn around the living room are finished. I'm signing us up to volunteer at Adopt-A-Dog like we discussed doing over a month ago. And maybe dance lessons. And maybe I'll find an organization I'd like to devote some time to.

Step 3: I am going to attempt to give less vent to my macro frustrations. Just because I have a Hobbesian view of humanity doesn't make it interesting conversation. Especially when many of my friends are a little more hopeful.

Step 4: I am going to be like Happy Gilmore and find a happy place. I will go to this happy place when other people's behavior bothers me. This place will be more beneficial than the stabby place I go to now. I tried it this morning. It was ok.

This does not signify a sea change in my snarkiness, as snark has a place and can be used for entertainment purposes. It works less well as a guiding life principle.

I don't want to be so angry and since it is less likely that all the things/people/situations that I am angry about/at/near will suddenly change, I'm going to have to change how I am.

But let me know if I become less funny (if you thought I was funny to begin with).

Road Trip

For the first time in our lives, The Boy and I will be taking a little trip together. Based on how I adore mein bruder, I have long held out hope that once he's settled into a relationship, the four of us will rent beach villas and hang out together (even as I know that his minimum luxury quotient is way higher than mine; I need a roof and water and preferably no major vermin), so I am sure that this < 36 hour trip to the Baltimore/Washington area will be an excellent test case.

Our mother's family is easily located within an hour of one another between Baltimore and the Virginia side of DC and yet we never seem to make it down there. Some of this can be blamed on The Boy's demanding job; some of it on my avowal to never again ride in the backseat of a vehicle manned by my father; and some of it on the difficulty of families to get together when everyone's a grownup.

As such, a hastily assembled birthday gathering for my grandmother's 95th birthday two weekends ago, was pointedly missed by the two of us, for which I personally have felt much shamefacedness. The Boy and I decided to go visit at the first opportunity which, when you have his job, is whatever two days you can beg off, with about a week's notice (fortunately my busy social calendar is anything but).

So tomorrow morning I will pick him up around 10 and we shall happily drive one of America's least interesting roads to Baltimore. Where perils lurk around every corner. I think we might get to see everyone including our two cousins, which will be nice as I cannot remember the last time I saw them (thank you Facebook for allowing me to think I keep in touch with people).

And off we shall go on our first brother/sister road trip (since our trip to Foxwoods in autumn had other people on it even if we two shared a car). I foresee our first massive iPod disagreement somewhere around Trenton.

Dear God, How Many Shopping Days Left?

So the perfect presents for my non-biological sister Kate have not yet arrived. Celebration with my family happens on Sunday. I realize that means they have time yet, but I just have a bad feeling about it. The boy and I aren't even bothering with pretense: I told him I wanted money towards the camera I'm buying myself, he said he didn't want anything but would accept Wii games if that made it easier. We're going in together for both gifts for our parents, and my dad still whined on the phone about how he finally knew what he wanted. Too late, sucker. Meanwhile, devoted partner found buying Wii games easy enough, but frankly shopping for my father, in particular, is a nasty chore. And while my mother will, indeed take anything, it's nicer when it's something she'll remotely use.

Fast forward to devoted partner's family. Year in and year out I buy father-in-law books on history. I find this boring. Mother-in-law once asked for 20 pairs of Hanes knee-highs and this year sister-in-law has asked for an assortment of 5 dollar street pashminas.

Is it possible that gift giving among people who are blessed with a decent standard of living is, dare I say it, a bit ridiculous?

Sure, there's stuff I want. A really expensive camera is one thing. And I'm sure there are some pricey things everyone on the list could do with. My brother has been musing over wine storage solutions since he bought his place; devoted partner and I are debating dive watches; and I'm sure the other people in our lives have big ticket items on their wishlists as well. But since none of us is going to pony up that kind of money for the others, what is the true use of all of this gift giving?

It's not that I don't like getting things people like; what I mind is the pressure. Of the gifts I have purchased this year, only one feels good. Now I just have to hope the recipient likes it as much as I hope. The rest are merely trinkets designed to let the people in my life know I thought about them. Except that half of them know what they're getting anyway.

Should we just throw in the towel and start giving gifts to charity? It feels less festive to celebrate without gift exchange, but I'm starting to feel rather jaded about the whole thing. I simply don't need trinkets. And when I do feel the urge for something, for better or worse, I generally just buy it.

Next Christmas will be different in at least one respect. We are planning to not be here for it. My goddaughter will be 3 1/2 and I would like to spend the holiday with her when she is old enough to have a good time with it. So that should be a change. But that's one year out of the rest of our lives.

And I like the holidays. I am not one of those grinch types. We got our tree on Monday and I love looking at it. I sprung for the ridiculously expensive, yet hypnotically metallic, Chanukah candles at Whole Foods, and we're batting about .600 on nights we've lit them. But the gift part keeps getting more difficult and I seem to be among the only people willing to dispense with it.

Now I must return to the gift hunt. Wish me luck!

Why We Hate Our Families

Maybe hate is a strong word. I don't hate my family; in fact, I don't even hate devoted partner's family, and I assume he doesn't hate mine. Let's instead call it a simple case of different priorities. I prioritize my desires above the desires of our collective families. As many Americans know, we are coming up on one of the, what I like to call, mandatory holidays. Sure, you can spend 4th of July and Arbor Day on your own, but thou must spend thine Thanksgiving with some configuration of thine family. Lackluster though that may be.

So let me tell you what my family's typical Thanksgiving looks like and, without maligning devoted partner's, you can infer that his is similar.

Our nuclear family, mother father the boy yelena, sit down and eat turkey. Sometimes this happens in the afternoon; sometimes in the evening; sometimes on Friday; sometimes not at all. The boy shows up an hour late looking like he just rushed from the rumpled sheets of some woman of low morals; we argue about the Israel/Palestinian conflict; we eat too much pie; we children steal turkey for later. We do not watch parades, football games, or sit before a roaring fire. Father is distracted by the sales that will start the next day. Mother can't believe she just spent two days cooking all that food for four people. I miss Thanksgivings of Christmas when your friends were all home too and you snuck out of your family celebration as soon as possible to go get blackout-drunk with one another.

One year I ditched Thanksgiving with my family to spend it with the Frenchies (and I really can never finish apologizing for the undercooked turkey and the pumpkin pie mess). Family retaliated by spending the following Thanksgiving in Italy where the boy was studying abroad. WITHOUT ME. Yes, that's right. My parents went to spent Thanksgiving with my brother in Rome. I spent Thanksgiving at home with my roommate's family because my own parents wouldn't spring for the plane ticket - fu#@$@#4ers! So I have no allegiance to this thing. Furthermore, Thanksgiving for four people is the height of depressing. Why such a big meal for four people who don't need the excuse of Thanksgiving to eat together? After all, we all live near one another. And, despite the boy's protestations that he'd like to go spend Thanksgiving with our relatives in the greater D.C. area, I think spending 5 hours trying to make it from Newark to Trenton on I-95 would make him rue the day he thought travel for Thanksgiving was a good idea.

Now devoted partner is far kinder to his family than I. But, more often than not, Thanksgiving is a small and, dare I say, somber affair - of necessity: eating with your own immediate family does not a holiday make. Since sister-in-law moved to California, it's now a hideous shlep for her to come home and her uncle and aunt live 45 minutes from her - if I needed a dose of family, I would choose the family I could drive to in the morning and drive away from at night. So when mother-in-law announced she was going to California this year for Thanksgiving, I pounced.

And I mean pounced. I don't think devoted partner was off the phone with her before I already had plane tickets lined up. I would not be spending time or money to fly westward to have turkey with devoted partner's family, not least because of the hideous clusterfruck that is domestic holiday travel, but because in a world where we get three weeks of vacation and people think that's generous, I don't want to waste an hour of it on obligation (I am slowly converting devoted partner to this way of thinking). I realize that my grandmother lives driving distance and his grandparents are only accessible by plane, but...call more! I'm sure mother-in-law would have been overjoyed had we leapt (oh, blogger, why do you think leapt is not a word?) up and said we would be overjoyed to have a Very Northern California Thanksgiving, and we got a little bit of ribbing from the other side of his family wondering why we didn't want to come to Arizona to spend Thanksgiving with grandma (grandma, by the way, is cool, and knows exactly why we'd rather take a week's vacation), but I used a cunning trick (made more cunning by the fact that he knows I'm doing it and still can be swayed): I offered an alternative.



It went a little something like this: you know, you already get Thursday and Friday of Thanksgiving week off; if you just take Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, we can go diving for a week.

Evil, right?

Followed by this revelation was a 48-hour period of research in which I made a compelling financial argument and we were booked.

So, dear readers, I abandon you for the week of Thanksgiving as well. I will be underwater and I will not have a computer (except the one on my wrist that tells me how deep I am). I wanted to give you fair warning so that you could find another site to entertain you in my absence - I humbly suggest all the ones on my sidebar.

I Hope That Lump In My Throat Isn't Cancer

Almost Mile 26
Originally uploaded by reallyct

My brother, his friend Stephanie, and, if the mainstream media is to be believed, several other people ran the marathon yesterday. Let me start by saying, "way to effin' go!"

My cold heart? Officially moved.

My pride glands? Swollen.

To illustrate exactly how proud/excited/amped up I was, I went to Queens.

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Originally uploaded by reallyct

To stand and hope I saw them (I didn't). Buoyed by the awesome supportingness of devoted partner, I spent the day watching people indulge themselves in what I consider a highly suspect pastime: endurance exercise. And it was incredible. I haven't actually watched the marathon since I was a kid, but I hope to watch it many more times in the future. It is one big United Colors of Benetton happyfest

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Originally uploaded by reallyct

(with exhaustion, the threat of imminent cardiac arrest, bleeding nipples, and missing toenails thrown in to bring us all back to reality).

We potatoes on the sidelines exercise our talkie-holes to cheer the runners - all the runners - on to the finish. We call them by name (and by the way, mein bruder, you couldn't be bothered to Sharpie your names on your shirts?) though we don't know them and tell them they're doing great, that they're almost there and there is NO IRONY. The marathon is a wholly irony-free zone, and you can just imagine how uncomfortable that makes me.

I kind of loved everyone and knew that though I missed them in Queens, someone didn't.

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Originally uploaded by reallyct

Someone, and frankly I assume there were lots of someones, cheered my brother and Steph through the borough of Queens. Loudly. Whole-heartedly. As I cheered for the friends those people missed.

In fact, I almost missed them twice. It was devoted partner who spied them coming up Central Park South, at the precise moment I wasn't paying attention. I looked up and saw them nearly passing us and I was off. Gentle readers, I ran like a lunatic person. And ran fast. Especially for someone who can probably be classified "dangerously sedentary" by the medical establishment. I sprinted and I weaved through people because I was going to see them, make eye contact, wave my very very very lame sign, and get a picture (a #$%#$&%%$ blurry picture, but a picture nonetheless). I don't know how these two can be smiling (or frankly looking so good), but they were and they did.

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Originally uploaded by reallyct

I don't know what their final time was. I know The Boy said by mile 12 his knee was farked, and that he stopped at every subsequent aid station to have it looked at. Stephanie, you are whatever the lady equivalent of bon mec is for adjusting your pace and making sure you two finished together. Everyone who cheered for these two along the way (and for my cousin Sarah who made the awesome time of 3:36, for Lauren and Josh my former grade school classmates, for Chefs Rafael and Olivier who nicely let me into their kitchens last year): you guys frickin' rock!

Fortunately for my traditional bedfellows, pessimism and vitriol,

Dbag Marathon Edition, 11/1
Originally uploaded by reallyct

we returned home to the suburbs sitting near these two, who will be excoriated in tomorrow's special Couples Edition of Hall of Commuter Dbags.

It's Beginning to Look A Lot Like *&^%$*

In the end, I think we can all agree that the blame rests squarely with National Geographic. Had its October issue been lengthier, I would not be finished with it already and would not have been compelled to open the November issue of Bon Appetit which led to immediate stressing about the holidays.

Even though I know the holidays are relative eons away.

It's just that people are starting to talk about them.

I know I have it easy. At the first whisper that mother-in-law was going to California for Thanksgiving, devoted partner and I bought non-refundable plane tickets to the Dutch Antilles. Mother-in-law is the most sentimental of our parents and her absence means we can act like irresponsible kids and celebrate our turkey day underwater. I didn't even really bother to warn my parents. I bought the tickets first.

But Christmas is the Achilles heel of our relationship and partly with good reason. You see, technically speaking, my family does not celebrate Christmas (ok, more than technically. My family does not, at all, celebrate Christmas); devoted partner's family does. As devoted partner and I have no children we are, for the purposes of the holiday discussion, children ourselves, bound by tradition and the desire for a minimum of hurt feelings, to comport ourselves as children and adhere to the Christmas schedule. I, for my heathen, pagan leanings, consider Christmas to be a very very secular holiday. An awesome secular holiday, but a secular holiday nonetheless, and my desire to roast an animal and make stuffing is in no way, shape, or form, indicative of a latent desire to worship anything that isn't edible (and you transubstantiation folks out there don't count). I just like having people over for dinner. In my fantasy world, I have a big, day-long free-for-all where food is available pretty much round-the-clock for any and all who choose to stop by: my family, his family, our friends. That's my perfect Christmas.

There's just one problem: devoted partner has deemed my fantasy Christmas not-Christmasey.

So we divide our time between devoted partner's no longer married parents. Some Christmas Days will be spent all together in what I will politely say is a good-faith effort by all. Christmas Eves involve Church (though this year, by dint of living in the same town and having my own holly jolly vehicle, I will be able to come and go as I please and I fear that means I will miss out on Church - which I napped through last year) and frequently a meal at a restaurant; Christmas Days are hosted by mother-in-law. My sister-in-law is a vegetarian and does not enjoy roasted flesh and I believe, would prefer to spend Christmas on the couch in a fleece blanket watching an Extreme Makeover Home Edition marathon while eating pie. I, myself, would love to offer her that alternative chez moi, but fear the repercussions.

But damn it if I don't think I have some skin in the game. I want to host Christmas Eve dinner. At my house. With my food. And, frankly, with my family. Yes, it's true, the eight of us have never been in the same room together, but I think we're all big enough to change that. Oh, except if it's not eight because one of the following things happens: sister-in-law brings a date, father-in-law brings girlfriend, brother brings a date - then it would be clusterfarkish. The only obstacles to that happening are:

1. Brother already has a standing invitation to a much much better Christmas Eve party. I, myself, have, on occasion, ditched devoted partner's family to go to this party. It has turducken!
   
   
2. Father could have minor coronary vis a vis my hosting a Christmas Eve at all. There would be a little crying and some guilt-inducing talk about abandoning my long-abandoned heritage. Coronary could be exacerbated by viewing of Christmas tree, now in its third year (years one and two found father not at our apartment during the holiday season where viewing of horrid tree-object would have been inevitable).
   
   
3. Father-in-law could feel put out that Christmas Eve, his traditional domain, had been usurped.
   
   
4. Mother-in-law could decide, upon hearing suggestion that I would like to cook food, that my desire is a poor reflection upon her and will feel as though it is a complaint about her NOT traditionally cooking on Christmas Eve.
   
   
5. I could stage a nutty because I will have to a) cook two separate meals to accommodate father and sister-in-law's dietary restrictions and suggest that we just order Mimi's before realizing I now live 27 miles away from Mimi's and that they are closed on Christmas Eve anyway.

So I get what everyone else has always said about how the holidays suck.

Instead of dealing with any of this, I would prefer to go away. Far, far away. Devoted partner might fear the tears of his family, but I am a selfish and cold-hearted woman who would much rather spend Christmas alone, or with families slightly less complicated than her own.

I am accepting invitations starting...

now!

Why Television Is Bad For Parents

I can malign her all I want, she's not really good at navigating the interwebs.

My mom took the opportunity this morning to tell me that she had heard on the news last night that the town of Rye, New York has experienced a rash of burglaries. Apparently, the burglars steal garage door openers from cars parked in the driveways, but not garages, of homes and use them to gain access to the homes themselves.

Ergo, I should no longer keep my garage door opener in my car.

But mom, I say, my car stays in the garage, not the driveway. A burglar would have to break into the garage to break into my car (thereby obviating the need to break into the car at all since he would already have gained access to the house).

Mom reminds me that the burglar could steal my garage door opener while my car is parked at the train station.

I remind her that, while what she says is technically true, the burglar in that scenario wouldn't have any idea what house my garage door opener was for - since I was parked in a public parking lot.

Mother says, with an alarming measure of seriousness, that the burglar could have been stalking me.

I posit that the same could hold true of her house keys. She goes to yoga and presumably leaves her house keys in a locker. A burglar, who stalks her from the moment she leaves her apartment building, could follow her to yoga, steal her keys, return to the apartment building, and gain entry to her apartment, finally robbing her.

Mother did not find this scenario at all likely.

I may have mentioned that her scenario was equally unlikely.

We agreed to disagree.

A Post in Three Parts

I.
The phone rings at 9:00pm. From our position on the couch I am closer to the nearest handset. As I get up I remember that I've spoken to both of my parents within the past three hours and that devoted partner's sister was spoken to the evening before meaning, "my bet's on your mom." I was wrong. It was his dad.

Now devoted partner's father and I have had our ups and downs, but for the past two or so years we've been in an ups phase. Still, and with no malice, whenever he's on the phone there's something strange. Like he still can't believe that telephonic technology works. He is always calling from in transit - and much like my father believes that other people really really want to talk to you while you're driving your car and cursing at traffic - and always seems a little confused that, after dialing our number, a person picks up on the other end.

So his mild discombobulation is normal. Last night, however, there was a fever pitched-ness about it: he was, obviously, calling from a moving vehicle, but the scenario he described was reminiscent of a Thelma & Louise scene from the cutting room floor. He was in the car with devoted partner's aunt (it was her car); they had wrangled a large rug out of his apartment, stuffed it into the Audi convertible, and were on their way over to give it to us. One might inquire why this was being done in the middle of the night, but I know better than to ask. I myself have a younger brother and I loved this imagery.

Surprisingly, given the slightly bizarre location of our house, they arrived about fifteen minutes later in one piece and yes, with a rug hanging out of the convertible. Devoted partner and dad wrestled it out of the car and into our house while I refreshed Aunty's drink and gave her the grand tour. I could sell neither of them on a slice of nectarine cake, but was able to pass around some freshly picked Honeycrisp apples - my role as hostess preserved.

Now we need another rug pad.

II.
Yesterday morning I stopped off at my parent's apartment to pick up some black cherry tomatoes my mother had kindly purchased for me at the market. As I was getting ready to leave, I calculated the number of blocks to work and realized it was the perfect number for a leisurely morning cigarette.

And then I remembered I'm not smoking.

I think New York smokers all calculate distance by number of cigarettes needed. For example: my best friend's house was 2 cigarettes away from mine - 11 blocks. From my house to school was 1 - and what a good 1 it was; our old apartment to the subway wasn't long enough for even one cigarette which never seemed ton stop devoted partner (and which always perplexed/vexed me) - and while our old apartment to my old job was also a little short for a full cigarette, given how I didn't want to rush to my desk, I didn't mind spending the extra minute or so outside finishing my cigarette.

I mention this because even though I have not had a pack of cigarettes within grasping distance in over a month, the habit is still in there. In fact, I think one of the reasons the quitting has been so easy for me is that I think of myself on vacation from smoking rather than on permanent holiday. This has the potential to be very dangerous - mostly because I already catch myself thinking that I could become one of those rare birds for whom a cigarette every once in a while is an easily accomplishable thing; the kind of person who, when out for the evening sipping bourbon obviously also smokes a quarter or a half pack, but then doesn't smoke again for a month. I can almost see myself as that person. But, I'm not going to test that theory quite yet.

I may have mentioned that built into my quitting plan was the escape plan: smoking is permitted on international vacation. If you've ever been a smoker, and you've ever been to Europe, you'll know that this makes lots of sense (even now as those damn Europeans are smoking less). Still, walking across Paris from south to north without a cigarette in your mouth seems somehow wrong. This was a fairly easy caveat to squeeze in, mostly because I knew there was probably not going to be international travel for at least six months (the islands don't count - no one had her enjoyment of the tropics diminished by a lack of cigarettes). So I gave myself an opportunity to outlast the craving. If six-twelve months from now I still think I'd want a cigarette while driving from the Geneva airport to Dijon, I guess I'll see what happens; but I simultaneously allow for the possibility that I'll become one of those horrid ex-smokers who wrinkles her nose at the smell of smoke. If I can last 6-12 months, I can try a cigarette and rely on my sheer force of will, that same force that made quitting a breeze, to prevent a slide back to habitual smoking.

That's the theory, anyway.

III.

It strikes me that I could, from time to time, encourage you to cook. I liked this cake I made Sunday. It was easy. It needed only a little tweaking. I think some of you should make this cake because making cake is good for the soul.

Nectarine (or any fruit, really) Cake
adapted from Gourmet Magazine, September 2009

• flour........................125 grams
  
• baking powder........10 grams
  
• salt..........................good pinch
  
• butter.....................115 grams
  
• eggs.............................2 whole
  
• sugar #1.................170 grams
  
• sugar #2...................20 grams
  
• vanilla extract............5 grams
  
• almond extract...........2 grams
  
• fruit...............................to taste
  

Combine dry ingredients. Beat butter and sugar #1 until light and fluffy; add eggs one at a time; add extracts; add dry ingredients and beat until just combined. Slice/segment/ensmallenate fruit. Pour batter into greased springform pan (9") and spread evenly; stud with ensmallenated fruit (next time I make this I will be pushing fruit under the surface of the batter as well as piling it on top); sprinkle sugar #2 on top. Bake in a 350 degree oven for 50 minutes.

Some ideas I've been toying with:

Use pears and add some star anise;
Use figs and add some chopped pistachios;
Add vanilla bean;
Add candied almonds.

Play around with it, the recipe is a cinch!