Roger, you're killing me over here.

Seriously, does it take this many months to decide what you want to do with your 2006 season?

I can't take it anymore.

Just cut it out. Stop with the media circus. Come back to Boston and finish this thing.

UPDATE: I am sad. Houston? C'mon... really?

Slogan spied on a girl's t-shirt on the N train this morning:

"I DATED FASHION"

I don't get it.

Tearful reunion.

Good news! I have found my other blue soccer sock.

I was pretty bent out of shape about losing it, as it had faithfully seen me through Greyskull's inaugural season, and the remaining sock was heartbroken and listless without its mate. It kept telling its new friends all about the crazy things they used to do in the auxiliary gym at Baruch College (like the time they managed to score a goal, much to everyone's surprise). But the new kids in the sock drawer didn't really appreciate the stories and eventually started avoiding Blue Sock because he was depressing them. They were unable to focus on preparing for next week's Greyskull FC v. Bohemians rematch (who will get tapped? Green? Yellow? Red?).

You're probably wondering how I came to reunite the Blue Sock with Other Blue Sock. Did I hear Other Blue Sock's weeping issuing from a barred basement window in the neighborhood? Did I break into said basement to find her chained to an office chair, dirty and starving and writing farewell notes to Blue Sock on toilet paper?

Did I see her parading about the neighborhood on the leg of some stranger, whose other sock was suspiciously off-hue?

No. My friends, in a fit of fashion crisis this weekend (laundry day's not far off), I was rummaging around my drawers and pulled out a sweatshirt. This sweatshirt had gone into the wash along with my footie kit last week. I unfolded the sweatshirt and, sure enough, Other Blue Sock was clinging to its soft insides.

She was shaky and sobbing with joy at being discovered, and much relieved to be delivered to Blue Sock. After the moving embrace pictured here (the soccer accoutrements are purely coincidental, I swear... though do note the adorable soccer ball-printed flip flops that Claire gave me), I returned them to the sock drawer where the dynamic sock quartet (or, would it be octet?) began plotting future glories on the pitch together.

Moving, no?

Another one bites the dust.

Dear Theo,

I didn't even know you had a girlfriend. And now this? Oh but you have wounded me, my darling.

Granted, we've never met. But, I think if we ever had, you'd chuck this tall blonde do-gooder of yours for me. It would have been perfect. We're both from New England, you went to my brother school. You work for the Red Sox, I want season tickets to Fenway...

I would have treated you nice. We could have been like the Yawkeys (sorta... without, you know, owning the team and being racists who pass on Jackie effing Robinson). We'd have picnics in the outfield at Fenway and you'd indulgently allow me to bend your ear with my opinions on the club's direction (but then you'd take my advice because I know what I'm talking about... no, really). I'd snub Lucchino at cocktail parties and charm John Henry. We'd have Thanksgiving with the Schillings in Boston and you could talk Sox with my Dad at Christmas.

But alas, it was not to be. I, along with thousands of young lady New Englanders, will cry myself to sleep tonight.

Let us have a foot race to the swing sets!

Realizations at 25 years of age, #208:

I am not fast, nor will I ever be. And that's OK.
I have never harbored delusions that I am fleet of foot (though my father told me that I didn't "run like a girl quite as much as [redacted]" during my softball-playing days, lo those many years ago, so I have that going for me. Still throw like a girl, though...).

Last night, we indulged in a little mid-week beering at the usual. When Claire and I took leave of the gents at the corner of our street, we turned into 10 year-olds.

"I call bathroom," she announced.

"Oh no," I said, "I've had one and a half more beers than you have. Me first."

Claire: Giggling, breaks into run.

Me: also beginning to run (note: I dislike running. A lot). "Aw c'mon," I yell.

She pulls ahead by a few strides. This is where my longer legs could come in handy, right? Wrong. My keys sail out of my pocket and clatter to the ground (it should be noted here that after a few beers, running at any speed feels really really fast).

Claire: "Ha ha! You have made a fatal mistake."

Me: Keys collected. Running again. "You bitch!"

Claire reaches the stoop a quarter block ahead of me, at which point she unlocks the door and closes it on me. Luckily, my keys are at the ready and I manage to get through the vestibule and up the stairs where she is unlocking the apartment. She slams the door behind her and I hear her pound down the home stretch and shut the bathroom door. I enter the apartment and dance ridiculously around the living room, surrounded by blinking cats.

Once again, my lack of speed foils me. Whether it's trying to chase down a striker for the Grey Skull FC, or win the bathroom footrace, I'm coming up the loser.

But I have other talents. For instance, reaching things in our upper cabinets and shelves.

Yeah, that's right Claire. In revenge, I'm going to put the hummus up really high so you can't reach it. Then who's going to laugh? Me, that's who.

It definitely doesn't speak in Joe Pesci's voice.

What can I say? Josh inspired me.

Today is the anniversary of the opening of the Brooklyn Bridge. It's my favorite bit of New York architecture, and I get to chug by it every day when my N train crosses its ugly stepsister upriver. And every day (unless I'm being groped by strangers), I admire its fishnetty cables and gothic arches. I love it in early morning light, at nighttime, in fog and in rain. And though it's been coopted for car ads, I like to think of it primarily as the great modernist muse of Hart Crane, Walker Evans (that photo is his from eakinspress.com), Alfred Stieglitz, and even Georgia O'Keefe (before she started painting vaginas... um, I mean flowers, she was bitten by the bridge bug).

Therefore, I give you a poem by the brilliant Hart Crane, in honor of my dearest Brooklyn Bridge (it's from his collection The Bridge... check it out). I could gush on about his use of blank verse, and the Bridge as a focal point for his epic poem on American life (and how that's interesting because he was gay and viewed himself an outsider), but I won't. Read it (aloud to yourself is best... then you can taste the words and meter as well. don't scoff, just try it.) and enjoy it. It sure is pretty.

To Brooklyn Bridge
by Hart Crane

How many dawns, chill from his rippling rest
The seagull's wings shall dip and pivot him,
Shedding white rings of tumult, building high
Over the chained bay waters Liberty--

Then, with inviolate curve, forsake our eyes
As apparitional as sails that cross
Some page of figures to be filed away;
--Till elevators drop us from our day . . .

I think of cinemas, panoramic sleights
With multitudes bent toward some flashing scene
Never disclosed, but hastened to again,
Foretold to other eyes on the same screen;

And Thee, across the harbor, silver-paced
As though the sun took step of thee, yet left
Some motion ever unspent in thy stride,--
Implicitly thy freedom staying thee!

Out of some subway scuttle, cell or loft
A bedlamite speeds to thy parapets,
Tilting there momently, shrill shirt ballooning,
A jest falls from the speechless caravan.

Down Wall, from girder into street noon leaks,
A rip-tooth of the sky's acetylene;
All afternoon the cloud-flown derricks turn . . .
Thy cables breathe the North Atlantic still.

And obscure as that heaven of the Jews,
Thy guerdon . . . Accolade thou dost bestow
Of anonymity time cannot raise:
Vibrant reprieve and pardon thou dost show.

O harp and altar, of the fury fused,
(How could mere toil align thy choiring strings!)
Terrific threshold of the prophet's pledge,
Prayer of pariah, and the lover's cry,--

Again the traffic lights that skim thy swift
Unfractioned idiom, immaculate sigh of stars,
Beading thy path--condense eternity:
And we have seen night lifted in thine arms.

Under thy shadow by the piers I waited;
Only in darkness is thy shadow clear.
The City's fiery parcels all undone,
Already snow submerges an iron year . . .

O Sleepless as the river under thee,
Vaulting the sea, the prairies' dreaming sod,
Unto us lowliest sometime sweep, descend
And of the curveship lend a myth to God.

Sock-a Bonita.

Let it be writ here that my sister Hayley is some kind of genius. Not because she took the AP German exam or anything, but because she gave me an amazing pair of socks for Christmas. Not just any socks, but soccer socks of the brightly-colored and be-stirruped variety.

When I first busted them out during our indoor season, I was nervous. It's an extra step in dressing oneself for a game, and perhaps too much of a footwear commitment. But I never should have doubted my sister the Sock Genius. Not only are they snug and hold my shinguards in place, but they do not have feet which means you don't have to wash them every time you wear them (Seriously. Don't look at me like that). They are also a sartorial triumph, which tends to be the most common triumph I personally experience on the pitch (except that time indoors when I bizarrely scored a goal).

My adoration for my bright blue Swiss stirrup socks has only deepened since Christmas. As you good people have witnessed, I am obsessed. But who can blame me? They're not as much of a struggle to put on as Hamish's super-tight American football socks, but they don't slide down. They also come up well above the knee, unlike the child's-size Modell's socks that I now use only in sock emergencies. I am particular about things (I know, I hide it well), and when I find something I like, well, heaven help us all if it goes missing.

Disaster struck this Sunday when I washed my gear after our draw with the Bohemians (huzzah! playoff 6/4!). Everything was clammy and sprinkled with turf dust, you see, and I decided I didn't want to wait for a proper laundry day. This is when laundry in the building is handy. But, when I went to collect my stuff from the dryer that night—quel horreur!—I only found one sock! I had what we Mohans call a "wicked crise." It simply won't do to go into the summer season with only my sub-par Modell's emergency socks.

A cursory examination of sporting goods merchants online was not encouraging. They seemed to want me to get stirrups a la my softball team in the late 1980s. I sent Hayley a panicked email. Could she track down another pair (or three)? Would she mind bringing some back for me to collect at a later date?

Today, salvation was waiting for me in my box at the office. Three (3) pairs of stirrup socks from Hayley for my birthday (in anticipation of this wicked crise, Hayley? Does your genius extend to seeing the future?). Thank heavens for camera phones:


Aren't they lovely?

Don't worry, though. I'm not giving up on the blue pair. I'll soon be posting an irate (or maybe pleading) note in the laundry room. There's no way the person who absconded with my poor sock can possibly appreciate it, lack of mate notwithstanding.

Why, I haven't seen you since the diworce.

Josh has expertly documented many aspects of the weekend in Philly, so go chez Kitten Loss for photos and commentary of the Joshy persuasion. Soon, I will sort out the camera issue and post my own pictures (including an apostrophe usage violation that I documented at the Mütter Museum and Seth's improbable rally cap).

It was fantastic to see my very good friend Dave, who is married to the lovely and wonderful Sìobhan. They live in West Philly and consequently often have the theme from The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air stuck in their heads. Wait, just me? Their hospitality is unparalleled and I think I speak for Josh and Seth as well when I say we hope to wine and dine them in Brooklyn soon.

We were blessed with marvelous weather all weekend, less the windy conditions at our seats in Citizen's Bank Park on Friday night, where the mighty Red Sox had an excellent game vs. the Phillies (sorry Josh and Seth...but only sort of). David Ortiz (perhaps in response to Josh screaming that he sucks) hit a homer, as did the wonderful Mike Lowell.

Other feats of athleticism included me needing to lie down in Rittenhouse Sqare Park due to an aching lower back (pictured, thanks to Josh), and Sìobhan's cat Magellan flinging a toy so high it hit the ceiling.

Now that the weeklong birth-stravaganza has concluded, I have realized that I am very tired and our refrigerator has become scary. Not just because it creaks like The Haunted Refrigerator when you open it, but because it is full of things that should have been consumed or chucked long ago. This happens every month or two when the social schedules have us out of the apartment for long stretches. The milk is a ticking time bomb, the leftover pakoras are getting soggy, and we have more bottles of Guinness than we do eggs. We bravely finished off the somewhat-icy Ben & Jerry's last night, but now I need to find a recipe that calls for potatoes, dried-out gorgonzola, an egg, and Guinness. Thoughts? Oh, and I still have lots of lemon curd. Clotilde is right. It's very good on toast, though I fear I should not consume quite that much sugar at breakfast.

I think I'm in Taradise.

Last night, a few of the gang took in Architecture in Helsinki at Avalon. They were great. Skipping around the stage and swapping instruments in a madcap musical orgy. They remind me a bit of New Zealand's Brunettes (or, as I enjoy calling them, "Th' Brunits"), but more electronicy. Also a little nuttier.

Anyway, the music was great (I was nervous that aforementioned electronicy-ness would make for a sub-par live performance, but I needn't have worried). Less great was the gaggle of 16-year olds in the house, many of them apparently skipping their prom for the event (needless to say, they knew the rules of attending the rock show).

Then there was a young lady who, in the light, looked a lot like Tara Reid, except she managed to keep her top on. Also like Tara Reid, she was in a fugly dresser, with a dress over a pair of pegged jeans. Not a tunic-y dress, mind, but that kind that spins.

Also, young not-Tara was with a friend. And they had just come out of some kind of vow of silence and did. Not. Shut. Up. For. The. Whole. Show. Luckily, I was standing close to them, so much of their conversation was screamed into my ear. The best part, of course, was when they began with the dancing. Into me. I had to surrender my spot and retreat, so troubled am I lately by the touchy from the strangers.

Before I wimped out (Claire hates people as well and is much better about standing firm at concerts) however, I did consider going all Vicky Pollard on her ass (see below, it'll make you happy). But you can't stay mad when there's happy crazy Australian music going on. No sir.

Força Barça!

So, we DVRed the UEFA Champions League final yesterday and watched the match after work.

And what a match it was. The Arsenal keeper got a red card for fouling the poetically talented Samuel Eto'o in the first 20 minutes of the game, forcing Josh's Gunners to send a man off of the field. Granted, I'm sure he thought he was making an appropriate sacrifice to prevent a goal, but I thought it stupid. You're down a man! Against Barcelona, who play such a relentless game! Split-second decision to pull Eto'o down and you're screwed. Watching it was exhausting, frankly.

Also relentless were the emotional tug-your-heartstrings FIFA ads. Oh man.

The important question is: Red Bull New York, when are you going to let us buy tickets to see these Barça guys in action? (Answer from the nice lady on the phone just now: June 19. Huzzah!)

Meanwhile, an adorable Nike ad. Joga Bonita indeed.

Now for a P.S.A.

I am a proud public transport user. I treasure my monthly Metrocard (so much so that I occasionally allow it a vacation from use in the deep recesses of my overfilled purse) and relish my commute of reading and iPod time. And with a beautiful view of the Brooklyn Bridge to and from the office, you can't blame me for having a big ol' crush on the N train.

But there are other crushes on the N train. Of the human variety. Peak time in the morning can be a little uncomfortable for those afraid of close spaces or big crowds. As I said, though, I love public transport and cheerfully (OK, so maybe sometimes I'm a little surly about it, but you get my drift) relax my strong no-touching policies for the crush of humanity that, like me, is just trying to get to work.

Today, I left the house rather on time (hooray!). I caught the local to Pacific St., where an N was waiting. Clutching my overfilled purse and umbrella, I squeezed through the throng at the door to a place above the bench seats. As I grabbed the bar, I noticed a man's hand just next to mine. Then I noticed that the hand was connected to a body that was crowding me. A lot. I tried to inch forward, adjusted my belongings to give the dude some space, but he wasn't taking my efforts as a signal to readjust.

No, this dude seemed to get closer to me, in fact. It was a mildly crowded train, though not the worst I've encountered. So I was puzzled when it dawned on me that this fellow's body was pressed fully against me not out of necessity, but rather on purpose.

"No," I thought, "that can't be. Who would do that?" I leaned forward, putting my full weight on the hand holding the bar, such that I was dangling precariously above the lady seated in front of me. Then, thinking another subtle signal could be in order, I rocked back on my heels and pushed him. Maybe a little arm strain would inspire him to realize that he was crowding me.

No dice. We are body-to-body in a manner that it is very much not cool. I lean forward again. The woman in front of me peers around me, up at me, and around me again. She takes one of her earbuds out. She knits her brow, looks up at me, and I look down with an expression that is probably half apology and half mayday.

We are underground, so the window in front of me is dark. I plant my feet wide and stare at the reflection of man behind me. He comes up to my earlobe, and he makes eye contact with me over my shoulder. I stare. Hard. His thin mustache twitches and he looks away.

At this point, I cannot believe that someone is really doing this to me. And, though I'm not typically a shrinking violet, I find myself totally powerless. Ew. Ew. Ew. Who does this? Every time I muster the resolve to menace him with my umbrella, or snap a picture for Holla Back NYC, another part of my brain convinces me that there's no way I'm right about this. This must be some kind of mistake.

We engage in another stare-down before as the train gains altitude and we come up onto the bridge. His whole body is pressed against mine. The woman in front of me makes eye contact with him, I think, and he steps back. I stand flat-footed again and he backs off a little more. I look over my shoulder just to verify the crowdedness of the train. As I suspected, not roomy but no justification of full-body contact.

When we stop at Canal, he retreats quickly onto the platform. I take stock of my now-restored personal space. I realize that I have been frotteurized. But, of course, the ridiculous thing is that I did have a legitimate fight with myself over whether it was happening when I was in the moment. Because, rationally, you have to wonder what kind of person gets off on rubbing up against perfect strangers on a crowded train. Also, rationally, you wonder why a strapping thing such as myself experienced a real crisis over whether she should confront the small man with the thin mustache.

So, the point of this whole narrative (which is not meant to frighten my parents...I'm safe and fine and all that), is that this is not going to happen again. Firstly, after multiple staring matches with this guy, I'm pretty sure I could spot him on the platform again, and if I encounter him again, he's going to get the umbrella-menacing of a lifetime. Boy howdy.

Furthermore, while I think it's important to adopt an "we're all in this together" attitude and try to be accomodating when it comes to small crowded spaces (like planes and trains and elevators), it is also important to be aware and identify a frotteur (which translated from French, means "one who rubs") loudly and publicly should he or she take advantage of close quarters for a little fun. Do it when the doors are closed and they can't get away. After being made to feel like a gross, powerless object, your only recourse is public ridicule (and possibly misdemeanor charges if it was really bad).

image from cs.umd.edu

Dodging the bullet of verbing a noun.

It makes me happy to read things like the following article about a copywriter dude who's trying to petition the dictionary to add an entry for concept v.

Is Concept a Verb?

Your instincts are correct, friends. It is not. And luckily, it's not a terribly popular usage of the word, so it looks as though the forces of light will prevail for now. As it turns out, though, you don't need to be a person who writes English good in order to submit a word for inclusion:

Del Salvio's efforts to add to English have also been mocked because of his own poor command of the language. He describes his suggested entry for the verb as "one proposed edition," instead of addition. His sample sentence for the entry is, "The team set aside some time for concepting in order to flush out some plausible directions," which not only uses the verbal noun concepting instead of the verb concept but also flush out instead of flesh out. (This last error has since been corrected on the site.) Del Salvio titles his exchanges with a Merriam-Webster editor "Converstations" and introduces them with, "Below find excerpts from Kory and I's conversations." If he is kidding, it is not obvious. But none of this matters. Dictionary editors look over all suggestions that come in, whether the suggester is a nonnative English speaker, a child, an idiot, a tenured professor of rhetoric, a newspaper editor, or a professional clubber of cute baby seals.

So, while I agree that language is for the people, I do wish more people would take its stewardship seriously. Otherwise, we are perilously close to swinging from trees and throwing feces at each other, as I have cautioned on many occasions.

I'd like to warn everyone who reads this to please refrain from using the word concept as a verb. It's a filthy habit and we much guard against its possible growth in popularity. If you work in advertising, this goes double for you. Instead, consider such healthy alternatives as "The team set aside some time to flesh out some concepts for the campaign."

See? Don't you just feel better already?

How to catch lightning and smoke.

Oh man. Oh. Man.

What a game.

Claire treated me to some excellent Tier seats at Yankee Stadium for my 25th birthday, which is a bit over a week away. And what better way to ring in my impending quarter-century than watching my beloved nine? There is no better way, my friends.

Of course, the whole thing was mighty tense. It was a close game throughout, and when the Sox stranded eleventy billion runners in the early innings, I began to sprout my first gray hairs. I kept the bilious oaths to myself for the most part, though, as I really feel most comfortable shouting those at the television. We also managed not to scream with schadenfreude when poor Hideki Matsui broke his wrist in the first (that was way grosser up close, as it turns out).

We were very fortunate to sit among other Red Sox fans (including a guy who flew in for the game from Boston, and gallantly bought us a beer in the 7th), much to the consternation of a group of date rapists/Yanks fans who were in front of us. You know the type: red-faced, thoroughly tailgated, lots of swearing, creepy dancing, homoerotic physicality with each other when the Yanks score. Also, they ate a bucket of popcorn the size of a baptismal font that probably cost them their first born. They put their rally caps on in the bottom of the 9th, but we knew it could do nothing against Jonathan Papelbon's mojo.

And what mojo it was. And Johnny Damon? What fantastic impotence.

Wake's knuckler danced, Youkilis's bionic sight was in top form, and even Willie Harris contributed. It was the best ten-days-before-my-birthday ever. And it didn't rain much at all.

Many thousands of thanks again, Claire.

And finally, if you like baseball, you should read Summerland. It's where I got this blog title, you see.

photo of Wake from boston.com

Into the heart of the Death Star.

Tonight's the night, kids. Claire and I will venture into the heart of darkness to watch my crimson-stockinged heroes take on the hated pinstripes.

In honor of the occasion, read about the history of booing.

And though last night's game still hurts, I still love you, Schill. I refuse to buy into this pre- and post- 133 pitches nonsense.

Meanwhile, we can hope to light up Mr. Chacon tonight. And everyone should pray for no rain and nice icy temperatures and the breeze in Wake's face. I sincerely hope that Sweaty McCrazyeyes is still too dumb for the knuckler.

Curt, the SG guys are right: don't shake Varitek off. Ever. Again. He got Derek "Nervous Nellie" Lowe out of many tight scrapes. And though you're a million times the pitcher he is, you can still benefit from the wisdom of the 'Tek, OK?

Don't get upset. You just relax, rest up, and know that we all still love you. Here, I'll prove it:

Pride, power, pinstripes, pooch-screwing.

Oh, E-Rod (And Randy. And Johnny. And Cabrera.). I am sincerely sorry I missed it.

I do look forward to tonight, though... see if we can light up the Moose.

And Thursday. Oh man. We're going to be there. How about a bench-clearing brawl? I'd like to see 'Tek give Mr. Rod a faceful of leather again.

Ich liebe Dich, Josh Beckett.






image from boston.com/redsox

Agh!

Too. Many. Hyphens.

Make it stop!

Ok, Mrs. Good, I'm sure you make a lovely meatloaf and congratulations on all the best-selling books.

Your success, however, does not give you license to go flinging defenseless hyphens hither and yon.

I concede that they work in the subtitle. You may keep those. And while I suppose the ones in the title are not technically wrong, there are just too many in one title.

If you're going for an unfussy, homey, Mennonite aesthetic, why not just call it Fix It and Enjoy It: All-Purpose, Welcome-Home Recipes. Forget the "Cookbook" bit. That's implied by the "Recipes," you see.

I don't have the energy to go into other, more frightening offenses of yours, Mrs. Good.

I am here to help. Give me a shout and I can help you clear the whole mess up when you're writing a title for your next effort.

If you promise not to use the hyphen lightly ever again, perhaps I'll share the Secret* Mohan Family Blueberry Cake recipe with you. You won't regret it.

___________________
*It's probably not actually a secret.

The human body is not a pretty sight and must be beaten vigorously with oak branches.*

Make no mistake, denizens of the cyber-deep; Claire is a genius. She is prone to moments of unimpeachable inspiration, such as the one when she suggested we pay a visit to the Russian & Turkish Baths in the East Village. Brilliant!

I've been meaning to check it out for a while, so it was fortuitous indeed that the wife reminded me. With Claire making her first foray into public bathing, we had the makings of a "blind leading the blind" adventure. And those are the best kind, you know.

So, off we marched to the Baths. They have a variety of saunas and steam rooms. That's a picture of Claire and I fighting over Iliya, the Latvian towel boy.

Anyway, Russian and Turkish Baths are very different from the hammam. No scrubbing with Brillo (indeed, it's less about washing than it is about sweating), only roasting hot rooms. Filled with chatty people.

It should be noted at this juncture that roasting hot rooms render Claire utterly speechless. So, when chatty people in a state of deshabiller sidle up next to us, she becomes invisible. Or rather, she thinks she's invisible because she's not talking. This means that I must deal with the chatty people. Who are old dudes. In states of deshabiller. This happened in the Swedish sauna, where I discussed whether it was morning (or felt like morning) at 2pm. Later, I was the one to refuse the nice young man who wanted to beat us with oily oak branches for $35, while Claire stood at my elbow. The best encounter by far was in the Russian sauna (which is actually one of very few here in the States), an unbelieveably hot room made of stone.

I find it difficult to converse easily when I am systematically roasting myself in a room made of stone with a mute girl next to me. In spite of this, a man who looked rather like The Dude, wanted to discuss the merits of his singing voice with us (but Claire was invisible, so, you know, just me) . I dumped myriad buckets of cold water on myself, covered my head with a towel, but he was still there. Claire turned to stone. I got woozy, giggled at what I assumed were the correct moments, and found myself staring at a reed-thin Asian man who was performing some impressive stretches. Once I began to feel as though my flesh was actually cooking, I scuttled back outside to the ice-cold pool. Claire, came out later and we adjourned in the Turkish sauna. The Dude followed suit, but found an old Latvian man to be a better conversationalist than I was. So it goes.

We ended the outing on the sundeck, gulping water and listening to a construction worker's radio next door. Next time, I'm going for the leafy beating (or Platza, or "plotz" as Claire calls it). As long as we don't have to chat.

If you like getting all half-dressed and schvitzy with a bunch of strangers, I highly recommend the Baths. It's a good time. Perhaps I'll see you there. I may well be swapping recipes with the man who looks like he's wearing a sweater. Come on over and pour some water over my head.

*With a tip of the cap to Claire, who has passed a version of this wisdom along to me.

Knife, fork, bottle and cork.

The foie gras debate has spurred me into thinking about what I buy and eat. And, because they're probably reading my mind, Salon has posted an interview with an ethicist named Peter Singer about the way we eat, perhaps in order to promote his new book, The Way We Eat (imagine that).

While my hackles go up when I encounter anyone (especially someone who's a "professional ethicist") promoting stark veganism (sorry friends-who-are-vegans...I love you, but I'd probably sell you out for some gorgonzola.) with a book called Animal Liberation on his C.V., but it's a really great interview, and I'm interested in reading this new book, for which he did quite a lot of field research at slaughterhouses and whatnot.

Anyway, here's an excerpt of his thoughts on the "Buy Local" movement:

In your book you say that socially responsible folks in San Francisco would do better to buy their rice from Bangladesh than from local growers in California. Could you explain?

This is in reference to the local food movement, and the idea that you can save fossil fuels by not transporting food long distances. This is a widespread belief, and of course it has some basis. Other things being equal, if your food is grown locally, you will save on fossil fuels. But other things are often not equal. California rice is produced using artificial irrigation and fertilizer that involves energy use. Bangladeshi rice takes advantage of the natural flooding of the rivers and doesn't require artificial irrigation. It also doesn't involve as much synthetic fertilizer because the rivers wash down nutrients, so it's significantly less energy intensive to produce. Now, it's then shipped across the world, but shipping is an extremely fuel-efficient form of transport. You can ship something 10,000 miles for the same amount of fuel necessary to truck it 1,000 miles. So if you're getting your rice shipped to San Francisco from Bangladesh, fewer fossil fuels were used to get it there than if you bought it in California.

In the same vein, you argue that in the interests of alleviating world poverty, it's better to buy food from Kenya than to buy locally, even if the Kenyan farmer only gets 2 cents on the dollar.

My argument is that we should not necessarily buy locally, because if we do, we cut out the opportunity for the poorest countries to trade with us, and agriculture is one of the things they can do, and which can help them develop. The objection to this, which I quote from Brian Halweil, one of the leading advocates of the local movement, is that very little of the money actually gets back to the Kenyan farmer. But my calculations show that even if as little as 2 cents on the dollar gets back to the Kenyan farmer, that could make a bigger difference to the Kenyan grower than an entire dollar would to a local grower. It's the law of diminishing marginal utility. If you are only earning $300, 2 cents can make a bigger difference to you than a dollar can make to the person earning $30,000.

I highly recommend checking out the full interview (if you're not a Salon member, you have to watch an ad... it'll be over soon and definitely worth it... would I lie to you?). While I'd likely chalk some of his ethical absolutism to being a total wingnut, I am increasingly interested in critical explorations of our modern production and consumption of food, and perhaps even wingnuts say relevant things now and then.

image from (duh) toothpastefordinnner.com

I'd like mine still beating, please.

So, as I mentioned a while back, I've been planning to post on this for some time. I was going to fold it into one of the foie gras posts, so just know that this isn't entirely out of left field.

If you didn't already know, I'm completely obsessed with food, beverage, and the acoutrements and preparation of same. I daydream about the contents of my larder and what I might make from them. Episodes of America's Test Kitchen clog the DVR. At night I dream of dancing microplane graters, ramekins, and sauciers.

And for a person like me, books and television programs devoted to the discussion, peparation, and consumption of food become the most exquisite porn.

So it is with Anthony Bourdain's show No Reservations (though it's definitely on the weird, grainy, Internet-only side of the Pornographic Scale... which I just invented). Yeah, it's a little gimmicky, and his bad boy image thing gets tiresome, but oh man. That guy will eat anything.

Tall drink of water that he is, I'm still a little peevish with him for turning me off of swordfish for the foreseeable future (yeah, read Kitchen Confidential...Or, don't, if you like your swordfish just fine), but the guy is fearless and knows good food.

In the recent episode I've watched, he is in Quebec (close to my heart, you might imagine.. what with the French-Canadian blood), and he goes to a restaurant called Au Pied Cochon, where the chef attempts to kill him through the insidious Death By Foie Gras. Literally every dish out of the kitchen to Mr. Bourdain's table was a foie creation of some kind. Oh, except for the maple-glazed pig heads with gilt snouts. The whole meal is something of a monument to fatty excess.

With the chef from Au Pied Cochon, Bourdain visits a foie gras-producing farm and they film the boning-out and portioning of ducks. The Quebecoise chef also chases live ducks around their pen.

Later in the episode, he ventures into the Arctic Circle to go seal hunting with some Inuits. While he confesses to rooting for the seal at one point, they manage to bag one and bring it home, where the family slaughters and eats it... RAW. Somehow, my confrontation with a pile of sheep's heads in Morocco becomes laughable (though at the time, I couldn't emphasize enough just how "not hungry" I was).

It was an interesting juxtaposition, the evicerated seal on a tarp on the kitchen floor in the Arctic Circle and the mountains of foie gras back in Montreal.

I recommend the show. Between being funny and weird and stuffing his face, there are some illuminating moments on various cultures' relationships with food, beverage, and the equipment for and preparation of same.

Now, who's hungry? Shall we go get a couple of cobra hearts?

Good on you.

Very cool things appear to be afoot in Morocco:

Fifty women have graduated as Muslim preachers, part of a concerted effort by authorities in Morocco to promote moderate Islam in a country grappling with extremism.

Another 150 men graduated Wednesday as imams, or prayer leaders. The 50 female religious guides, or morchidat, won't lead prayers in mosques, which is reserved for men, but will be sent around the country to teach women — and, occasionally, men — about Islam.

While Moroccan officials said the appointment of female state preachers was a rare experiment in the Muslim world, others said it was unprecedented in Morocco and the majority of other Arab countries.

"Your duty ... is to prevent intrusion by foreign agents trying to violate our values and traditions," Ahmed Taoufiq, minister of Islamic Affairs, told the graduates Wednesday.

Granted, this is a pretty small step in the grand scheme of things, but it's great to see a moderate country like Morocco putting its money where its mouth is, so to speak. Bringing women into Islamic teaching like this is an initiative strongly supported by King Mohammed VI, who is one fine lookin' descendant of the Prophet (also, his wife is an IT engineer!), if I may be so bold (with a respectful tip of my cap to HRH Princess Consort Lalla Salma... strong work).

Anyway, Morocco has a ways to go (as do most countries steeped in Muslim theocratic tradition), but I'm hopeful with King Mohammed VI at the helm. Between this and the family law adjustments he made to give women more power in the eyes of the courts, he could be well on his way to easing his country into the forefront of a moderate movement. Of course, it's still something of a police state, if my memory of it serves, and they could use a little more government transparency, but I'm optimistic that this isn't some empty gesture.

I just realized it's been five years since I was there. I'm going to need to get myself to Essaouira for grilled whiting just out of the net. Or to the Rif mountains. Or to Marrakech. Or the date market in Zagora. Who's with me?

Pretty awkward, really.

The NYT has a good, and aptly-titled article about the foie gras debate:

Organizing for an Indelicate Fight

Apparently, animal rights groups are now focusing on getting a ban on foie gras in Philly. And Whole Foods has put pressure on one of their suppliers to stop doing business with a producer of foie gras.

In the case of Chicago, I really don't think the government should tell us what to eat, and foie gras producers are looking into the constitutionality of production and sales bans.

To a degree, I understand the California ban on production. The end of the process, known as gravage (the tube down the throat part) certainly looks inhumane. Though foie gras farmers offer the defense that it's just an exploitation of the way a duck or goose feeds in preparation for migration.

My ideal philosophy of being a humane meateater is to buy direct from farmers if you can, raise your own, or just do your research (buy organic, free-range, hormone-free, and consequently expensive stuff). Nothing makes you think harder about what you eat than acquainting yourself with it in its non-supermarket form. Having lived a stone's throw from my grandparents' sheepfarm, chased chickens into coops, and read about animal husbandry, I'm pretty OK with roasting up that rack of lamb, cracking open an egg (even after once cracking open a misplaced-in-the-fridge, fertilized, and days-from-hatching egg), or eating a medium-rare burger. I have made my peace with where I am in the food chain, and I try my level best to consume responsibly.

Of course, I think we should acquaint ourselves with what we eat before it gets polished, waxed, and sent to the supermarket in bright styrofoam packages applies to pretty much everything we eat or drink. We would all think a lot harder about biting into an apple that was sprayed with pesticides by a guy in a HAZMAT suit. Or considered the toll that factory farming takes on the land and on the prevalence of less resource-taxing family farms. We might prefer the Osso Bucco made from a calf who got to see the light of day. Indeed, I much prefer eggs from my grandmother's chickens because I know they get to run around the yard, scratch for bugs in the lawn.

PETA are kidding themselves if they think foie gras bans will eventually make us a nation of vegetarians. We need some smart, sustainable-agriculture-minded meateaters to take up the cause of more resonsible farming overall.

In lieu of that, however, it is absolutely up to you, eater of things, to know what you're getting into and what the consequences are of everything you put in your mouth.

Here's a thorough, interesting article from New York mag on the production of foie gras and surrounding controversy.

Do you hear the people sing?

This isn't so timely anymore, but I always need an excuse to post my remedial-level Photoshop edit of Delacroix.

My friends: while I will not take credit for your alert spotting of the much-maligned apostrophe in use for a plural, I am pleased to associate with such unrepentant sticklers.

The revolution will be carefully punctuated. I look forward to taking up my Sharpie with you.

There's foxglove for you... and bergamot.

Hooray! My camera will talk to my computer again! Apparently, they were in some kind of fight. Anyway, here are some pictures of from the Botanic Gardens outing on Saturday. The cherry blossoms were in "peak" bloom.

Also in peak bloom were the crowds of people looking at the cherry blossoms in the Botanic Gardens. These two people in the foreground did not know that their team would suffer a defeat at the hands of the Red Sox tonight. Yeah, too bad about that Johnny Damon going 0-fer.

Lilacs are the New Hampshire state flower. Pretty, aren't they?

Here's a picture of Josh looking mysterious in some grape arbor shadows.




Josh's Flickr photo page has lots of really great photos from the Gardens, if you haven't seen them. Way to work that aperture, Josh.

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