Cute boys doing crazy/beautiful things with their bodies:
Plus: Loved this article and video on juggler Vova Galchenko.
Plus: Loved this article and video on juggler Vova Galchenko.
Category: Off the Menu
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May 27, 2008
5/18, Sunday, 11:00 am
The Lodge's restaurant is ill-equipped to handle the 30-person brunch my cousin and his wife have arranged for the morning after, but it's fun to be seated at a long table with our big Thai family and Alanna's big Irish family.
After brunch, Sirion and Alex drive me back to Julie's. We pass the dregs of the Bay to Breakers run, which is basically a cross between a frat kegger, the gay pride parade, a group acid trip, a middle-aged amateur porno without the sex, and a 12K run. Up by the Marina, we drive by a hot twink rocking an ensemble of short white tennis shorts (through which his American Apparel tighty-fluorescent-greenies are visible), a popped-collar white polo, mirrored aviators, striped headband and tennis racket. We're not sure if he's for real or if he's in costume. I hope he's for real.
Back at Julie's, we grill up a feast -- marinated chicken, carne asada (none for me), big gamy steaks of goat, Italian sausages and more.
My contribution: a grated carrot salad with plum tomatoes, garlic, sesame oil, and Meyer lemon juice. (I put those Meyer lemons in EVERYTHING.) I go overboard on just about everything, but it's the radioactive Cool Whip cake that puts a fork in me. I ask for a cup of tea while everyone around me gets trashed. An old friend shows up while tripping on mushrooms. By himself. Ladies are making out on the coat pile in the bedroom, nook nook is happening in the laundry room downstairs, flirtations turn into out and out propositions, bi-, gay, and straight sexual intrigue abounds. But not for me. I'm hiding out at the top of the stairs, nursing my mug of green jasmine tea and thinking, "Doesn't anybody have to work tomorrow? It's a Sunday night!" I am such a grandma.
We end the night closing out The Mint, where Grandma pulls it together enough to kick out a little 2 am "Welcome to the Jungle" before going back chez Julie and passing out on the couch.
5/19, Monday
Julie and I have a most glorious hangover day of yoga and food shopping. We invite my friends Justin and Jim for dinner, where I cook a bunch of my standards. We gab at the kitchen table over way too much food. I keep thinking giddily that this is how I should be living my life every day. The best part of the meal is dessert -- two ice creams from the Bi-Rite Creamery, salted caramel and orange cardamom. Very adult flavors. Be jealous, that shit is CRAZY delicious. The ice cream is a little airier than gelato or frozen custard. The orange cardamom is totally for me -- spicy and sunny, yet cold and creamy. It will have to be another obligatory stop the next time I'm in town.
5/20, Tuesday
We hit a 9 am yoga class being taught by Jehfree Spirit. His drag name is Freetah B. I didn't even need to make that up.
For lunch, we head to the Ferry Plaza market. Stone fruit and berries have already come in for California, and I'm reveling in the blush-fleshed peaches, fleshy brook cherries, and fragrant blueberries.
The dried fruit selection is unbelievable -- pluots, tangy apricots or sweet apricots, moist golden raisins the size of june bugs, Asian pear rings, and pretty much anything else you can think of.
The Ferry Plaza market is like foodie yuppie heaven. Seriously, if someone locked me up in there overnight, my liver would be foie gras by morning. Acme Bread, Stonehouse Olive Oil, pastries, meats and more -- it's like Dean and Deluca on steroids. I love foods that taste like expensive perfume because they make me feel like a lady; these Miette rose geranium macarons are like the culinary incarnation of Nancy Mitford in two crisp-cloudy bites.
I especially love the bombolonis we get from the Italian shop. They make me want to bomboloni someone, or bomboloni all over their bomboloni. They're round fried doughnuts the size of Arnold Schwarzenegger's fist, dusted with granulated sugar and piped til they're ready to burst with nutella, chocolate, seedless raspberry jam, or our favorite, bombolonidacious golden pastry cream. You can't see, but a single tear just rolled down my cheek. If that isn't enough, the bomboloni are being sold by an unbelievably adorable gaysian Gumby with a five inch pompadour and clear braces.
We've missed breakfast at Boulette's Larder, but we sit down for one of the most fortifying, nourishing, lively lunches I've had in a long time -- verdant Japanese turnip soup sprinkled with fried giblet bits, a rich sardine salad with endive, dill and feta, and a poached chicken salad with barberries, pistachios, za'atar spices, tahini, and the most tender bloomsday spinach ever, the arrowhead leaves impossibly sweet. Most of the ingredients are local; low prices keep it from being precious. Why aren't sardines on the menu more often? I will order them whenever I see them. You can't see, but I am totally pumping my fist and engaging my mulabanda while taking these pictures.
After an easy, digestive walk up Market St., we get back to Julie's house and noodle around on the guitar and piano, singing Carpenters tunes, nipping at wine, cheese, and our fruit booty from the market. For dinner, we make a Mexican feast, mostly using leftovers from the previous two nights. I can't remember the last time I ate so well -- a boatload of homemade guac, cumin-scented black beans, fresh, thick tortillas from the Mexicatessen, grilled chicken stir-fried with broccoli raab and leftover red peppers, store-bought salsa fresca spruced up with fresh habanero, and an incredible tart slaw Brent made by mixing my fresh meyer lemon relish with slivered green cabbage -- perfect in a taco with the leftover pan-fried salmon. Mostly leftovers, but still, one of my favorite meals of the whole trip. It's kind of a revelation. This is how I want to be eating, every day -- surrounded by friends, at home, using good, honest ingredients and letting nothing go to waste. As a California ex-pat, I used to dream about Bay Area burritos all the time, but sometimes I forget that I'm perfectly capable of making Cali-style Mexican food exactly suited to my taste.
to be continued...
The Lodge's restaurant is ill-equipped to handle the 30-person brunch my cousin and his wife have arranged for the morning after, but it's fun to be seated at a long table with our big Thai family and Alanna's big Irish family.
After brunch, Sirion and Alex drive me back to Julie's. We pass the dregs of the Bay to Breakers run, which is basically a cross between a frat kegger, the gay pride parade, a group acid trip, a middle-aged amateur porno without the sex, and a 12K run. Up by the Marina, we drive by a hot twink rocking an ensemble of short white tennis shorts (through which his American Apparel tighty-fluorescent-greenies are visible), a popped-collar white polo, mirrored aviators, striped headband and tennis racket. We're not sure if he's for real or if he's in costume. I hope he's for real.
Back at Julie's, we grill up a feast -- marinated chicken, carne asada (none for me), big gamy steaks of goat, Italian sausages and more.
My contribution: a grated carrot salad with plum tomatoes, garlic, sesame oil, and Meyer lemon juice. (I put those Meyer lemons in EVERYTHING.) I go overboard on just about everything, but it's the radioactive Cool Whip cake that puts a fork in me. I ask for a cup of tea while everyone around me gets trashed. An old friend shows up while tripping on mushrooms. By himself. Ladies are making out on the coat pile in the bedroom, nook nook is happening in the laundry room downstairs, flirtations turn into out and out propositions, bi-, gay, and straight sexual intrigue abounds. But not for me. I'm hiding out at the top of the stairs, nursing my mug of green jasmine tea and thinking, "Doesn't anybody have to work tomorrow? It's a Sunday night!" I am such a grandma.
We end the night closing out The Mint, where Grandma pulls it together enough to kick out a little 2 am "Welcome to the Jungle" before going back chez Julie and passing out on the couch.
5/19, Monday
Julie and I have a most glorious hangover day of yoga and food shopping. We invite my friends Justin and Jim for dinner, where I cook a bunch of my standards. We gab at the kitchen table over way too much food. I keep thinking giddily that this is how I should be living my life every day. The best part of the meal is dessert -- two ice creams from the Bi-Rite Creamery, salted caramel and orange cardamom. Very adult flavors. Be jealous, that shit is CRAZY delicious. The ice cream is a little airier than gelato or frozen custard. The orange cardamom is totally for me -- spicy and sunny, yet cold and creamy. It will have to be another obligatory stop the next time I'm in town.
5/20, Tuesday
We hit a 9 am yoga class being taught by Jehfree Spirit. His drag name is Freetah B. I didn't even need to make that up.
For lunch, we head to the Ferry Plaza market. Stone fruit and berries have already come in for California, and I'm reveling in the blush-fleshed peaches, fleshy brook cherries, and fragrant blueberries.
The dried fruit selection is unbelievable -- pluots, tangy apricots or sweet apricots, moist golden raisins the size of june bugs, Asian pear rings, and pretty much anything else you can think of.
The Ferry Plaza market is like foodie yuppie heaven. Seriously, if someone locked me up in there overnight, my liver would be foie gras by morning. Acme Bread, Stonehouse Olive Oil, pastries, meats and more -- it's like Dean and Deluca on steroids. I love foods that taste like expensive perfume because they make me feel like a lady; these Miette rose geranium macarons are like the culinary incarnation of Nancy Mitford in two crisp-cloudy bites.
I especially love the bombolonis we get from the Italian shop. They make me want to bomboloni someone, or bomboloni all over their bomboloni. They're round fried doughnuts the size of Arnold Schwarzenegger's fist, dusted with granulated sugar and piped til they're ready to burst with nutella, chocolate, seedless raspberry jam, or our favorite, bombolonidacious golden pastry cream. You can't see, but a single tear just rolled down my cheek. If that isn't enough, the bomboloni are being sold by an unbelievably adorable gaysian Gumby with a five inch pompadour and clear braces.
We've missed breakfast at Boulette's Larder, but we sit down for one of the most fortifying, nourishing, lively lunches I've had in a long time -- verdant Japanese turnip soup sprinkled with fried giblet bits, a rich sardine salad with endive, dill and feta, and a poached chicken salad with barberries, pistachios, za'atar spices, tahini, and the most tender bloomsday spinach ever, the arrowhead leaves impossibly sweet. Most of the ingredients are local; low prices keep it from being precious. Why aren't sardines on the menu more often? I will order them whenever I see them. You can't see, but I am totally pumping my fist and engaging my mulabanda while taking these pictures.
After an easy, digestive walk up Market St., we get back to Julie's house and noodle around on the guitar and piano, singing Carpenters tunes, nipping at wine, cheese, and our fruit booty from the market. For dinner, we make a Mexican feast, mostly using leftovers from the previous two nights. I can't remember the last time I ate so well -- a boatload of homemade guac, cumin-scented black beans, fresh, thick tortillas from the Mexicatessen, grilled chicken stir-fried with broccoli raab and leftover red peppers, store-bought salsa fresca spruced up with fresh habanero, and an incredible tart slaw Brent made by mixing my fresh meyer lemon relish with slivered green cabbage -- perfect in a taco with the leftover pan-fried salmon. Mostly leftovers, but still, one of my favorite meals of the whole trip. It's kind of a revelation. This is how I want to be eating, every day -- surrounded by friends, at home, using good, honest ingredients and letting nothing go to waste. As a California ex-pat, I used to dream about Bay Area burritos all the time, but sometimes I forget that I'm perfectly capable of making Cali-style Mexican food exactly suited to my taste.
to be continued...
May 25, 2008
5/17, Saturday -- Wedding Day
My cousin Sirion and her boyfriend Alex pick me up in a sunburnt orange compact car. (Is that the teal of the aughts?) We snake down Divisadero to Lombard St., which takes us straight to the Golden Gate Bridge. The wispy fog looks like it's been piped in for a movie set. It's picturesque and romantic without obstructing drivers' sightlines.
ALEX: It looks like they've got a fog machine going, doesn't it?
Tiburon is one of those tiny Marin county towns on the other side of the Golden Gate. Spiny sailboats are moored along every dock. Multi-million dollar homes cling to the verdant cliffs against a backdrop of blue, blue ocean. It makes me think of the Hamptons -- the few clothing boutiques mainly sell Amalfi-ready sandals and gauzy cover-ups in pastels and whites, and oysters on the half-shell are easier to pick up than a can of hairspray.
My whole family is staying at the Lodge at Tiburon. I find that I have become the kind of guest that must find something to complain about. I get a room for my parents and a room for myself -- can I switch the room on the second floor for one with two queens instead of one king? Can I switch the room on the ground floor for security reasons and because it smells strongly of chlorine from the pool it's situated by? Can I get a room with a bathtub instead of just a shower? Why don't the windows have screens? I don't really give a shit about amenities, I just don't like thinking that somebody else might have been given something better.
But it's great to be with my family, whom I adore. I love the way my very private cousin Sakorn endures being the center of attention, and the way his wife's eyes tear up as he reads his vows, which are far more tender than we might have expected. I love Sirion's speech, which reveals her intimate knowledge of her brother, but also how much his wife Alanna will be able to teach us about Sakorn's character. I love the way my cousin's baby Sadie lights up when she sees my Mae, her bonus grandma, and the way she stretches her soft little arms up to be held.
The festivities are over in a flash, but in a moment, our family has grown by one. Alanna has tied her fate to his, thus mooring her life to ours. The details of the day have already faded a bit, but I'm left with the muscle memory that my heart is full.
To be continued...
My cousin Sirion and her boyfriend Alex pick me up in a sunburnt orange compact car. (Is that the teal of the aughts?) We snake down Divisadero to Lombard St., which takes us straight to the Golden Gate Bridge. The wispy fog looks like it's been piped in for a movie set. It's picturesque and romantic without obstructing drivers' sightlines.
ALEX: It looks like they've got a fog machine going, doesn't it?
Tiburon is one of those tiny Marin county towns on the other side of the Golden Gate. Spiny sailboats are moored along every dock. Multi-million dollar homes cling to the verdant cliffs against a backdrop of blue, blue ocean. It makes me think of the Hamptons -- the few clothing boutiques mainly sell Amalfi-ready sandals and gauzy cover-ups in pastels and whites, and oysters on the half-shell are easier to pick up than a can of hairspray.
My whole family is staying at the Lodge at Tiburon. I find that I have become the kind of guest that must find something to complain about. I get a room for my parents and a room for myself -- can I switch the room on the second floor for one with two queens instead of one king? Can I switch the room on the ground floor for security reasons and because it smells strongly of chlorine from the pool it's situated by? Can I get a room with a bathtub instead of just a shower? Why don't the windows have screens? I don't really give a shit about amenities, I just don't like thinking that somebody else might have been given something better.
But it's great to be with my family, whom I adore. I love the way my very private cousin Sakorn endures being the center of attention, and the way his wife's eyes tear up as he reads his vows, which are far more tender than we might have expected. I love Sirion's speech, which reveals her intimate knowledge of her brother, but also how much his wife Alanna will be able to teach us about Sakorn's character. I love the way my cousin's baby Sadie lights up when she sees my Mae, her bonus grandma, and the way she stretches her soft little arms up to be held.
The festivities are over in a flash, but in a moment, our family has grown by one. Alanna has tied her fate to his, thus mooring her life to ours. The details of the day have already faded a bit, but I'm left with the muscle memory that my heart is full.
To be continued...
May 24, 2008
A potluck masterpiece -- torn angel food cake topped with Jello instant vanilla pudding, drained crushed pineapple, Cool Whip, canned mandarin orange slices and slivered strawberries. Bad for you, but totally delicious and seductive. Also expands like a loofah in your stomach. Like recreational drugs, or sleeping with someone knowing you'll regret it the second your crusty eyes crack open in the morning. Not that I would know about that stuff.
May 23, 2008
May 4, 2008
Let's trip down the You Tube K-hole together with some songbirds I love:
1. Teresa Teng -- woman had pipes. My dad had this tape he used to always play in the car. In an alternate universe, she could've been an Astrud Gilberto or Francoise Hardy for the 80s. I have about 12 of her songs permanently etched in my brain, but I never knew what any of them were called or what they were about.
2. Nantida Kaewbuasai -- Thai pop singer who was big in the '80s. I wanted to be her when I was a kid, beloved by middle-aged Thai ladies the world over for her sexless sweetness. I never learned to do demure well, but I still love her voice.
3. Opera bitches fighting over whose Queen of the Night is best. My money's on Lucia Popp, but there's no video, only audio.
4. Jem vs. Le Tigre: so, so right.
5. Joni Mitchell ripping it up. Who sings like this anymore?
1. Teresa Teng -- woman had pipes. My dad had this tape he used to always play in the car. In an alternate universe, she could've been an Astrud Gilberto or Francoise Hardy for the 80s. I have about 12 of her songs permanently etched in my brain, but I never knew what any of them were called or what they were about.
2. Nantida Kaewbuasai -- Thai pop singer who was big in the '80s. I wanted to be her when I was a kid, beloved by middle-aged Thai ladies the world over for her sexless sweetness. I never learned to do demure well, but I still love her voice.
3. Opera bitches fighting over whose Queen of the Night is best. My money's on Lucia Popp, but there's no video, only audio.
4. Jem vs. Le Tigre: so, so right.
5. Joni Mitchell ripping it up. Who sings like this anymore?
February 14, 2008
Or, as my friend Jeanne calls it, "Singles Awareness Day".
In case you missed my squeaky WNYC debut this morning:
And for the lovers:
[from La Doug.]
February 1, 2008
What good is a blog if you can't advertise your own idiocy every once in a while?
I lost my keys. They have a green skull key cap and a purple skull key cap, as well as a skeleton key. I lost them somewhere between home (Sunset Park) and Murray Hill (work). Lord knows I didn't go anywhere else yesterday. I took the D train to work at about 8:45am and the N train home at about 9.
SMALL FOOD REWARD: I'll take you out to al di la or buy you $50 worth of cheese.
I know I've got an ice cube's chance in hell of getting my keys back this way, but I figure it's worth a shot.
Extra credit existential question: Would I have heard the keys drop out of my pocket if I wasn't listening to the iPod?
Extra credit grammatical question: Is it Would I have...wasn't listening or Would I have...weren't listening?
November 4, 2007
The Times' weddings section, keeping it real:
“I just wish I had met Mei Sze 20 years ago.”
Yeah, when you were 32 and she was 12, Pinkerton!
August 25, 2007
I am so sick of spam. I may migrate my site this weekend. If things are a bit screwy round here this week, it's because I'm closing up shop here and moving on up!
