stuff I've been eating /  by mrm

Here are some culinary projects and experiences, working from least to most recent.

I did this:

while making this:


Which, in case you are wondering, is a leek & Gruyère potato gratin (my mother's recipe) that I took to Arlene's Hotluck. Worth it.

Meanwhile, here's a snapshot from a week or two ago in the kitchen:
Sadly, this does not even begin to do justice to the marvel and bounty of that Sunday morning. This was the scrambled egg preparation table. Meanwhile, I roasted summer squash zucchini in the oven to make bruschetta, and Alyssa and Coleen pitted and skinned peaches for a pie.

In the final frame, starting at 12 o'clock: beets with brown sugar and ginger by John, mashed winter squash and sweet potatoes by Annabel, couscous with beet juice by John, bok choy stir fry by Kristin. Not pictured: nectarine and white peach cobbler by Tim. Possibly the most colorful meal I have ever eaten. Also: delicious. What did I make? Nothing. I'm sickly. I sat in the corner, drank lots of black tea with red current, and took pictures.

Amerikanisch Oktoberfest /  by mrm

is in October, because that is comprehensible to USAmericans. A festival called "Oktoberfest" which takes place from mid- to late-September only prompts head scratching and skepticism. And so it is that Shroeder's, an otherwise rather legitimate-seeming German restaurant and bar in the Financial District, hosted one of its several Weis'n celebrations this past Friday. Allow me to be entirely clear:
this party : Munich's Oktoberfest
my 8th birthday party : Tiberius on Capri

(okay, it's not me, but you get the idea)


uh-huh

For the record, I had a lot of fun when I turned 8. I had a piñata and ate a lot of cake and got nice presents. Even so.

I really enjoyed this Oktoberfest, though. I got to drink some good German beer and my very cool housemate John was seconds away from winning a drinking contest. I took my dirndl out for the first time, and it worked exactly like a dirndl should: quick service at the bar and plenty of attention all round. I even got whirled around the floor by a member of the Golden Gate Bavarian Club who knew what he was doing. I didn't, but this is one of those rare instances where it's so blessedly easy to be female: smile, stay on your toes, and just keep moving.

last Wednesday: a variety show /  by mrm


6:15am - Alarm goes off. Climb down from my bed, hit snooze, climb back up.
6:30am - Alarm goes off. Get up.
6:30-7:45 - stretching, yawning, shower, humming, coffee, opening eyes, granola
7:45-7:55 - bike to Mission High School
8:00-9:50 - tutor freshmen on oral history narratives for their ethnic studies class
10:00-1:20 - work work work, put add on craigslist for extra theatre ticket, filter candidates, choose one contact, give ticket
1:20-1:35 - bike to Golden Gate Theatre
1:35-1:45 - eat ham & cheese croissant, aka lunch
2:00-5:00 - watch South Pacific with my a free ticket. As I'm leaving a man tells me "You know, I saw the original." "On Broadway?" I ask. "Yup, that was back in 1949." I was one of the few non-grey- or white-haired people in the audience. But then, who else goes to a Wednesday matinée of anything, especially Rodgers and Hammerstein?
5:00-6:00 - grocery shopping
6:00-6:20 - dinner
6:20-8:00 - baking cupcakes for cool-housemate-Kristin's birthday, singing, dancing, candles

While we're on the subject, the playbill for South Pacific, which has rather heavy echoes of Gaughin, doesn't include any facial details for the native women. Really? They aren't minimized enough in the musical by the pigeon English of one and the attractive, smiling silence of the other? Do designers not study these things? Or do they just not pay attention?

sex and the city /  by mrm

This being my first year attending the Folsom Street Fair, perhaps my expectations were unreasonable. Hearsay, rumors, word of mouth, etc., but I felt compelled to go as several dear friends in Germany have been and I, despite my longer residence in SF, had not. So, off I trotted. But despite copious amounts of leather, lots of penises (what an awkward plural! yet slightly less awkward than penii) with and without cock rings, some whippings, and the occasional human pet, I was deeply disappointed. I was expecting wild masturbation and street-side sex because, well, that is what I'd been told to expect. Was four o'clock just a vanilla time of day? Or was this just an off-year? At any rate, it has failed to supplant Bay to Breakers as my favorite San Francisco extravaganza.

I was also mildly surprised at how male dominated the event was. Far more men than women, and far more men showing their parts off than women. Perhaps this shouldn't be surprising, but it was. It made me wonder whether women were less encouraged to participate or less comfortable participating, since I have a hard time imagining that there are simply more kinky men than women out there. I suppose my favorite moment was right before we entered the fair area, when a tall, bearded leather daddy in ass-kicking boots and ass-less chaps was introduced to some friend's friend and said "Oh hi! I'm Jason!" and offered his hand, beaming all the while.

innovative uses for construction equipment /  by mrm

The weekend continued the merry trend of happy (and free!) adventures in San Francisco. On Saturday, good friend Matt and went to Roadworks: Steamroller Printing which was put on by the San Francisco Center for the Book, a place where I've been volunteering semi-regularly in hopes of eventually collecting enough credits to take a class. There were lots of vendors with neat & usually book-related handicrafts, but I am poor and for the most part resisted their charms. Besides, the main attraction was the periodic making of prints via ink, block, and steamroller rolling down on top of them, pressing them evenly and without a doubt thoroughly. For extra fun, you could make your own prints with pieces of foam board. If they'd only had fingerpainting, my life would be complete.


inking in progress




an inked printing block, pre-steamroller



so magical!


non-steamrolled prints on display





(note: if all goes according to plan, more on this topic will soon be available to you at this exact location. We appreciate your patience and apologize for the delay.)

Sunday was a different kind of delight, involving the preparation of roasted squash-&-zucchini-&-heirloom-tomato-bruschetta accompanied by new friend Grant's homebrew as a picnic at Shakespeare in the park. Presidio, sunny day, Comedy of Errors à la slapstick mayhem, lots of housemate friends. Later, a nap.

way to grow! /  by mrm

Check out my plants, yo:
(er, full dusclosure: I inherited the vast majority of this, and so can't really take credit. On the other hand, I've been watering faithfully for a month now!)

from the top


apparently peppers grow on trees

the basil is my favorite. I play favorites.


look! a cucumber! currently about the size of my thumb!



mmm...



to put it all in perspective

cringing /  by mrm

The extent to which I identify with Mad Men's Peggy Olson is at times so immense that I'm not entirely convinced it's wise to write about it. That being said, I suppose I better hurry up and mention that I've never gotten pregnant, or even been a secretary - no, it's more the awkward eagerness, the determination to fit in, to do and have it all, while at the same time being so obviously stamped a square. Nowadays, I find myself comfortable in the world and with myself, but this was not always the case. She makes me feel seventeen again, in all the wrong ways. I keep watching.
p.s. I want this dress.

starbucks never did this /  by mrm

(image courtesy of the magical internets)

Because I am charmed in life and live near everything, I strolled over to Pirate Cat Coffee the other day for my morning cup (the supply having been allowed to run out while I was out of town. Need I mention that this never happens on my watch). Apparently someone there, having heard of my mother's Grand Unifying Theory of Cooking (bacon and/or cream = betterment of all things), has concocted a Maple Bacon Latte. It should have been disgusting, but was instead smokily delicious, with real bacon bits sprinkled on top. For the day-to-day, I will stick to my French press, but this was a delightfully outré treat. (Surely someone out there has a blog called "outré treats"? A quick google says no. I am extremely good at naming things. Someone should pay me to do this.)

the new talkies /  by mrm

On Friday, I went to see the neo-benshi/the new talkies performance at the De Young (free with student ID!). What might this be? Well may you ask. In the De Young's rather elegant cinema (elegant, that is, except for the overly flatulent leather chairs. Did no one test them out before they were installed? They're too new to be this noisy), a podium was set up stage right of the screen, and for 10-12 minutes a poet performed a piece over/in response to a scene or clips from a film of their choosing with the volume low or muted. I actually think that this could be huge in Poland, since they're already accustomed to having tv narrated. At any rate, there were 5 different pieces on Friday night. Far and away my favorite was Rodney Koeneke's interpretation of part of The Golem. I wish I had taken notes throughout. Instead, I sat there in dimly lit awe and enjoyment until I finally broke down and scribbled nearly-illegible notes in pencil on the edge of my program. Writing in the dark is a very special (and incredibly useful!) skill which I have yet to fully master. I managed to get:

"Moses begat laughing", and
"silence is asthma for moderns"

He periodically put on a quite good German accent, with a liberal dosing of Ah so's.

Unfortunately, I enjoyed the lyricism of this piece so much that nothing else cut the mustard in quite the same way. Douglas Kearney and Nicole McJamerson's take on Fantasia will prevent me from ever watching the section with the demon city in the same way again. They wittily re-imagined this part of the movie as a late, unfinished D.W. Griffith sequel to Birth of a Nation entitled Death of a City. Jen Hofer's reading of On the Beach left me chiefly with a desire to watch the original film, and Andrew Choate's piece on The Cook, the Thief, His Wife, and Her Lover made me chuckle (yes, there are times when I laugh without guffawing) with:

"canned food is anxiety/in its pure state./In the future/the things I need/will not be available/but I will be here" (line breaks mine; an asshole move, I know, but I think it reads better if you can imagine the pauses), and
"language is food./This is not a metaphor."

Lamentably, this is not a weekly or even monthly event, but apparently an annual one.

an axiom from Annabel, or: I love my home /  by mrm

I was out running errands on Monday. On my way home, I stopped briefly at a yard sale and bought a gorgeous vintage cardigan which looks a lot like this except that I paid $5 for it. Came home in a sunny mood to find this going on:

jubilation from Margaret McCarthy on Vimeo.


I put down my bag, whipped up some guacamole, grabbed a bottle of wine and joined them. All-singing, all-dancing. Everything became an instrument. It went on for hours. In the words of my new housemate Annabel, violinist and children's orchestra instructor (seen at one point in the bottom right, scraping cups rhythmically and vigorously shaking her head): 'sing, dance, and play everyday.' What a motto. Of course, as I am more parts child than musician, I have a slightly different interpretation of the third stricture.

quality of life exponentially upped /  by mrm

On the back patio of Atlas Cafe on a sunny day with a light breeze, listening to the lite-punk Italians and drinking a cappuccino while telecommuting almost takes the sting out of being bored. I should never work from home again. I should become one of those people. A couple of days a week, at least.

the appreciation of spam /  by mrm

It was recently brought to my attention that this is not necessarily very standard practice, but I keep my email very tidy. All the messages in my inbox have been read. All the spam is deleted daily. Apparently not everyone does this, but I can't imagine I'm in a huge minority (am I?). At any rate, it's had one immensely positive benefit. I always read my spam subject lines before deleting them, as every once in a cerulean moon something worthwhile from someone I like ends up there. Most of the time, however, I get spam about where to buy prescription drugs, and how to enhance the size of my penis. (And may I take a moment to say how touched I am that so many people are concerned about the size of my penis. Thank you.) But at some point last spring that changed, and the subject headings went off in what I can only describe as increasingly bizarre and at times mysteriously Lewis Carrolian directions. I offer you here a sampling in chronological order from May to present:

Euro emo mass suicide
Turn from sparrow to eagle
Hitler's son found!
See her instantly geeked!
Use mind to improve your fang
They whistled and warbled a moony song
O lovely Pussy! Oh Pussu, my love
And besides, to the Crumpetty Tree
and put the bun on the window sill to cool
Said the Yongy-Bonghy-Bo
The Pobble swam fast and well
Hello, deepshit!
Infection in our cinema
pragmatistho
Give squish mittens DUE attention
They gayest gay ever
Who had a little curl
Close by the king's castle lay a great dark
It is no giant but a disgusting frog
Sensation. Hitler was a woman!
How the silly frog does talk!
The old man said, Old woman, bake me a bun!
Dude, your snake sucks!

I find the recurring themes particularly amusing.

tomato camping /  by mrm

John and Kristin (two of my new housemates) have weekly a CSA box from Eatwell farms. Yesterday and today, the farm hosted a tomato sauce weekend camp-out extravaganza. The tomatoes were picked for us – heirloom varieties, zebra, and roma. We were overwhelmed by the quantity. This was not an embarrassment; this was nothing less than a mortification of tomatoes.

Some of which were amusingly vulgar:
Fresh basil, rosemary, oregano, and thyme, onions, garlic, sweet and spicy peppers and salt were also on offer.


Did I mention that this event was entirely free for CSA box subscribers (and their guests)? The sauce cooking began. We attacked with more enthusiasm than knowledge, and a great deal of chopping ensued. There was a free Bloody Mary bar churning out generous servings of freshly blended drink.

Eventually, (hours later) we had concocted two sauces (7 jars of one, and 2 of the other), as well as 4 or 5 additional jars of tomatoes in wine and blanched tomatoes, all of which we canned in the pressure cookers provided by the farm. As if that wasn't enough, we were also treated to free all-you-can-drink home-brew: a boc and a porter. My heart belongs to porter. After a dinner of pasta (and guess what, tomato sauce!), we drank more beer around the campfire and roasted marshmallows while two identical eleven-year -old boys lied about which one was called Andrew. We camped in tents on the grass and woke to fresh coffee, scrambled eggs with cheddar cheese and delicious tortillas, as well as fresh nectarines, plums, and figs. Then we picked strawberries.

san franciscan Gemütlichkeit /  by mrm

Endless sun in Dolores park on Saturday, followed by endless and very hearty dancing at Stern Grove on Sunday, followed by outstanding cioppino for dinner that evening. I did not make it, I merely consumed a great deal of it, with intense and heartfelt and often-verbalized gratitude. Wow. But back to the music - Toto la Mompasina and Nation Beat (some audio clips available here), neither of whom I knew anything about but either of whom I would gladly and unhesitatingly see again, played and played and played and everyone in the grove danced and danced and danced. Except at one point some men to my right, who stood, arms crossed, heads nodding slightly in time to the beat. We were then a mere 6 or 8 feet from the stage. I watched them out of the corner of my eye. I led by example. They did not follow. They just stood there, nodding. Fellas, I wanted to say, this just ain't that scene.

bliss /  by mrm

One loves one's loft bed. But one also loves to read in bed! How does one solve this problem? Does one sleep with one's book? Throw it on the floor? This is unkind to the book. This will not do. Does one then climb down from one's bed, place said book on a table, climb back up, and then fall asleep? This is what as commonly known as a hassle. Then, one discovers the perfect solution:

side view:


While on the subject of my own genius, check out the room before unpacking:

and after: