food, and other musings

favorite song

Love remains the same by my other boyfriend. (sigh)

The only recent example of cooking in my kitchen

Blog Shmog. Perhaps pithy observations are like eggs; you're born with a certain number and once you're out, you're out. At any rate, the only thing I've done recently that might merit a food post (or any post at all) was to make chocolate chip cookies. Here's the recipe I use, but you can use anyone you want as long as you do two things: make the cookies BIG and add several graceful flourishes of hot fudge or chocolate sauce to the batter. Trust me.

Now back to the regularly scheduled programming...[crickets]

The World's Best Giant Chocolate Chip Cookies
Yield: approx. 15-20 giant cookies

This is the a pretty standard recipe -- I think I was using the one from See's semi-sweets -- but anyone will do AS LONG AS YOU DO THE TWO SECRET THINGS.

1/2 lb. unsalted butter
1 cup brown sugar
1 cup sugar
2 eggs
1 1/2 tsp vanilla
2 1/4 cups flour
1/2 tsp salt
1 tsp baking soda
4-5 TBSP chocolate syrup or hot fudge sauce
2 cups See's Semi Sweet Chocolate Chips

1. Preheat oven to 375.
2. In a large bowl, cream butter and sugars. Add eggs, then vanilla, beating till smooth.
3. In a small bowl, mix flour, salt and baking soda. Gradually stir into butter mixture, blending well. Squirt chocolate syrup over dough (I usually make 4-5 turns around the bowl) and mix well. Add chocolate chips and stir.
4. Drop in huge spoonfuls slighter larger than an extra-large egg onto cookie sheet. You should be able to fit about 5-6 spoonfuls per cookie sheet.
5. Bake 10-12 minutes, checking after 10 to see how they're coming along. If you have to bake in batches, remember that the laTter batches will need less time to cook since the oven and cookie sheets will be hotter.

Here comes the weather

Jeff has posted one of his nearly finished songs to his band's page online, and it's one of my favorites so far. The mix isn't done, so the vocals sound louder than they will ultimately, but I can't get enough. I know I'm biased, but I think it's a damn good song anyway. Vocals by Larkin Gayl.

Turn off yer lights!

Saturday night at 8 p.m. people all over the world, beginning in New Zealand, spreading westward, and ending in San Francisco, will turn off their lights for an hour. I'm planning to join in -- what could be more elegant than having dinner by candlelight, after all? Whether or not it makes a dent in actual energy consumption, it demonstrates the importance even a small act can have, when executed day after day. I encourage everyone reading to join in, wherever you are. Who knows, maybe it'll be so soothing to eat by candlelight that we'll adopt it forevermore?

x marks the spot

Today we repeated last Saturday's taco lunch, stopping on the way so Jeff could photograph the spot where he proposed.

Imagine our surprise when we finally arrived at that exact bit of Polk Street, only to look down and see the following phrase etched into the concrete:

"Love is the way."

It's enough to make you gag.

But I'd be lying if I didn't admit it also gave me a few goosebumps. Total coincidence, I promise, and something neither one of us noticed until we went back today.

Does this mean our marriage is uncommonly blessed?

**

On a related note, I can boast with great pride that never once in the last 7 days has either of us uttered the phrase "popped the question." (shudder)

**

I am in wedding planning hell. As in, hell if I'm going to do any of it. I bought a few bridal magazines, but mostly they make me want to puke. All that white chiffon and ridiculous coifs. I'm wearing red, leaving my hair down like it always is, and if we do music it'll be a string quartet to start the show and and my iPod for everything else. If you know of any good Bay Area wedding planners, recommendations are welcome. So are caterers -- I care most about the food.

**

In astounding news, last week Jeff took his first plane trip since the accident that DID NOT GIVE HIM MIGRAINES! It's probably a tad too soon to say that for sure, seeing as he only got back yesterday and often the 2 weeks following a plane ride are doomed to pain and torture, but he escaped 4 days of the trip plus nearly a day home unscathed. Which begs the question -- could we elope after all?

**

I think we found The Ring. I'm keeping my hands maniacally manicured until we buy it just in case I see another one worth trying on. As a former nail biter (I would still happily nibble away but acrylic makes it hard), I am always sure everyone's staring at my hands. Now they really are.

Bling bling

That's right, folks. We're getting hitched.

Yesterday afternoon at approximately 2:10 pm, on our way to grab lunch at Nick's Crispy Tacos, Jeff (and his unwashed bedhead) stopped on the sidewalk in the middle of Polk Street and asked me to marry him.

"Are you serious?" I asked.

He nodded and I said yes.

Then we went and ate lunch. He had a chicken taco and a veggie taco Nick's way and I had a taco salad with grilled fish. One day I might want to know that, so I'm writing it down.

When we got home, I put on my great-grandmother's sister's engagement ring. What good is being engaged if you can't shout it to the world with a shiny rock on your fourth finger?

The long term plan is to design a ring around this diamond and some of the stones from Jeff's mom's engagement ring and so we're off to go window shopping today for ideas.

On being quiet

Bird notecard by artist Julianna Swaney.


It's been nearly two months since I wrote here. (Not including that throwaway post about how disappointing Lost is this season). There's no Big Reason, no drama, no disaster, just life getting too busy and swallowing me whole. I get up, go to work, work, come home, eat something for dinner I've eaten a hundred times before, catch up with Jeff about his day, watch TV, read, sleep. Weekends are full of friends and dinner parties and outings and errands. Truth is, there would be time to post something here or there, but my mind has been quiet, even though my days have not.

Still, I have a Big Announcement. Big for me, anyway. I don't make new year's resolutions, but I have designated this year the Year of Beauty. A year in which I prioritize making my surroundings beautiful. A year in which I buy nothing which does not serve some artful purpose -- function is not enough. A year in which I devour design*sponge and subscribe to Domino. A year in which I have already spent way too much money on Etsy. A year in which even my sticky notes must be beautiful.

My current obsession is with birds, a fact my sister pointed out last weekend. I hadn't even really noticed, but nine of the recent objets d'art I've purchased feature birds. Is it a thirst for freedom? An unconscious desire to escape and fly away? I'm inclined to think birds are just cool, actually.

**

Jeff and I finally ate at the Dining Room at the Ritz-Carlton last night. We have been making and canceling reservations there for years, and I'm not sure exactly why. Sometimes we'd stop feeling flush the week we were due to go, other times illnesses and travel got in the way. But finally we went. It was meant to be a post-anniversary (eight years! And we forgot until a week later...oops!), pre-Valentine's Day celebration but then I went to LA for a week to shoot Mike Rowe of Dirty Jobs for my client, and by the time I got back, two hours delayed and high as a kite on xanax, I was too tired to make it. We rescheduled for last night, one of the windiest and rainiest on record. Jeff put on his too-short black summer pants with his suit jacket, but we didn't notice until we were in the cab. He wanted to turn around, but I figured, fuck it. If I didn't notice, who will?

Dinner was lovely -- it's been a long time since we sat down to a meal that long -- and every morsel was delicious, even the ones polluted by crab that I forgot and ate and then panicked over (I've become allergic to it, like my mother and sister before me. Luckily, I escaped unscathed.) The truth is, though, I don't like eating that way any more. It's too precious, all these gossamer flourishes on the plate, two kinds of bread served with snapping silver tongs, bottles of champagne that start -- start! -- at $180. Truth is, I'd rather eat a roasted chicken from the grocery store with a baked potato at home with my friends. It's not time to toss out my pretty heels just yet, but, with one exception, I think I'm done with multi-storied meals. Despite how full I am, I leave feeling empty.

**

p.s. Angelina is pregnant again. Because, you know, having four kids under the age of six isn't quite exciting enough.

My current opinion of the new season of Lost

After episode 1: Yawn.

After episode 2: Yawn.

After episode 3: SAYID!!! YES!!! And then, yawn.

The Human Stain

When I was a little girl, my father stood in front of my grandparents' staircase one day and told me that I was a perfectionist. I don't know what incident prompted the comment, nor what I thought of it at the time, but I have mulled it over a lot in the decades since. For most of them, I was convinced that he was wrong. A perfectionist is someone who won't rest until they've expended every ounce of energy, every morsel of intention, every iota of mental, physical, and emotional prowess to accomplish a task. It doesn't matter the size or importance of the job; doing it just so is king.

As you must know by now, I prefer to half-ass most things. It's just who I am. Done is better than perfect, I always say.

But sometime in recent years, I realized what I think my father was trying to tell me. He didn't mean to say that I was the kind of person who redid a book report 17 times until I was happy with it. I was not -- I was the kind who hung a bunch of hastily painted styrofoam spheres from a coat hanger and called it a day on my solar system project so I could play with a friend.(My mom called my back home within the hour and we spent the rest of the night redoing it to a much higher standard.)

I think what my dad was referring to is my tendency not to want to do anything unless I am good at it from the start, unless I know that I will excel. It isn't about giving my all, it's about having my some be better than anybody else's. Unless I am a natural, forget it.

And about that, he's right. I hate doing things I am not good at, and I rarely do. If I think I am going to suck at something, I give up before I begin. I'm not proud of my approach, but I have accepted it. The thought of being bad at something slips into every tiny crevice in my brain and my body and whispers "you suck" over and over and over again, the drumbeat of defeat growing louder and louder until I want to run and stick my head under a pillow and hold it down so tight that I can't hear it anymore.

There are a lot of problems with being this way. One of them is that I don't often try new things. And when I do, I hate them. (see also: Sports.) The only reason I went cross-country skiing for the first time when I was 28 is because Jeff's bad knee prevented us from going downhill skiing -- which actually was great, since a grown woman snowplowing her way down every mountain in Park City is something I didn't really want my colleagues to see anyway. Luckily I was with beginners, and we fell and laughed and helped each other up. I spent some of the most breathtakingly quiet moments on earth out there in the vast white world where nothing but bunnies and deer and birds lived, swish-swishing through the forest with only four other people. But if I had been the only one who was new to cross-country skiing, I would have pleaded a cold, stayed at the lodge, and missed out on one of the most peaceful moments I have ever had.

Another problem with this crap-tacular approach to life is that I have developed an unhealthy need for my life to look perfect. And by life, I mean apartment. (Because any idiot can see that my life is far from perfect.) I cannot actually recall ever having a friend come by, no matter how long I have known them, that I didn't clean the bathroom first. I have even gone into the bathroom with a vacuum cleaner while I made friends wait outside in the hallway because they showed up unexpectedly. Now, if I lived in a fraternity house, this would be an act of kindness, but my place is pretty clean on a regular basis. Our housekeeper comes once a week, and I do tidying up and sweeping and stuff in between. Plus, I make Jeff use the other bathroom sink so mine doesn't look like a toothpaste factory exploded in it. The truth is, I don't really need to clean the bathroom every 5 minutes. Except that I do.

When people come over -- and, um, maybe more importantly, even when they don't -- the bed must be made and straightened. If Jeff takes a nap, I have to smooth the wrinkles from the pillow within two minutes of him getting up. Or the world will explode. (It's true. It is!) Truth be told, I would prefer it if you could not tell that people occupied the place. Call the style post-apocalyptic -- as if suddenly, all humans vanished from the Earth and this model apartment was all that was left.

After Jeff's accident, a lot of people inadvertently reinforced this crazy notion of mine. If I've heard it once, I've heard it a million times: "You are handling this with such grace." Ha! That couldn't be farther from the truth. I scream and cry and fall apart and get mad -- at Jeff, of all people -- all the time. But I don't do it so other people can see. In the first hard weeks after Jeff fell, not including the first few days, I only cried in the shower because I didn't want him to hear me. For the first 6 weeks when neither of us left the apartment for any reason other than to go to his doctors' appointments, I only asked two or three times for people to run errands for us, even though I desperately needed the help. His parents came up every week, usually more than once, to take him to some of the appointments and give me a break. Often I invited them to stay for lunch, which I always made -- soup, sandwiches, salads, nothing fancy, but nothing store-bought either. Meanwhile, Jeff couldn't walk or take a bath by himself, couldn't even get up in the night to pee without my help, but I was putting on mini-dinner parties. It seems mad in retrospect, but I'm learning that it's how I cope with disaster and vulnerability and fear. I figure, if everything looks fine and perfect and under control, then maybe it will be.

So when a friend dropped his bottle of beer on the living room carpet at our holiday party a few weeks ago, I rushed in with the OxyClean and the reassurance that all was fine in the world. Inside I was freaking out, but I smiled and murmured not to worry. That's what perfect hostesses do. I flooded the stain, applied the magical elixir of stain removal, and went to bed feeling good.

When I woke up the next morning, what remained was a big, misshapen blotch of faded rug. For days I applied more and more OxyClean, convinced all it needed was a little more elbow grease and some patience. When we left for the East coast for Christmas and the stain remained, I told myself we'd hire a carpet cleaner in the new year.

It dawned on me last night that the "stain" is actually lighter in color than our white carpet. Essentially, I have bleached it. What remains is noticeably whiter, with a ring of brown around the edge from the beer. There is no more stain to remove -- I have gone one better and removed the carpet's color. There is no way to fix this, save recarpeting the entire apartment. (Because all the rooms have to match. Duh.)

As soon as I realized what I had done, I got angry. I stomped and stormed about the apartment, barking at Jeff for not reading the Christmas cards yet, furiously folding clothes and tossing them into the armoire. How could I ever straighten my life out if this big huge horrid stain was forever smack dab in the middle of our living room, reminding me just how imperfect everything is?

Ah.

Aha.

And with that realization, something shifted. Maybe I need this stain, this thing I can see and touch every day, to help me remember that life, my life, is not perfect, no matter how hard I try to make it look that way. I marched myself back into the living room and tried to look at the stain with fondness. Then I did it again, and again, until I actually started feeling sort of affectionate about the stain. And then, out of nowhere, I decided to keep it. I might even name it. (I'm also madly hatching plans to get rid of it: We'll get an area rug! Let's see if there's hardwood underneath there and redo the floors!). But mostly, I'm trying to appreciate this sign from the universe. However ugly it may be, it is a reminder that there is no sense trying to look perfect when you are anything but.

storm

Today it's raining cats, dogs, and dinosaurs.

Sane people are at home, snuggled under the covers reading a book. Sane people who must pay rent are at work, getting ready to brave the elements with the help of umbrellas, rain boots, and parkas.

Insane people are sitting in a Starbucks in Walnut Creek, a faraway suburb of San Francisco, with jeans soaked to the knees, wet socks, and a computer.

Blink. Blink.

Yessirree, nothing like a good old hurricane to make Jeff and me jump out of bed at 6 a.m. (which is, like, painfully early for us) and head an hour East of the city. Why the adventure? Because Jeff's disability insurance company -- you remember, the ones who think that he should be able to work full-time since he can, you know, unload the dishwasher once a week -- needs him to be evaluated by an independent neuropsychologist. For 9 hours. On the day the worst storm of the last 2 years hit the Bay Area.

Good times.

We've known about the appointment for a few weeks, and I've been planning to drive him to and fro all along. The plan was to plant myself in a Starbucks -- hey, they are warm, dry, and they have a bathroom and Wi-Fi -- and work remotely while he worked his traumatized brain at word tests. But when I heard about the storm system moving in yesterday, I started to have second thoughts. A quick Google search proved that my co-workers weren't being alarmists -- there really was reason for concern. The city of SF was handing out sandbags and advising that residents stay indoors. Highway Patrol was predicting they'd be closing certain stretches of road, and the line at the Safeway last night at 7 p.m. was 30 people deep. In each lane.

Fearing the worst, I spent most of yesterday trying to convince our attorney that we should play it safe and cancel today's appointment.

Attorney 1, Catherine 0. Hey, if she's on a winning streak, I guess I shouldn't complain.

We made it over here safe and sound, thanks to our Lincoln Towncar driver. And boy was I glad it was him driving, not me; at 8:45 a.m. parts of the highway were already flooded, and the air was so gray with moisture that visibility sucked. Plus, I don't know where the hell Walnut Creek is.

Because I firmly believe that a worry-free existence is over-rated, I fretted all day and all night about the trip. I spent most of my grocery expedition crying crazy tears of fear -- what if we got into an accident? -- and frustraton -- without a car, what would I do in Walnut Creek for 9 hours? It's the burbs, so it's not like they have a great taxi system. Should I just stay home?

I wanted to, I really did. But I just couldn't. I was afraid that worsening conditions could mean Jeff would be stuck here overnight in a hotel, and as horrible as sitting in a windowless doctor's office lobby for 9 hours would be, not to mention spending the night in a hotel with no supplies, I figured it would be even worse to be home, safe and warm with loads of food and candles while Jeff had to fend for himself in the slanting rain.

(Wait. Did I really think that? How uncharacteristically selfless of me.)

So here I am. The day has been hellish in some ways (see also: wet, moldy, and cold pant legs) but nice in others. I met a super friendly cab driver lady who's become my constant companion, I managed to find a power chord for my laptop at the Radio Shack two blocks away so I could continue to work (and blog) all day, and the rain seems to be slowing down. With luck, we'll get home tonight.

But just in case, I packed a change of underwear.