Fly The Friendly Skies

I flew home from Del Boca Vista today, after spending a long weekend with the 'rents. I head south every other month to take my mom to her dr appointments, and while I wish it were under different circumstances, I love our visits because I miss them a ton.
 
Last time I was in town, back in April, my mom loaded me up with random groceries because she thinks the prices in NYC are too high.  And they are!  But unfortunately, I got stopped by Orlando International Airport Security for smuggling 2 very dangerous substances: Nutella and Laughing Cow Cheese.
 
I’m not joking.
 
They pulled me off the line, rifled through my bag, and confiscated these items. Why? Because cream-like substances can be used to make a bomb.
 
Oh please.
 
If I knew how to make a bomb using a jar of hazelnut spread and 2 wheels of Swiss, I’d take that evil genius and apply it to MUCH more worthwhile pursuits. Like hacking into the Powerball drawing, so I can quit flying commercial.

At the time, I was given 3 options from the humorless attendant:
1) Go back outside and check my bag
2) Throw these perfectly good, unopened items in the trash
3) Eat them on the spot

Let me repeat that last one... EAT them. On the spot.  Like I was just going to pop a squat in the middle of effing security to enjoy a picnic consisting of an entire JAR of Nutella and SIXTEEN wedges of cheese!

Morons.

Pissed, I wound up going with Door #2: The trash bin.  I hope they picked it out after I stormed off and THEY ate it and it gave them diarrhea for days. 

This time, I was traveling without any contraband. I breezed through the black diamond lane, reserved for only the most experienced of frequent flyers. When I got to security, I saw they are now using one of those full body scan machines that caused all that nakedness and radiation uproar over the holidays. Remember that? 

I took my shoes off, and narrowly avoided stepping on a bandaid that was stuck to the rug.  Gross.  Then I was instructed to stand facing the machine with my legs spread apart and my arms in the air for this virtual frisking.

Keep in mind, this is the most action I've had in a looong time.  So the only thought going through my head was: Am I wearing nice undies?  I concentrated to try and mentally feel what kind I had on, but it was impossible.

Try it yourself. Without using your hands. It really can't be done.

Anyway, I passed the test and eventually I boarded the plane. A woman and her lap child were sitting in my seat. 9F. I said, “That’s my seat.” Then I glanced at the 2 other kids sitting next to her, and I immediately offered to take her seat, 9A.

Well, let me just say no good deed goes unpunished...

No sooner do I sit down in the window seat, than a young girl sat down on the aisle. She showed me her seat assignment, 9B (aka the middle).  Said she was saving a seat for her friend, like it’s her spot on the lunchline. Her name was Chanel. I resisted the urge to introduce myself as Gucci.

She looked at me with dead doll eyes and I see she’s in a sorority. I say this not because of her vapid gaze (though that certainly didn’t help), but because of the small purple pillow she was clutching. Stitched to the front were letters I couldn't read. Alpha Delta Pi Phi Sigma. Omega Lambda Beta. Kappa Theta. Epsilon.

(I have no idea if those were her letters, they're just the only Greek letter names I know. And I’m not even really sure about that last one.)

Next, her friend, presumably named Prada, scurried in and sat down -- which would have been fine if that aisle seat didn’t actually belong to anyone. But it did.

Moments later, a dad in a Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food t-shirt, said, “That’s MY seat.”

Doll Eyes filled him in, and he said, “That’s cool.” He seemed down with a trade and strapped himself into 10D, another aisle seat, a row back. Well, that just happened to be the seat of a passive aggressive off-duty flight attendant.

She said, “That’s MY seat.” Papa Bear explained the seat assignment roulette we were playing.  She grunted, and grabbed her tote, accidentally knocking an old lady in the head.

Well, this Granny wasn't having it. And getting smacked upside the noggin did not sit well with her. She began to growl and mumble obscenities, one of which was NOT whippersnappers.

About 5 minutes later our actual flight attendant informed Papa Bear that he’s seated in an extra legroom seat and that'll be $45 bucks, thankyouverymuch. That went over like a fart in church. Mellow Yellow turns beet red. He glares at Chanele and Prada, and insists on a new seat with a regular amount of legroom. He gets 8C, and then settles down.

For now.

The girls in my row were blathering on and on about getting to England. I wondered if they boarded the wrong plane because MY ass was headed back to New York.  Then Chanel tapped me on the shoulder. She asked if I knew how "American text message minutes" convert when traveling overseas. Like unit measurements of time were somehow different across the pond?

I wanted to take their heads and clack them together.

Listen, I'm not trying to be mean.  Really, I'm not.  I’m sure the jello shots and jalapeno poppers at Tipsy’s last night were hella good, but come ON.

We were on the runway waiting for takeoff when Prada got the munchies. She put a bagel directly on the tray table. ON the tray table! No buffer.

I nearly fainted.

Let me just state for the record that there is ZERO chance I would ingest ANYthing that touched an airplane tray table. There is not enough disinfectant on the planet to make that ok.  That thing has more germs than the monkeyhouse at the zoo.

Chanel seemed unfazed. Perhaps they had super immune systems, due to all kegstands and spit-swapping, but I haven’t done that (in years).

Papa Bear was having none of it.  He turned around to inform the girls -- perfect strangers, mind you -- that we hadn't taken off yet, so they shouldn’t be using their tray tables. They flipped him off.

All this drama was suddenly making me hungry too. I spread out a napkin nest on my lap, took a small brown bag out of my purse, and ate a croissant using the bag as a barrier between my breakfast and my potentially dirty hands.

So I'm munching away.  And while I couldn’t feel my underwear, I absolutely COULD feel the giant, flaky hunk of pastry that fell down my shirt and nestled into my cleavage. But rather than fish it out, I decided to save it for later incase I got hungry in the taxi.

It’s not like anyone was going to see my bra at that point. I’d already gotten to 3rd base with the TSA.


tags: travel

Pepe Le Pew

Remember a little while back when I said I was emailing with an eHarmony guy from Long Island who seemed normal?

He was from Smithtown, 38, a lawyer, divorced with 2 young boys. 6'3" and had most of his hair. He got custody of the family dog. We went through the guided communication process, then exchanged a bunch of emails. Finally, he asked for my number so we could talk on the phone.

So we did. For 2 hours.

When we hung up, I definitely knew a lot more about him. His ex wife was lazy and yelled a lot. He drove a silver BMW. He liked egg white omelets with spinach and feta. He was a Dolphins fan. The only concert he ever went to was Billy Joel (of course).  He went to Hoftsra for undergrad and St. Johns for law school.  His mom and dad divorced after 30 years of marriage. His dad then remarried -- and had kids -- making his brothers the same age as his sons.

Unfortunately, he knew next to nothing about me. Why? Because this was a guy who loved the sound of his own voice. You know what his only question was?

He asked me what else I wanted to know about him...

Anyway, for all his jibber-jabbering, he seemed kinda funny. I like funny. So when he decided at the end of the call (based on all that stimulating conversation) that we should meet for dinner, I said ok. We made plans for the following night. Mexican. He cancelled about 4 hours beforehand. He texted the next day to reschedule. Sushi. And then he cancelled again. That’s where I drew the line.

I’m done with guys making plans they can’t keep.

So I didn't reply. And I didn't hear from him for a couple of weeks. Then he popped up out of the blue, all apologetic about being such a flake, and he asked me out again. For whatever reason, I said yes. But I wasn’t meeting him after work for drinks or dinner anymore. I decided on brunch and chose a spot in the 50s on the east side. Seafood. And he actually showed up!

I saw him pull up and attempt to parallel park. Let’s just say it wasn’t smooth. But he was definitely in a silver BMW so at least he was telling the truth about that. Unfortunately, when he got out, he expected me to be impressed. That ship has sailed. I drove a BMW too, back when I owned a car… except it was black.

He said hello and leaned in to give me a kiss on the cheek.  Even outdoors, I couldn't help but notice the amount of cologne he was wearing.  He was like a king-sized Pepe Le Pew. It didn't take me too long to realize why he couldn't park and why smelled like he took a bath in CK One.

It’s because he was stinking drunk. Awesome.

We went inside and the waiter came over pretty quickly. Skunky slurred his drink order: Pure vodka. No ice. No slice. Did I mention it was 10am? I ordered a hammer to beat myself over the head. And a cranberry juice chaser.

Motormouth was at it again, this time, showing me pictures of his dog. Beast? Buddy? Barney? Whatever. He’s flipping through and I started to notice a theme. This dog is always accessorized. There he is with a sombrero. Next, it’s a pair of aviators. Then, an Islanders jersey.

Look, I like dogs as much as the next guy. (So long as the next guy is someone who feels generally lukewarm about the animal kingdom.) But I firmly believe with every fiber of my being that anyone who forces their pets to wear clothes is an absolute asshole.

For some reason that even I don’t understand, I still kept thinking maybe this date would get better. So we order, and I’m hoping that will sober him up. I got a crabcake sandwich on an english muffin. Normally on a first date, I might have gone with a side salad, but instead I ordered a side of fries. 

It's not like he was going to remember.

He proceeded to tell the waiter he’s a “big fan of Italian” then rattled off a bunch of pastas. He said he liked linguini, fettucini, tortellini – all the "inis" really. And then he ordered the seafood frittata.  Good lord.

He kept talking. And talking. And taalllkkkkiiiiinnnnnnggggggg. Then our meals arrived. Of course he continued, now with mouthfuls of eggy food. Mmmm. You know how you eat when you’ve had too much to drink? Like it’s your last meal? Yeah, it was kinda like that.

Towards the end of brunch, he leaned in and said, “Tell me about your fears.” Say WHAT? Here was a guy who’d barely asked me a single question about myself and now he wanted to know about my FEARS??

Uh ok.

Frankly, I’m really only afraid of one thing: Death. Not public speaking.  Not spiders.  Death.  Well, death and also having my ass suctioned to an airplane toilet. But mostly death.

As I opened my mouth to respond, I got a better look at his face.  I noticed a reddish mark by his lower lip, and came to the swift realization Pepe may or may not have The Herp. 

That's what I like to call the final straw.

So, I placed my napkin over my mostly uneaten crabcake sandwich. I then stood up and told him he should take care of the check, try not to kill anyone on his way home, and most definitely lose my number.

And that was the end of that.


Ok. Don't hold back. What would YOU have done in my shoes?  (Bonus points if you tell me about your fears...)
 

tags: dating

Red Means Go

So I kinda got hit by a car this morning.

I get it, I’m impatient. I cross in the middle of the street. I walk against the light.  But this one was not my fault.
 
I left my apt on my usual commute.  As I rounded the corner of 42nd and 2nd, I was greeted by a small festival going on in PIX Plaza.  I already been tipped off because I saw it on TV a few minutes earlier, while I was getting ready for work. 

Confession:
I have a longstanding love affair with Channel 11 morning "news."  There, I said it!

So my street was obviously making BIG headlines today, what with it being National Donut Day and all.  PIX was giving away Entenmann's donuts and collecting donations for the Salvation Army in the plaza.  I dropped a buck in the bucket and grabbed myself a chocolate frosted. 

You know the one?  With the yellow cake inside? 

Yum.

Anyway, with both my belly and my soul feeling good, I continued on 42nd Street towards 3rd Ave.  Aside from the sweet start, it was a normal morning as I walked passed the Helmsley Hotel, a Pax deli, and a Gap.  I stopped when I reached the corner, waiting for the light to change.

As it turned from green to yellow, I stepped off the curb.  Just then, a white BMW with Virginia plates started to speed up, clearly trying to beat the light.

You think you know what's going to happen next, don't you?  Not so fast...

The driver (a lady) must have had second thoughts when the light turned red because she jams on the brakes, which landed her right on top of the crosswalk.  Actually, she was about 3 feet past the crosswalk.  Since she was blocking the walkway, I went behind her car rather than face oncoming traffic.  That was my mistake.

Realizing she overshot the line, she flips the car into reverse and hits the gas.  Ok.  Except I'm sandwiched right between her car and a Moishe's moving truck.  Along with 4 other pedestrians. 

Who DOES that?

Assholes, that's who! 

So everybody scatters, but I'm too close to jump and she kinda backs into me.  Not OVER me, luckily.  But let's just say her back bumper and my thigh are now well acquainted.  So I bang repeatedly on her back window and say something profane (the likes of which the Salvation Army would not approve).

She sticks her hand through her sunroof and shouts, "Sorry," then runs the light anyway by making a right turn on red (a no-no in NYC), and disappears on 42nd.  Somebody caught her plate number, but I didn't bother to stick around.  I had a meeting starting in 10 minutes, and was already behind because I'd stopped for a donut.

So, that was my adventure for today.  Be careful out there, friends! 

And while you're on the equally dangerous sidewalks of New York, you might as well keep your eyes peeled for these jerks too:

• People who don’t look in same the direction they’re walking
• People who randomly stop in the middle of the sidewalk
• People who walk and wave their cigarettes around
• People who walk and pause to drink hot coffee
• People who walk and type

After all, getting rear-ended by a tourist holding a lit cigarette and a steamy cup of joe could end far worse than my little bumper mishap!


tags: city life

Memorial Day

Memorial Day weekend is over, and at this time last year, so was my relationship. Seems like a lifetime ago. I almost feel like I imagined it. Him. The ring. The move. Everything.

And then I remember… I didn’t.

That weekend was 72 long hours of misery. I was in a town where I knew no one. And anyone I DID know would surely have noticed that I no longer had my ring on. I wasn’t prepared to handle what that meant.  I was frozen.

So I stayed alone inside a condo in limbo. I’d unpacked most of my stuff, but not everything. We’d started painting the place, but never finished.  It was torture -- waiting for the other shoe to drop. Now, here we are a year later.  My family and friends have been so sweet about checking in on my schedule this weekend (and I love them for it) because they were worried about me.

But I’m actually good.

It’s been a YEAR. FINALLY! So I can stop thinking, “A year ago at this time, we [insert incredibly sad memory].”  I’m positive he moved on AGES ago -- before we even broke up, I'm guessing.  And I’d be lying if I said I never thought about him. I do.

(Not in a get-back-together kind of way -- you don't get to set someone's life on fire and come back from that.  Ever.) 

But whenever I do think about him, it annoys me. I look back at how devastated I was, how much blame I gave myself, how humiliated I felt. I was sick to my stomach. Used. Spent.  What I really wish I felt was anger!

Here was a grown man who came on like gangbusters, aggressively pursuing me at all stages of our relationship to the point that he proposes after just 7 months. His family even threw us an engagement party! He lets me give up my whole life to move in with him, and then has the nerve to change his mind.

Me and YOU? Oh.  Yeah... not so much.

There was virtually no emotion.  On his end, anyway.  The best explanation he could muster was that he was “done.”  He thought as a couple, we worked on Tuesdays and weekends, but we did not work every day.

Newsflash: Relationships are every day. So are marriages.

Anyway, you might recall that my very first breakup post was named for a song that I couldn’t get out of my head. Let You Down by Dave Matthews. I don’t even know what the lyrics mean, to tell you the truth. Interpreting songs has never been my strong suit. But “I let you down” rang in my ears over and over and over again while I packed my things.

At the time, I couldn’t find a picture to depict how I was feeling, so it’s the only post I’ve ever written without one. I won’t post a picture here either, but I will post a video:




Every time I hear Rolling in the Deep by Adele, I wish this song was invented at the time of my breakup. It would have been a FAR better anthem. She gets it. The anger over what could have been. And what never was.

“We could have had it all.” I understand THAT. And don't think I haven't been tempted to "lay his shit bare."

The fact is, if we could have had it all… we would have. I wish I knew this back then, it would've saved me a lot of tears. But I know it now.

All these months later, I'M the one who's "done." Finally.


tags: breakup

12 Angry Men

People aren't generally excited to get a jury duty summons in the mail. Yes, I know, it’s our responsibility to serve, but let’s face it: It’s totally inconvenient.

Which is why I postponed mine 3 times.

My summons was for criminal court, but this is NYC.  They must have suspected that I couldn't handle all THAT action because I was quickly transferred to civil court for a medical trial. More my speed.

Now, if you’ve ever watched Law & Order, you know the building. And I have to say, it's just as gorgeous inside – marble everywhere, gold leaf details, mahogany paneling, giant murals on the walls and paintings on the ceilings depicting NY’s history.

Pretty swanky.

I think they saw about 150 people total for this trial, over 3 days of jury selection.  They made me sweat it out until we were down to the final 18. At that point, half of us were sworn in and the other half were dismissed. It would have been interesting, but luckily, they did NOT choose me -- the case was expected to be a month long, 4 days a week.

Who can DO that, other than the unemployed, retired, or deranged?

Now I KNOW we aren’t supposed to talk about the case. And I won’t. But they didn’t say anything against talking about the other people I encountered at jury duty. I can't keep it to myself.  This place was like the DMV x 10.  Clearly, everyone who entered the main jury room was laser-focused on ways to get out. 

Case in point: I counted no less than 7 people with neck braces. 

Anyway, looking around over the course of 3 days, I saw quite a cross-section of the population.  If these were my peers, I may have to move.  Seriously. 

Here are the 12 people who stood out:

1. CHUCKLES: The first guy I noticed not with my eyes, but with my ears.  Because he was laughing like a maniac.  In 10 minute intervals.  For 6 hours.  And I'm not talking about when you get a case of the giggles.  Oh no.  This guy was a skin suit and a tube of lotion away from Silence of the Lambs.  Welcome to jury duty!
2. CHATTY CATHY: This lady was sitting in the row in front of me, running her mouth for hours. She. Would. Not. Shut. Up. God bless the patience of the man sitting next to her.  I know her whole life.  She was a florist, but also a photographer, but also a caretaker for her 89 year old mother, but also a foot model, but also -- by my observation -- a woman with a ridiculous amount of leg hair for someone wearing a mini skirt. (And PS: only one of these things is false -- she wasn't really a professional photographer.)
3. THE PHLEGM KING OF NY COUNTY: I think that one is pretty self-explanatory.
4. THE CITY EMPLOYEE: This woman worked for the MTA and was just thrilled to be missing out on work.  She was the happiest person in the whole room. Except for Chuckles.
5. THE NAYSAYER: I didn't notice this character until we were in the courtroom and he opened his mouth. This guy disagreed with everything. He had problems with lawyers, and with people who file law suits, and with sick people, and with doctors.  You know what I had a problem with?  His chronic nose picking.
6. THE THUG: When you wake up in the morning, and you're headed to court, is it ever a good idea to wear a t-shirt that proudly proclaims, "Snitches Get Stitches"?  I'm thinking no.  But clearly this angry guy didn't get the memo. Even his crazy long chest hair was aggressive – jabbing right through his shirt!
7. CAPTAIN PIT STAINS: It rained on my first day of jury duty.  It was in no way hot.  So it was a mystery why this guy was sweating his balls off all morning.  Raise your hand if you’re sure?  Um, no, not YOU.  It's called anti-perspirant.  Try it.
8. JOKERFACE: This is what happens when you get ready in the dark.  It looked like a box of crayons exploded on her face.  And yet, she was unashamed to liberally apply additional foundation, eye shadow, mascara, liquid AND pencil eye liner, powder, lip liner, lipstick, bronzer, and blush while we waited to be called.  I think I could have scratched my initials in her cheek.
9. TEAM EDWARD: After lunch on Day 2, we were waiting outside for someone to unlock the courtroom.  I was approached by a very, very, VERY pale guy.  His awkward chit-chat led to talk of vampires.  (Of course, why wouldn't it?).  He then declared, "I know my Snookie from my Sookie." So I said, "That’s it. You're cut off.  No more True Blood for you."  He seemed offended.
10. THE GENTLEMAN: This was an older guy.  He had a pocket square.  And presumably, a British accent.  I'd describe him as distinguished-looking, which really is just ugly with money.  He was harmless, so if I ever go on a crime spree, I'd like him to be my jury foreman.
11. THE KNITTER: Somehow, over the course of 3 days, this lady turned a ball of blue yarn into a full-on sweater.  A sweater!!  She did seem overly irritable, though, regarding the use of cell phones in the jury room.  Since she clearly knew how to work a knitting needle, I kept my distance.
12. THE CELEBRITY: What NYC jury duty experience would be complete without a celebrity sighting?  I felt like I was living in a page of US magazine.  Celebrities are people too!  Too bad mine was Sonja from the Real Housewives of NY.  I don't know what's worse, that she qualifies as a celebrity, or that I immediately recognized her.  Anyway, she was very late.  And very petite. And very pale.  Perhaps she likes vampires too.

So, that's my big jury duty adventure.  I laughed, I cried, it was better than Cats.

Have YOU ever sat on a jury?  Was it a freak-fest too??


tags: city life

Mamma's Eggplant Parmigiana

It's Mother’s Day and I’m in NYC, while my mom’s more than 1K miles away in FL.

Poo.

Sure I sent her presents, and we talk at least 2x per day, and I see her every other month.  But it’s not enough. I miss being with her on days like today. I know she misses being with her kids, too.

My dad is often the life of the party, but my mom is shy when you first meet her. Observing her surroundings, hanging in the background, taking it all in. My mom doesn’t come up to you -- you go to her. But when she’s comfortable with you, she’s the warmest, most thoughtful, generous and kind woman you’ll ever know.

She has a HUGE heart and there’s nothing she wouldn’t do for us.

She can be funny too. One of my favorite mom-isms is when she says, “Fat you can lose, ugly is forever.” So in her honor, I’m posting a beloved family recipe for eggplant parmigiana. It's not low calorie -- it's fried and it's cheesy and delicious.  If you want healthy, don't bother.  Eat a veggie burger instead. 

Whether in Pine Brook or Del Boca Vista, we’ve made this meal together many times – it reminds me of family, love, and home. If you cook this dish with your mom, make sure Frank Sinatra plays in the background as you dance around the kitchen… Ol' Blue Eyes makes it taste better.

And now, without further ado, I give you...

THE BEST EGGPLANT PARM YOU'LL EVER EAT

TIME:
If this doesn't take about 6 hours, you didn't do it right

SERVES:
9-12 portions

INGREDIENTS:
For the fried eggplant:

• 6 medium eggplants
• Kosher salt
• 4C seasoned breadcrumbs
• Locatelli pecorino romano grated cheese
• 5-6 eggs
• 1 large brick of Polly-O whole milk mozzarella cheese
• Olive oil

For the Sunday gravy:

• 4 cans of Tuttorosso tomato puree
• 2 cans of Tuttorosso crushed tomatoes
• 2 cans of Contadina tomato paste
• 1 package of 3-way ground beef, pork, and veal
• 1 package of sweet Italian sausage
• 1 package of braciole (super thin flank steak)
• 1 package boneless pork spare ribs 
• 2 sticks of Hormel pepperoni
• 4C seasoned bread crumbs
• Locatelli pecorino romano grated cheese
• 2-3 eggs
• Polaner minced garlic
• Italian flat leaf parsley
• Olive oil
• Salt & pepper

DIRECTIONS:

1. The first thing you should know is that we don't measure anything.  It's all by taste and by the look of it. We improvise, and so should you...
2. Most people who think they don't like eggplant say it's because it's bitter and seedy.  That's because it wasn't made right.  To avoid that, first peel the eggplants with a vegetable peeler.  Then slice them about a 1/2 inch thick. Next, find a big grill pan and start lining it with layers of sliced eggplant.  After each layer, give a liberal toss of the kosher salt.  Once they're all on there, top it with an upside-down sheet pan and place some cookbooks or a cast-iron pot on top to weigh it down. This is THE most important step, as it will draw out the bitterness and pack down the seeds.  Liquid will accumulate in the grooves of the grill pan, so do this by the sink, so you can easily dump it.  Keep it like that for about an hour.
3. While your eggplant slices are busy "juicing," you can prepare the gravy (aka the red sauce).  We use this gravy for eggplant, lasagna, baked ziti, chicken parm -- you name it.  Pour the 6 cans of crushed and pureed tomatoes into a large pot and keep it on a back burner.  Fill one empty can about halfway with water and swirl it around to get all the bits off the bottom and the sides.  Pour that water from can to can, until you've got it all.  Then dump that tomatoey water into the pot too.  For thinner gravy, add a little more water.  Season with salt and pepper.  Bring it up to a boil then reduce to low, stirring occasionally to keep the bottom from burning.
4. Since the pepperoni is already cooked, cut it into chunks, about 3-4 inches long, and put them in the gravy.  They will plump up and absorb the tomato sauce while cooking to become the most delicious pepperoni you ever had.
5. Next it's time to deal with the uncooked meats.  We don't put uncooked meats into the gravy.  That's a big no-no.  So fill a pan about a 1/2 inch deep with olive oil.  Don't use extra virgin here, it's a waste.  Any brand of regular is fine, go with what's on sale because you'll use a lot of it.  The sausage and boneless ribs can cook just as they are, from the package right into the oil, on medium heat.  Turn them often to brown on all sides and use tongs so you don't lose all the juices in the sausage.  Once they're cooked, set them aside until all the meats are ready to take a soak in the gravy.
6. Now, it's meatball time.  If you have an issue with veal or pork, you can just use all ground beef.  Put the meat in a large bowl.  Sprinkle on some grated cheese and breadcrumbs, add some chopped parsley, salt, pepper, and 2 of the eggs.  Then stick your hands in there and mush it all together.  This is the part I like the least, so my mom does it.  Make sure you take your jewelry off!  If the meat feels dry, add another egg.  If it's too moist, add more cheese and breadcrumbs.  Form them into balls and pop them into the olive oil for frying on a medium heat.  Keep adding oil as needed, and set aside the cooked meatballs.
7. Last up for the meats is the braciole.  Take the thin flank steak and spread it with the minced garlic, then sprinkle grated cheese, and more chopped parsley.  Cut the meat into slices and roll each slice up.  Tie the rolls at each end with kitchen string or butcher's twine, like a little bundle, to keep all the filling inside.  Then, pop those into the oil too, turning until browned, and set aside once cooked. Keep the strings on for now, but remember to take them off when it's time to eat!
8. Once all the meat is done, we make the roux.  This is NOT the traditional white flour and butter mixture, but it IS still used for thickening.  And it's key to the flavor and texture of the gravy. Take the pan you used to cook the meats, and add 1 can of tomato paste and a handful of grated cheese.  Stir this around on medium/high heat, to help incorporate what's left of the cooked oil and meat drippings into the tomato paste.  Add more tomato paste and cheese until all the liquids are fully absorbed.  Keep stirring this thick paste constantly until it starts turning a bit darker.  When it's done, add the roux to the gravy pot.  While you're at it add about a spoonful of garlic, too.  More or less, if you like.
9. Now it's time to get the meats into the gravy pot.  Stir it one last time before adding the meat, because it will be difficult to stir afterwards.  Cut the sausages to allow the juices to run into the gravy, then add this and the rest of the meats to the pot.  The pepperoni should already be looking plumper by now, from sitting in the gravy all this time.  If it's getting crowded, use 2 gravy pots!  But keep a mix of the meats in each, and keep the heat on low. 
10. Tired yet?  If so, you can do the whole meat & gravy piece the day before and just keep it in the fridge until you are ready to assemble the eggplant parm.
11. Ok, back to the eggplant.  By now, all the bitterness will be gone and it's time to fry those babies up.  Grab 2 shallow bowls and a plate.  In the first bowl, crack a couple eggs and stir them around until the whites and the yolks are incorporated.  In the second bowl, add the seasoned breadcrumbs and stir in some grated cheese.  First dip each piece of sliced eggplant in the egg, then toss them in the breadcrumb mix, and set them aside on the plate, fully coated.  Keep doing that until you're done, adding more egg or breadcrumbs/cheese to the bowls whenever needed.
12. Fill a new pan with oil, about 1/4 an inch high, and start frying the eggplant.  Flip them to cook on both sides, use a fork or tongs, but be careful not to pull the breading off.  Use 2 pans to move things along more quickly, if you want.  Keep an eye on them, they don't take too long to cook.  When browned on both sides, put the fried eggplant on a dish or tray lined with paper towels to soak up any excess olive oil.  (And munch on a few, just to make sure they're good.) 
13. Go back to the gravy pot(s).  By now, the meats have had a good long soak.  Pull out all the meat, and a little gravy to keep the meats from drying out, into an oven-safe dish so it's easy to heat up.  Having the meat out of the way will make it easier to ladle the gravy. 
14. The time has FINALLY come to assemble everything.  Grab a Pyrex baking dish.  Really any size works, you could use 2 small square dishes, or 1 large rectangular one.  Now's also a good time to grate the mozzarella cheese.  You'll be tempted to use a bag of the pre-shredded cheese, but it's worth shredding it yourself because it melts so much better.
15. Pour a few ladles of gravy into the baking dish and spread it around to coat the whole bottom.  Then start a layer of eggplant slices.  It's better to overlap if they don't fit exactly, than to leave gaps.  Top that with a good sprinkling of the shredded mozzarella.  Top that with a few more ladles of gravy.  Keep going, layer by layer, until you reach the top.  For the top layer, do it in reverse, first gravy, then cheese -- make sure the gravy covers everything, then sprinkle a little mozzarella and grated pecorino romano across the top as a finishing touch.
16. Bake all of this in a 350 degree pre-heated oven.  Everything is already cooked, but you want the flavors to blend and the cheeses to melt.  It will take about 30 minutes or so until the sides start to bubble and brown.  Then you know it's done.
17. It's super easy (by comparison) to serve this up with some baked ziti, or even plain macaroni in gravy, but it also stands on its own.  Serve the meats on the side with a nice salad and some bread.
18. By now, everyone in the house will be bugging you to ask when dinner will be done.  Make them set the table to feel like they are helping.  If you can stand it, let the eggplant cool for a few minutes before slicing and it will come out more easily.  If not, just dig in, your stomach won't know the difference. 
19. Mangia!
20. Keep in mind, as good as this tastes now, it gets even better as left-overs the next day.

I know this sounds like a lot of work -- and it is -- but it's worth it.  This is probably the first time this recipe has been written down, and certainly the first time it's ever been posted to the Internet.  I hope you enjoy it as much as we do. 

To my mom, my sister-in-law, my college roommates, and all the other great moms reading this, Happy Mother's Day!  May you always have an eggplant parm in the oven, a table full of loved ones, and someone ELSE to wash the dishes!


tags: family, food, holidays

Royal Wedding Mania Is Running Wild

I would imagine your workplace isn’t as royally-infused as mine.

For instance, are your colleagues (who aren't stationed in London) hosting a sleepover to watch Wills and Kate's nuptials? Or designing cool royal manicures? Do you plan to have tea and scones in your conference room tomorrow to review the play-by-play? Or has anyone cooked up an entire wedding watching menu chock-a-block with British fare?

I’m guessing no.

While I am slightly bitter that Kate stole my sapphire engagement ring idea (which I, incidentally, stole from Diana, the original trendsetter and owner of that 18-carat rock), I still can’t help but get a little swept into the hoopla too.

Just for a minute.

Ok, maybe TEN minutes. Max. Like when I played Princess Yourself the first time. Or the second time. Or the third time.  Or made myself into a royal stamp. Or gave myself a royal name.  Please note: I hereto forthwith shall evermore be known as Lady Jennifer Eugenia Gaonachton of Pine Brookport.

Smashing!

I’m not, however, sold on the idea of waking up at 4am to watch the wedding. In fact, I think if my own brother asked me to watch his wedding at 4am I’d tell him to… bugger off. But there are plenty of ways to participate, if you didn’t receive a faxed (seriously, faxed?) save-the-date or your gold-embossed invitation (one of 1900) got lost in the mail.

Here’s my 15-step plan for the festivities. You are cordially invited to follow it too…

STEP 1: Eat Easter Candy

God save the Queen-sized box of Peeps that's airing out on my table until it's nice and stale.  I will be too busy trying to find my own version of the Kate Middleton jellybean look-a-like.  I think that's a peach Jelly Belly.  I'm sure it's in my basket somewhere.

STEP 2: Learn What's Going On Inside Prince William and Catherine's Heads 

After coming up empty-handed in the jellybean department, I will spend some time on eBay bidding for a limited edition William & Kate PEZ Set.  I imagine when I am old(er), I will also enjoy taking my fiber supplements from these whimsical dispensers.

STEP 3: Meet the Royal Family

Better than paper dolls, and far less creepy than blowups, I'm choosing to Knit My Own Royal Wedding so I can play along at home.  They make even Prince Charles and the Queen Mum look downright cuddly.  Plus, this is a skill I feel will come in handy down the line, as it will be perfect practice for when I am forced to knit my own husband and children.

STEP 4: Hydrate

The Royal Wedding is a marathon, not a sprint.  As such, I will overcome my aversion to hot beverages and pour myself a spot of tea, using my KaTEA and William Tea Bags.  I will giggle politely as I watch them bob up and down in a brown bath.

STEP 5: Eat a Tiara

I'll leave wearing crowns to Burger King.  Me?  I prefer eating them, which is why I will consume an entire box of Eleni’s Royal Wedding Biscuits, which includes, of course, a bejeweled tiara.  I will feel only slightly bad eating Will and Kate's heads.  I hope they don't taste like marmite.

STEP 6: Save Room for Pizza

I will try not to spoil my appetite, and leave room in my stomach for Papa John’s Royal Wedding Pizza. I'm particularly fond of William's pepperoni uniform, and will vow to eat that part last.

STEP 7: Vomit

The blend of jellybeans, PEZ, tea, cookies, and pizza will not sit well in my tummy.  Luckily, I'll have a Royal Wedding Toilet Seat so I can upchuck in a manner befitting a princess.  This cheeky loo décor gives new meaning to the word “throne” and will allow me to evacuate Buckingham Palace to make room for more treats later on. Can I jam more innuendo in here?  Yes.  Talk about a royal flush!

STEP 8: Get All Gussied Up

Some people may think it's appropriate to wear fancy hats or morning coats to Westminster Abbey.  But remember, I'm from Jersey.  So of course, I'm going straight for the Royal Nail Decals. 

STEP 9: Get My Drink On

Now it's time to get serious.  The happy couple may have banned beer from their reception, but you can bet I'll be hitting the local pub to guzzle a sixpack of Kiss Me Kate Beer in their honor.  (Does anyone think Ms. Middleton looks a lot like Lauren Conrad, or is that just the beer talking?)

STEP 10: Cheers!

I'd get pretty plastered if I did a shot for every year I haven't walked down the aisle (roughly 37.5).  Slightly less depressing, though, would be to play the Royal Wedding Drinking Game.  Simply take a sip of beer each time I see a duke, duchess, or a sword?  Oh, that sounds like MUCH more fun, and gives me a brand new excuse to love my iPhone.

STEP 11: Vomit Again

Damn those dukes, duchesses, and swords -- they're everywhere!  Of course, the Kiss Me Kate will come right back up.  Luckily, I have my very own, highly portable Royal Wedding Barf Bag.  They also come in blue or a 2-pack of gold and purple, which frankly, are too posh to use.

STEP 12: Get a Room

I'll be pretty tuckered out after all that gallivanting about in the pub.  Good thing I've got Royal Bed-ding.  Who says you can't wear Kate's navy blue engagement dress AND wake up next to a prince?

STEP 13: Make a New Friend

Tradition says that Will and Kate won't be kissing at the end of their wedding ceremony, and neither should I.  But just incase I lose my head and there's a frog next to me under those princely sheets, it might be a good idea to keep some Crown Jewels in my purse next to the barf bag.  It's birth control fit for a king!

STEP 14: Papa Don't Preach

You know, novelty condoms are never a good idea.  So in the event that these weren't up for the challenge and I accidentally produce an heir to the throne, Royal Pacifiers could be in my future.

STEP 15: Find a Proper Baby Daddy

Let's hope my baby has red hair.  That will make it a LOT easier to pass it off as Harry's.  This Princely Mousepad will help me keep my mission top-of-mind.  Do you think the royals are on eHarmony?










So... if you're still reading all this nonsense, who's with me??

No one?  Ok.

Well, did you know that Prince William’s last name is Mountbatten-Windsor? Or that his full title is His Royal Highness Prince William Arthur Louis of Wales, Royal Knight Companion of the Most Noble Order of the Garter Master of Arts?

That must be a bitch to sign. 

I should probably start practicing Prince Harry's name now.  For the birth certificate.


tags: holidays, pop culture, work

Peeps Be With You

It’s Good Friday, and I’ve been pretty good this Lent, if I do say so myself. I only accidentally ate meat one day when a sandwich with chicken, ham, AND bacon just fell into my mouth (when I go, I go big).

I’m really glad I don’t live anywhere near a Denny’s. While McDonald's and Wendy's are busy peddling fish sandwiches, Denny's Baconalia festival is waving an unbelievable temptation right under our snouts.  Who among us could resist a bacon sundae? 

Not me.  I'm only human.

Anyway, one thing I didn’t give up is candy. It’s not much of a sacrifice for me because I don’t have a giant sweet tooth – I’ll take a potato chip over a chocolate chip any day.

But oh, how I love my Peeps.

I know they’re available all year now for every holiday, but those are imposters. It’s ONLY the Easter chicks that count. Not the bunnies, the chicks.  Yellow ones. And occasionally the pinks. But that’s it.  I'm a Peep purist.

I prefer mine stale so they’re nice and chewy, and I eat them face first, a sleeve at a time. Yum.

You may think you don’t like Peeps, but you’d be wrong. You may not like to eat them (and thanks for that, because it just means more marshmallows for me), but how could you not love to watch crazy Peep hijinks?

The Washington Post has elevated these seasonal sugary snacks to an art form by hosting a contest for the best Peeps diorama. It's become one of my favorite parts of the season.  So here are a dozen keepers from the past 5 years.

I dare you not to eat them up:



Peep Art



TSA Agents Get a Peep Show

Peeping Peeps

 

Goodnight Peep

Mrs. Peepcock in the Conservatory with the Revolver

The Peep Is Right

The Mupeep Show

Mommy Peepest

Peep-Busters

PeepTube

Super Peepio Brothers

A Peep Behind the Curtain

 
I'm thinking I should enter this contest next year.  Maybe I'll start on Monday.  And eat all my bad ideas.  Because the only thing that's better than a sleeve of stale Peeps, is a day-after-Easter, half-price sleeve of stale Peeps.
 
So, what kind of scene should I make?  I'm too hopped up on sugar to think straight...
 
 
tags: food, holidays

Top Ramen

As you know, I’m back to online dating.

It’s not that I love the idea of meeting someone online, because I definitely don’t. But in my everyday life (at my advanced age), I just don’t have enough opportunities to meet new people.

I guess it’s not really “people” I’m looking to meet. It’s guys. Ok, ok, single guys. Alright, STRAIGHT single guys.

Anyway, I’ve recently been toying with the idea of taking golf or sailing lessons at Chelsea Piers or cooking classes at the Institute for Culinary Education. It would be so nice to meet someone in real life instead of on a computer, where you have no idea if the guy you think is normal is actually a 300lb hoarder who’s 6’ tall ONLY when he stands on a giant pile of empty Steak-Umm boxes.

You just can’t tell.

Anyway, about a month and a half ago, I was in the grocery store across the street from my apt. I was in the mood to learn to make soup, and was buying the fixings for French Onion. I wasn’t really following a recipe, exactly, but I’ve eaten it a 100x over the years. So I was just going from aisle to aisle picking up ingredients that seemed to make sense.

Immediately after the produce aisle (where I grabbed Spanish onions, red onions, a head of garlic, and a shallot), and the cookie aisle (where I picked up some Nutter Butters, which have nothing at all to do with the soup, but are simply the most awesomely delicious cookie ever), I found myself in the soup aisle.

You’d think I would have skipped this aisle, since I was making soup from scratch. It might have made sense to avoid the temptation to scrap my whole plan, buy a can of Campbell’s, kick back on the couch and chow down on sweet, sweet Nutter Butters.

But I didn’t.

I got to the middle of the aisle when I realized I needed a broth of some kind. So I was standing there, debating whether I should go with beef stock or vegetable stock. Veggie was in a green box. Would the broth be greenish too? I couldn’t take the chance. I knew beef was brown. 

Just then, a tall, glasses-wearing guy in a very nice gray pinstripe suit reached over my head to grab 2 packages of Nissin Top Ramen. Chicken flavor. “I lived on this stuff in college,” he said to me as he dropped the packages into his basket. I nodded. He nodded. And he went on his way up the aisle.

I grabbed the beef stock and continued down the aisle. I turned the corner to the frozen food section, which also happens to have pre-packaged deli items, and smells vaguely of vomit. I was deliberating over buying Gruyere (at $24 a wedge!) or Swiss (at a mere $8).

Ramen Noodle walked by again. “Try the fontina,” he said. I smiled. He smiled. And he went on his way up the aisle.

I grabbed the fontina, since it was also white and melty, and a fraction of the cost of the Gruyere.  I also picked up a bag of Nathan’s Famous frozen potato pancakes (because they are tasty), and continued down the aisle. I skipped the next few aisles because I didn’t need any beverages, cleaning products, pet food, or cereal.

I was in the last aisle to grab some butter to saute the onions in.  This is FRENCH onion soup after all.  The tub of I Can't Believe It's Not Butter that I already had in my fridge probably wouldn't cut it.

Well, guess who walked by?

Clearly we were on the same grocery path. “Got the fontina, huh?” he asked. I laughed. He laughed. And we both went up the aisle toward the checkout. We picked different lanes, which meant we were done roughly at the same time. I know this because I walked out of the store right behind him.

“Are you following me?” he flirted. “It won’t be a long walk, I live just across the street.” He proceeded to point right at my building.

“You don’t say?” I replied. “Me too.”

He introduced himself, and I did the same. We chatted while waiting for the light to change. And while walking across the street. And in the lobby of our building. And by the mailboxes. And by the elevators. We got in, and I hit my floor, 28. He hit his floor, 17. Then he asked me out for a drink.

(Not that night, of course. I would be too busy eating cookies while figuring out how to make soup.)

We met in the lobby the following night around 8pm. That is precisely when this cute story of 2 people meeting in the soup aisle at Gristedes turned rotten.

The drinks lasted all of 20 minutes. In this time:

• I noticed he was much heavier than I remembered. Maybe it was all the sodium from the ramen, but the buttons on his shirt (and probably his pants) were undoubtedly the most hard-working buttons in the room.
• He barely said 10 words, all he did was gesture.  It was like being on a date with a mime.
• The few words he did use were directed towards our server, and involved ordering, re-ordering, and re-re-ordering himself a glass of port. He showed no visible signs of remorse for his openly assholey behavior or for his bad taste in drinks.

Interrupting my silent prayers for someone to pull the fire alarm, he stepped away. I assumed it was to pay the bill at the bar. I was at least grateful that he realized this was going nowhere.  Plus, I made a mental note that 99 cent noodles are a HORRIBLE foundation for a first date. The only guys who still eat that crap are wasted and/or broke.

He returned a few minutes later reeking of cigarettes. Revolting.

“Can you tell I just had a smoke?” he asked as he waved his arms in the air and shook out his suit jacket. Ah!  Words!  How nice.  Too bad he stunk.  So I replied, “Um, could you tell if a bum just took a dump his pants?” 

He looked at me strangely. Needless to say, the date ended there. We walked back, awkwardly, to our apt building.

And I learned a valuable lesson – don’t date anyone who lives in your apt building! Because I ran into him like 6 more times after that horrible date. In typical New York fashion, though, we pretended like we didn’t know one another. Which was fine by me.

Now, you might be wondering why I decided to write about him today if this date happened a while back. Well, my typical policy with writing about my bad dates is that I don’t do it until I'm positive I’m never going to see the guy again. And I will NEVER see Ooodles of Noodles again, as the doorman told me he moved out today. Hooray!

I just might celebrate. With some port. Oh, wait!  That’s a pretentious drink that tastes like oven cleaner.

Maybe I’ll just have a Nutter Butter.

So, would you ever date someone from your same apartment or office building?  Share below...

tags: city life, dating, food

The Meet Market

The other night, I went to Professor Thom's in the East Village for a book launch party.  My colleague wrote an e-book, soon to be a paperback, called Salary Tutor (check it out -- who among us couldn't use a bigger paycheck?).  As he was introducing his agent and publisher to us, I got to thinking about my own book.

Say what?

Yes, I wrote an unpublished novel AGES ago -- back in 2002, to be exact, when I was just 29 years young.  And all 285 pages have been sitting in a box ever since.  Well, they briefly saw the light of day back in 2009, when I dusted them off to blog an excerpt from one of my favorite chapters. 

But mostly, it's been a life in the box.

Anyway, I went digging in that old box when I got home from the party, and I discovered that even waaay back then, I knew online dating was full of freaks and losers.  Like this guy, this guy, THIS guy, this guy, and most recently, this guy.  And I hadn't even signed up for any dating services at that point in my life, like I did at age 35 or 37. 

But somehow, I just knew.  Behold, snippets from Chapter 20: The Meet Market...


A homely young woman was sitting on her couch, under a crocheted blanket, eating chocolate ice cream straight from the container.  A voiceover declared, "You can eat ice cream on your couch." The next scene showed the same woman, now a sexpot in a French bistro seated across from a gentleman in a tuxedo. "Or you can eat ice cream off your date."  They cut to the woman's face and she winked as he put an ice cream-coated fingertip in her mouth.  The voice said, "You decide," as the words "No More Lonely Nights" scrolled across the screen, with the URL for an online dating site. 


Eventually, the book's main character, Kate (a girl loosely based on me), made the decision to join this dating site.  Unsure how to navigate these unfamiliar waters, she first did a little profile reconnaissance...


Kate came across cutesy screen names like IrishYouPeace and Shiksappeal, nostalgic names like OuttaTime88 and TheOtherDarrinStevens, nasty names like Chitty_Chitty_Gang_Bang and Jenitellya, and creepy names like AshleighsDad and Pastor_Gary. 

In her dating experiences, Kate was a lot like Goldilocks.  Some of the porridge was too cold, some of the beds were too soft, some of the bears were too short.  She'd yet to meet anyone that was "just right."  That seemed as good a screen name as any, so JustWrite29 was born.  In the wee hours of Saturday morning, she posted the following profile:

     JUSTWRITE29 - LOOKING FOR MR. MAYBE
     Cable television talent booker seeking an escape from the single life.  I prefer beer to wine, dinner to dancing, and
     brains to brawn.  You prefer brunettes to blondes, movies to marathons, and sarcasm to slapstick.  If you have also
     run out of friends to hit on, you find yourself bored by the bar scene, and would rather poke yourself in the eye with
     a fork than sit through another fixup, we should probably talk.


It wasn't long before Kate began receiving responses to her new profile...


A small, yellow envelope appeared at the bottom of her computer screen, so she took a detour from reviewing the morning's news stories to reading her email.  There were seven new messages, all a result of the dating profile she just posted.  "This is too easy," Kate said as she waded through the messages. "Come to mama!"  What she quickly realized is the reason it was so easy was because there were a lot of spooky freaks patrolling the information superhighway in the middle of the night, many of whom likely still lived with mama. 

The messages came with photos attached.  She found it funny that someone named PlayLikeAChampionToday was giving a buddy hi-five.  The caption might as well have read: I'm going for the gold in the Douche Olympics.  Bronze simply will not do.  Date_Seeking_Missile promised to take Kate all the way to DEFCON5.  Staring at his picture, Kate made a mental note never to date a man who wore clogs or bathing suits that resembled panties.

Someone named Theres.Something.About.Marty explained that he enjoyed long walks on the beach.  "Yeah, on a leash.  Woof, WOOF," Kate said aloud as she deleted his message.  The hairstyles here were something like she hadn't seen since her high school yearbook.  For the candidate best suited for male pattern baldness, she was torn between LastAmericanSmoker with the moustache and mullet and TKESully82 who looked as though he dove headfirst into a jar of Dippity Don't.


Kate continued wading through messages, until she got to the last one...


The speedy death of her faith in Internet dating culminated with the following glorious proposition:

     TO:                JustWrite29
     FR:                NE_PatsFan11
     DATE:            Saturday, April 5, 2:41AM
     MESSAGE:      i like your butt. can i wear it as a hat?

Without hesitation, she deactivated her online dating profile.  It may have been rash, but she was not prepared to be hit on by losers in the comfort and privacy of her own home.  No sense in meeting men even less mature than the emotional toddlers she'd been dating all her life.  She'd relegate those lame pick-ups and horrible fix-ups to the bars, where they belonged.


See!  All those years ago, I knew even without knowing, that online dating is the pits.  Case in point: about a week ago, one guy decided to jump past the guided communication on eHarmony and deliver me an "icebreaker."  From his profile photos (6 total), he could only be described as a Tank Top Enthusiast.  He sent me the oldest pickup line in the book, "Haven't I seen you someplace before?" 

I replied, "Yes, that's why I don't go there anymore." 

And then I closed the match.

For every 100 guys like the ones above, there's MAYBE 1 normal one.  If that!  I'm emailing right now with a guy from Long Island who appears totally normal.  The good news is that according to his photos, he has no affinity for sleeveless undershirts and shows no obvious signs of wanting to wear my ass as headgear.  But what do I know?

Now I'm thinking maybe I should read the rest of the manuscript!  It's like a freaking crystal ball!  Who knows what other sage dating advice (online or otherwise) that my young, cute 29 year old self has for my old, haggard 37 year old self?

Stay tuned...


tags: dating, writing