New Year’s, belated
I realized that I never made New Year’s resolutions.
1) Shinier hair. Maybe apply cooking grease to head. Wait. Smell like biodiesel engine.
2) Lose ten pounds. Remove platform heels. Easy.
3) Skeletal indie men > WASPy jocks. What happened to coffee shop musicians in too-tight Levis? Oh right, Harvard. Got a lifetime supply of navy blazers with gold buttons and graphic striped ties, though… you know what I’m talking about, you with the whale-embroidered seersucker man-capris.
4) Stop smoking. Done! Never started.
5) Professional success. Eat delicious things more often.
6) Figure out how to attach fake eyelashes. Self explanatory.
7) Wear more vests. The sexiest, most versatile item in any wardrobe.
8 ) Eat lions, bears, tigers. Exotic meats freezer at Savenor’s Market on Kirkland street. Tastes good with some kind of fruit chutney? Definitely make hummus at least once, anyway.
9) Decision making. Do a better job. Will be difficult, because bad decisions are inherently hilarious in the mental replay. Plus, such great stories for my gay best friends later on!
10) Clean up the giant shards of a broken full length mirror that are scattered around my room, and that I gingerly pick up to view bits of my outfit/makeup in the morning. Could possibly cause dismemberment, death. V. bad. Maybe mail to 2008′s worst douchebags? V. good.
Gyros and Modern Art
Santorini, Sleepy Hollow, NY
Stepping away from my normal lunch of a low carb, high protein bar, I decided to give Santorini (Sleepy Hollow, New York) a try since it was only a short walk from the Tarrytown library.
As you can see, the space is fairly small (I was sitting near the back to avoid the arctic blasts of air from the opening door) and it’s painted a cheerful orange. The waitress was also bizarrely cheerful and accomodating to a random singular diner.
I mostly went here because it got good reviews on Yelp.com. I cannot live without Yelp, especially when there are sometimes reviews that go along the lines of, “Wow, I don’t remember what the food was like, but the hostess was the most breathtakingly beautiful woman I’ve ever seen! Ever!” I mean, how can you not go there?
As an aside, I really hate taking pictures during meals out. It makes me feel like a pretentious, touristy creep. Whenever I’m eating out with somebody, I have to apologize first before I set my camera on macro and try to get a decent shot of creme brulee.
Pita and hummus
Anyway, she brings out a free starter. This is a little ridiculous for one person. This is essentially a meal for a girl with a small stomach. The hummus was excellent – creamy and light. I’m used to far more thick, dense varieties that imitate the texture of heavy cream, so this was a pleasant surprise. And the two salty olives (I’d like to guess they’re kalamata) were a nice touch to go with the toasted pita bread. After eating this, and a bowl of Avgolemono soup, I was pretty much done. But then the waitress brings out the actual meal.
Gyro
One thing I’ve noted is that my meat-eating capacity is severely limited. I mean, I can kind of choke it down, but the way other cultures prepare their meats is such a huge contrast to Chinese food, which tends to shred it up and mix it with vegetables. Where a Chinese meal might be 70% veggies, 30% meat, an American meal might use the opposite ratio. (This is a gross generalization, obviously.) And with this gyro in particular, I cried uncle after eating only half the part that is not covered by foil. There’s obviously a lot more to the gyro than what’s in the picture.
Which reminds me of my failure to ever really enjoy steak. I mean, how could I enjoy eating a steak when it is just a gigantic hunk of relentless protein? How can I finish eating such a thing without feeling like my stomach juices are attacking an obstinate chunk of granite?
So, moving on, I was in NYC for New Year’s. I visited MoMA.
Pollock + Intruder
The Museum of Modern Art is an interesting place. I think the odd thing about seeing some modern art in person is that there’s not the same sense of revelation (for some pieces) as there is for, say, Van Gogh, whose paintings lose a lot in the reproduction process. With Pollock, there’s a sense of the sheer scale and the textural component that you don’t get from viewing prints, but with other artists, like Warhol and Lichtenstein, it’s not all that exciting and revelatory to see it in person.
It’s like, oh, soupcans. Comic book girl. I guess with Lichtenstein you can see his manual reproduction of the printing process.
Warhol's soupcans
Lichtenstein
Something to try: Bone Marrow
I forgot how incredibly delicious this substance is until tonight, when my mom announced that there was a big ol’ pile of soupbones downstairs. Seriously guys, I broke out the sea salt and pepper grinders and went to town.
Ok, so it is fat, and it doesn’t look like an elaborately carved radish, but it is full of good fats and vitamins and proteins and it tastes SO GOOD. I had it once at Rialto and it came on a cleanly halved bone, with some spicy greens and tomato relish. I was sorely disappointed. There is nothing like the animalistic, primitive pleasures of scooping out the stuff yourself, seasoning it before it cools off, and tasting the pure bliss. Do yourself a favor.
Young and female
Interviewing “real people” is definitely a switch from what I’m used to at the Crimson. First of all, at the Crimson, people expect that you’ll be a youthful, bright eyed college student. But in the real world, I will show up, chat with the father of a restaurant owner, and the interview will end with, “So are you doing this for school?”
I believe he means “high school.” I guess my jeans tucked into ugg boots combination doesn’t really help.
I become kind of an object of curiosity: she says she’s a reporter, but why is she so young? What paper does she write for again?
I get that last question a lot, and I slowly work through their confusion and doubt. It always helps to throw in where I go to school. (Not something I usually like to do, but if it makes me them trust me, I’ll take it.)
It all ends up feeling very paternalistic anyways.
FOB Moms
At a typical Chinese party, the proceedings usually devolve into a melee of tortured singing, that is, a karaoke marathon. They alternated Chinese songs for the adults with simplistic English songs for the children. The “Itsy Bitsy Spider” title flashed on the screen.
Chinese friend: [makes face] My mom calls it the “Itchy Bitchy Spider.”
Me: Noooo.
Friend’s mom, as if on cue: [runs off to find the younger sister] Come on! You have to sing the Itchy Bitchy Spider!
Chinese friend: Have you ever heard of the website, My Mom is a FOB?