So my fabulous world of 17th and T continues to give me more topics to ruminate over as water for pasta boils and the newest episode of the Sopranos waits (eagerly for me!) on pause. As a student, I have spent the last three years recognizing that my schedule is much, much different from most of the folks around me. My first year was consumed by part time work, evening classes, lots of time in the gym, mid-day naps now and then and strolls through the city at 2:30pm when most people were hunkered down for the rest of the long afternoon at work. Living on the Hill, I would occasionally see the housewives walking their babies and dogs but it was pretty quiet mid-day. Nothing was crowded. There was no bustle.
17th and T and all the areas surrounding me are not like this at all. In the last two years I have changed my schedule quite a bit as well--I rarely sleep in or nap, and I aim to get to school around 9am regardless of when I have class during the day. I don't generally leave school until the evening, having realized my productivity increases dramatically the more I am away from my comfy apartment (and the lure of Netflix).
But last Wednesday was a little out of the ordinary. I had errands to run so I took my time getting up and getting to campus and as I strolled down 17th St, I realized something seemed very extraordinary--the sheer number of people wandering around doing the same thing I was. Now, I know this is a very popular area of the city for young folks right now (as evidenced by the rent and difficulty in finding apartments) but good God! Doesn't anyone in this neighborhood work? Ever? During the day? I mean, I felt like I was walking around mid-day on a Saturday. Shorts. T-shirts. Flip flops. Dogs. It was very striking. What does everyone in my neighborhood DO? Could it be that we can all afford the rent because we're all students living on borrowed money? Noooo. I simply don't believe it.
Another observation I've had over the past few months has to do with this city and men. I don't normally discuss men on this, so turn back now should you not want to read my (possibly belligerent) rant...
So I have this group of fabulous single girlfriends here in D.C. And I mean we're really fantastic. Some of us are in law school having had amazing careers and continuing to have amazing careers. Some of us continue to work on the Hill, have played concert piano in one of the most prestigious venues in the United States before reaching puberty, have multiple advanced degrees and hold high level positions for current presidential candidates. We have lived overseas, volunteered in our communities and are all around fantastic individuals. And the group, by and large, is composed of very attractive women. But in this fair city, it proves impossible time and again for us to find lasting or sustainable relationships. It is mind boggling and has become a fairly constant topic of discussion within the group. Often over wine. Lots of wine.
Don't get me wrong--we also see, what CB and I lovingly refer to as the "epidemic", many of our friends settling into lasting relationships ending in marriage. And that's great. But we all wonder whether this phenomenon for us is a curse of the city in which we dwell or something more. There's a great scene in Sex and the City (I know, I kill myself referencing this show as well--how 2002) where one of the characters makes a revelation based on a famous scene from 'The Way We Were"--there are two types of women in the world--there are the boring girls, who, of course, Hubell ends up with, and there are the Katie girls--the ones who are a little bit larger than life, an little harder to tame. On more than one occasion while sipping mimosas on sidewalk cafes here in D.C. on lazy Sunday mornings, we have wondered if this stereotype is indeed true. Are we the Katie girls that are destined to be passed over for the easier and more controlled women? And if we are, should we change?
I believe the answer to the last question is a resounding Hell No! One of the things I adore and admire about my girlfriends is our drive and passion. Our strength of character and depth of emotion that makes it possible to constantly live a life filled with unrestrained laughter and a sense of independence that, well, some women lack. The same self assuredness that allows us to raise our hands, challenge a professor who has a lifetime of legal prestige behind him/her gives us the ability to walk into a crowded room alone and appear completely at ease, or stand up for ourselves eloquently in a professional environment. We don't hide our independence. It's something we celebrate as friends.
I would never change a thing about my girlfriends. Their strength, neuroses, brilliance and power is what draws me to them. I just wonder if it is the same thing that drives potential mates away. I love the sappy moments in television shows where the characters ponder the idea of soulmates. Eh, who knows. The other great thing about my gals that I have failed to mention until now--we're all happy. REALLY happy. With who we are and what we have, regardless of relationship status. But now YOU know that some stereotypes of female brunch conversation actually takes place. For whatever that's worth.
Rant over. Carry on..
Friday, September 28, 2007
Monday, September 24, 2007
The Eagle Has Landed
My apartment is finally coming together, after a short three weeks since moving in--it's a good feeling and definitely nice to come home to at least one complete room versus just a lot of stuff and not a lot of places to put it all.
It was an interesting weekend, full of lots of humor and revelations about where I currently exist. And it was all positive. I had a startling, yet timely, realization that it was time to let people go who had been nothing but judgmental and unsupportive for too long, and it was also a weekend of realizing the great people who remained to keep me balanced.
One of my favorite people in D.C. (and in my life), CB, woke up early with me on Saturday morning to head out to Ikea as it opened to try to find this elusive dresser that has kept my bedroom in a seriously un-zen state for 22 days. We hauled ourselves up there, coffee in hand, and made our way through the maze that is Ikea, College Park. They force you to walk through the ENTIRE store causing people to believe they need far more than they actually do. I was a victim of it, as was C, but it was wholly successful and the afternoon was full of promise as we pulled back into the District.
An interesting thing has happened in the last few weeks. Everyone I know seems to be doing some sort of home improvement/restoration. It's fun to have a posse of people who are all thinking about the same kinds of things--color schemes, furniture placement, curtains and bedding. CB was no exception. Having bought a new fabulous bed and all the fixings that go with that, she, too, was in the market for some accents and new goodies. Most notably a rug. Now, here's the first downfall of shopping with good friends--we persuade each other that what sits before us is really what you absolutely need right now no matter the price!!!!! Thus CB walked out of the rug department with a beautiful Gebbe rug far more expensive than the ones she envisioned purchasing before we arrived. (But it looks great, girlfriend!).
Strolling through the aisles and maze of "rooms" Ikea sets up inspired both of us, but after I located the dresser I wanted, we headed down stairs to the abyss of $hit you have to walk through to first get to the aisles where the boxes of furniture sit, and eventually to the checkout. I call this area the abyss of $hit because it includes everything you never EVER knew you needed, but HAVE to have. Case in point: The Jello Shot Trays.
Let me paint the picture: CB and I, weary after making it this far through the store, walk through the kitchen area of the abyss, stunned by all the shiny things they have. OOOHH a Wok! (I hate stir fry, and I was tempted to buy it). OOOHHH new plates! (I just bought a brand new set before moving in here). OOOHHH a weird grilling thing that has a bendy handle that moves and causes me to think I broke the damn thing just by picking it up (I don't even know on which kitchen surface I would use this). So you get the point. Just when we think we're in the clear, the two of us strolled past a bin filled with rubber trays with cut outs--stars, puzzle pieces, hearts, (beer) bottles. A large sign was advertising "Ice cube trays, $1.99!!!!". The two of us stopped dead in our tracks. If one of us had had a Sharpie I think we would have taken the sign, crossed out "Ice Cube Trays" and penciled in "Jello Shot Trays" since that's what we both exclaimed at precisely the same time we saw them. Clearly, we were purchasing a few of these and of course, we would throw a dresser warming party that night and try them out.
An hour later we were in the car back to the city, a Saturday morning well spent.
One of the things I hate about Ikea is the self assembly required for all their furniture. CB had assured me she "loved" putting Ikea furniture together and was a "pro" at it, so I happily dragged her back to my apartment and put her to work on the dresser, while she sent me away to get lunch. Now let's be clear: this was not one of the three drawer Ikea specials you see in most college dorm rooms: it's a large (and pretty) 8 chest bureau. I don't know if CB really took that into consideration as she pronounces her love of furniture assembly. As she steadily worked on the dresser, employing me as needed, I put together some bathroom fixtures and ran out to get the necessary ingredients of Jello shots (Vodka. Seriously. It's the only necessary ingredient. Oh, and Jello is helpful) and sent out the email to the gals about the impromptu party being held that evening.
3.5 hours later the dresser was put together, the Jello shots were firming in the refrigerator and CB and I were lounging in the living room having a celebratory vodka soda. It dawned on us, somewhere between the first and third ounce of vodka, that this is one of those boy afternoons where you kind of don't realize what missing until you need someone power tool inclined and wicked strong. But we also realized that girlfriends can make a pretty good team and stand in for the boy (we exclaimed as we gave each other high fives!) and we settled back in to our drinks comforted knowing that we could be each other's boyfriends as the opportunity presented itself.
The gathering, impromptu and small, was a great event. IG, our local male captain of the Pink Team graced us with his presence, was charming and complimentary as an captain should be, and fed us all jello shots out of a spoon. (Note to those rushing out the door to hit Ikea and get the Jello Shot Molds after reading this post: The actual formed alcohol infused jello is quite tricky to get out of the mold. Proceed with caution). It was just the end as great a day as anyone could have asked for, and I got to show off my new bedroom and fabulous dresser in the "preview" to my housewarming party (which might take place in December, based on the rate things are coming together!).
I love the times when the negative is canceled and buried by the positive and you're left with only the good and a bit of a lighter step. Cheers to that!
It was an interesting weekend, full of lots of humor and revelations about where I currently exist. And it was all positive. I had a startling, yet timely, realization that it was time to let people go who had been nothing but judgmental and unsupportive for too long, and it was also a weekend of realizing the great people who remained to keep me balanced.
One of my favorite people in D.C. (and in my life), CB, woke up early with me on Saturday morning to head out to Ikea as it opened to try to find this elusive dresser that has kept my bedroom in a seriously un-zen state for 22 days. We hauled ourselves up there, coffee in hand, and made our way through the maze that is Ikea, College Park. They force you to walk through the ENTIRE store causing people to believe they need far more than they actually do. I was a victim of it, as was C, but it was wholly successful and the afternoon was full of promise as we pulled back into the District.
An interesting thing has happened in the last few weeks. Everyone I know seems to be doing some sort of home improvement/restoration. It's fun to have a posse of people who are all thinking about the same kinds of things--color schemes, furniture placement, curtains and bedding. CB was no exception. Having bought a new fabulous bed and all the fixings that go with that, she, too, was in the market for some accents and new goodies. Most notably a rug. Now, here's the first downfall of shopping with good friends--we persuade each other that what sits before us is really what you absolutely need right now no matter the price!!!!! Thus CB walked out of the rug department with a beautiful Gebbe rug far more expensive than the ones she envisioned purchasing before we arrived. (But it looks great, girlfriend!).
Strolling through the aisles and maze of "rooms" Ikea sets up inspired both of us, but after I located the dresser I wanted, we headed down stairs to the abyss of $hit you have to walk through to first get to the aisles where the boxes of furniture sit, and eventually to the checkout. I call this area the abyss of $hit because it includes everything you never EVER knew you needed, but HAVE to have. Case in point: The Jello Shot Trays.
Let me paint the picture: CB and I, weary after making it this far through the store, walk through the kitchen area of the abyss, stunned by all the shiny things they have. OOOHH a Wok! (I hate stir fry, and I was tempted to buy it). OOOHHH new plates! (I just bought a brand new set before moving in here). OOOHHH a weird grilling thing that has a bendy handle that moves and causes me to think I broke the damn thing just by picking it up (I don't even know on which kitchen surface I would use this). So you get the point. Just when we think we're in the clear, the two of us strolled past a bin filled with rubber trays with cut outs--stars, puzzle pieces, hearts, (beer) bottles. A large sign was advertising "Ice cube trays, $1.99!!!!". The two of us stopped dead in our tracks. If one of us had had a Sharpie I think we would have taken the sign, crossed out "Ice Cube Trays" and penciled in "Jello Shot Trays" since that's what we both exclaimed at precisely the same time we saw them. Clearly, we were purchasing a few of these and of course, we would throw a dresser warming party that night and try them out.
An hour later we were in the car back to the city, a Saturday morning well spent.
One of the things I hate about Ikea is the self assembly required for all their furniture. CB had assured me she "loved" putting Ikea furniture together and was a "pro" at it, so I happily dragged her back to my apartment and put her to work on the dresser, while she sent me away to get lunch. Now let's be clear: this was not one of the three drawer Ikea specials you see in most college dorm rooms: it's a large (and pretty) 8 chest bureau. I don't know if CB really took that into consideration as she pronounces her love of furniture assembly. As she steadily worked on the dresser, employing me as needed, I put together some bathroom fixtures and ran out to get the necessary ingredients of Jello shots (Vodka. Seriously. It's the only necessary ingredient. Oh, and Jello is helpful) and sent out the email to the gals about the impromptu party being held that evening.
3.5 hours later the dresser was put together, the Jello shots were firming in the refrigerator and CB and I were lounging in the living room having a celebratory vodka soda. It dawned on us, somewhere between the first and third ounce of vodka, that this is one of those boy afternoons where you kind of don't realize what missing until you need someone power tool inclined and wicked strong. But we also realized that girlfriends can make a pretty good team and stand in for the boy (we exclaimed as we gave each other high fives!) and we settled back in to our drinks comforted knowing that we could be each other's boyfriends as the opportunity presented itself.
The gathering, impromptu and small, was a great event. IG, our local male captain of the Pink Team graced us with his presence, was charming and complimentary as an captain should be, and fed us all jello shots out of a spoon. (Note to those rushing out the door to hit Ikea and get the Jello Shot Molds after reading this post: The actual formed alcohol infused jello is quite tricky to get out of the mold. Proceed with caution). It was just the end as great a day as anyone could have asked for, and I got to show off my new bedroom and fabulous dresser in the "preview" to my housewarming party (which might take place in December, based on the rate things are coming together!).
I love the times when the negative is canceled and buried by the positive and you're left with only the good and a bit of a lighter step. Cheers to that!
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Experiments
The past few weeks have been an adjustment living alone. I love it, I love having my own space (even without a dresser and the apartment still largely packed) and the knowledge that the entire area is mine. But I'm social and I'm used to being around people a lot of the time, so sometimes it gets lonely. I don't have a TV right now, so when I'm looking to relax, unwind, have some mindless distraction, I have been reliant on my little Mac and the world wide web. I have cruised through most online shows offered for free on ABC, NBC, CBS, FOX, FX, CW, and MTV. I have even downloaded (for $1.99) and episode of Top Chef since Bravo doesn't give shows away for free. I have sampled most of iTunes's free TV shows (and have gotten hooked on a few: Gossip Girl, to name one) and have been loving my Netflix subscription.
My current obsession (since there were only three seasons of Arrested Development. Robbery!) is The Sopranos. Yes, I am one of the few 20-30 somethings in the free world who has not ever seen this show. But people talked enough about it for the last 6 years I decided I, too, would see what all the fuss was about.
I love it. I'm totally into the whole "sensitive conflicted mobster who goes to therapy and then blows people's faces in" thing. Love it. I mean, I have thought for a long time that everyone could use an hour a week of talking to an unbiased listener about everything happening with them. I can't wait to start working at the Firm so I can get quality medical insurance that will let me have a therapist of my own! But I digress. There is only so many Sopranos episodes one can watch consecutively. I just finished the first season this weekend and realized I had an unrelenting craving for Italian food.
Every episode revolves around food and therapy. And the food always looks GOOD. So today, after a little law school reading I decided to enjoy the gorgeous weekend weather and take a stroll to the grocery store. Along the way I passed Blockbuster...ooh the temptation of another disk of the Sopranos. It was too much. I couldn't resist. And then I thought OOHH Meatballs! So my plan for Sunday evening materialized.
Moving into my new place did inspire me to actually use my kitchen. After all, it would be largely wasted space if I just let it sit there for show, right? But I've never been a good cook. Or a cook at all. So anytime I take on a cooking endeavor it's never clear what direction it's going to go. I'm not good at "following directions" or "using cookbooks" or "knowing what kitchen terminology means". So when I went home and found a recipe online for what one online guru deemed "the best meatballs EVER" I scanned the recipe and hit the streets again.
It seemed easy enough. Meat, eggs, breadcrumbs, cheese. This recipe used a combination of veal, beef and pork. A fancy endeavor indeed. I imagined, as I walked to Whole Paycheck, my upcoming meatball glory. Making them and having the other apartment dwellers in my building knocking down my door by the end because the aroma was just so overwelmingly intoxicating. I was inspiring myself!
And then I got to the store. Note to D.C. dwellers: Do not attempt Whole Foods on a Sunday at 4:45pm. It's hell. My plan, to save money, was to get the meat at the expensive store and then stop at our Soviet Safeway on the way back up for the basics--eggs, breadcrumbs etc. I got to the first place and almost threw in the towel altogether. It was a zoo. I dodged couples and baby strollers for 10 minutes and decided that braving two city grocery stores in one weekend day would be too much--I would suck it up and buy everything I needed at the expensive place. 3 kinds of meat (all free range), one pound each. Check. Cage free eggs. Check. Parmesean cheese. Check. Now where the hell are the breadcrumbs? I thought FOR SURE Whole Foods would have 17 different kinds to choose from. Up and down aisle after all aisle. Not a bread crumb to be found. And this is from a store that stocks 27 different kinds of wheat flour.
Tap Tap Tap. Excuse me, sir. Hi. Can you tell me where a breadcrumb might be? What? You're kidding. Are you telling me there is not ONE breadcrumb in the entire store? Huh? Oh, what's this. Hmm. Wait, this looks like some sort of Japanese thing. Are you SURE this is a breadcrumb? I'm making meatballs and I really don't want them to suck. No, I see that it says "Italian flavored" right on there, but it just doesn't seem too breadcrumby. Ok, I'll try it. Thanks!
Seriously. That was an interaction with a kind Whole Foods employee. Suddenly my illusions of meatball greatness started to fade. After 20 minutes in the "express" line and 60 dollars later I headed home to try my hand at the meatball. I mean, at this point there was no turning back. I had 3+ pounds of meat that I had no other plans for. I turned my computer back on and brought the recipe back up. Reading it more carefully this time, I noticed something interesting: In the ingredients section it said "One pound combined ground pork, beef and veal. Not one pound each. Damnit. What the hell am I going to do with all this meat! Well, how many meatballs can one pound of meat REALLY make? Hmm. 20-25. Wow. I'm going to have *a lot* of meatballs by the end of the night.
Knowing that I couldn't possibly make 75 freaking meatballs, I decided to make some tonight and save part of the meat (without having ANY clue what to do with the rest of it. Suggestions??). So I kind of added about 2/3 of the meat to a bowl and decided I would "eyeball" the rest of the ingredients until they seemed right. You know, from all my meatball making experience from the past.
I added an egg to the recipe. Decided to just dump some of the suspect breadcrumbs until it seemed right. Used the entire thing of cheese I bought. 4 cloves of garlic rather than one. I did follow the directions to mix it all with my hands (icky poo) and thought the mixture seemed a little dry. Hmm. I really didn't want to add another egg because of the ick factor of mushing it around in the meat mixture (for all those vegetarians, hang in there, it gets better) and had a stroke of genius (I thought) while gazing around my kitchen for other options. Wine! I mean, when doesn't booze make something better? I dumped a little Fat Bastard Shiraz into the pot and gleefully mushed it in, enjoying the purple tinge the mixture took on.
The recipe called for putting the meatballs on the rack over a cookie sheet, but who the hell has this kind of rack contraption in their kitchen? Seriously. So I threw those suckers (far larger than called for, but I didn't want to be making meatballs ALL night) right on the cookie sheet and threw them in the oven. I had no idea how long they would actually need to cook, so I used my killer cooking instinct as well and gave them 5 extra minutes after I was sure they had to be done.
The result? PERFECTION. I'm not kidding. I could open a meatball store and have customers lined up down the street. I was so thrilled with the result I wanted to call everyone I know. I mean, I feel a sense of redemption from cooking gone wrong so many times in my life, like the now infamous pumpkin pie incident of 2001 (so fine, I tripled the recipe accidentally and made enough pie filling for 9 pies instead of three. Who doesn't love pumpkin pie at Thanksgiving?) I'm hoping my meatballs will redeem me this Thanksgiving and get me off of napkin and tablecloth ironing duty. And silver polishing duty. And "anything we can do to keep DLS out of the kitchen" duty. My prize winning meatballs deserve better than that....
My current obsession (since there were only three seasons of Arrested Development. Robbery!) is The Sopranos. Yes, I am one of the few 20-30 somethings in the free world who has not ever seen this show. But people talked enough about it for the last 6 years I decided I, too, would see what all the fuss was about.
I love it. I'm totally into the whole "sensitive conflicted mobster who goes to therapy and then blows people's faces in" thing. Love it. I mean, I have thought for a long time that everyone could use an hour a week of talking to an unbiased listener about everything happening with them. I can't wait to start working at the Firm so I can get quality medical insurance that will let me have a therapist of my own! But I digress. There is only so many Sopranos episodes one can watch consecutively. I just finished the first season this weekend and realized I had an unrelenting craving for Italian food.
Every episode revolves around food and therapy. And the food always looks GOOD. So today, after a little law school reading I decided to enjoy the gorgeous weekend weather and take a stroll to the grocery store. Along the way I passed Blockbuster...ooh the temptation of another disk of the Sopranos. It was too much. I couldn't resist. And then I thought OOHH Meatballs! So my plan for Sunday evening materialized.
Moving into my new place did inspire me to actually use my kitchen. After all, it would be largely wasted space if I just let it sit there for show, right? But I've never been a good cook. Or a cook at all. So anytime I take on a cooking endeavor it's never clear what direction it's going to go. I'm not good at "following directions" or "using cookbooks" or "knowing what kitchen terminology means". So when I went home and found a recipe online for what one online guru deemed "the best meatballs EVER" I scanned the recipe and hit the streets again.
It seemed easy enough. Meat, eggs, breadcrumbs, cheese. This recipe used a combination of veal, beef and pork. A fancy endeavor indeed. I imagined, as I walked to Whole Paycheck, my upcoming meatball glory. Making them and having the other apartment dwellers in my building knocking down my door by the end because the aroma was just so overwelmingly intoxicating. I was inspiring myself!
And then I got to the store. Note to D.C. dwellers: Do not attempt Whole Foods on a Sunday at 4:45pm. It's hell. My plan, to save money, was to get the meat at the expensive store and then stop at our Soviet Safeway on the way back up for the basics--eggs, breadcrumbs etc. I got to the first place and almost threw in the towel altogether. It was a zoo. I dodged couples and baby strollers for 10 minutes and decided that braving two city grocery stores in one weekend day would be too much--I would suck it up and buy everything I needed at the expensive place. 3 kinds of meat (all free range), one pound each. Check. Cage free eggs. Check. Parmesean cheese. Check. Now where the hell are the breadcrumbs? I thought FOR SURE Whole Foods would have 17 different kinds to choose from. Up and down aisle after all aisle. Not a bread crumb to be found. And this is from a store that stocks 27 different kinds of wheat flour.
Tap Tap Tap. Excuse me, sir. Hi. Can you tell me where a breadcrumb might be? What? You're kidding. Are you telling me there is not ONE breadcrumb in the entire store? Huh? Oh, what's this. Hmm. Wait, this looks like some sort of Japanese thing. Are you SURE this is a breadcrumb? I'm making meatballs and I really don't want them to suck. No, I see that it says "Italian flavored" right on there, but it just doesn't seem too breadcrumby. Ok, I'll try it. Thanks!
Seriously. That was an interaction with a kind Whole Foods employee. Suddenly my illusions of meatball greatness started to fade. After 20 minutes in the "express" line and 60 dollars later I headed home to try my hand at the meatball. I mean, at this point there was no turning back. I had 3+ pounds of meat that I had no other plans for. I turned my computer back on and brought the recipe back up. Reading it more carefully this time, I noticed something interesting: In the ingredients section it said "One pound combined ground pork, beef and veal. Not one pound each. Damnit. What the hell am I going to do with all this meat! Well, how many meatballs can one pound of meat REALLY make? Hmm. 20-25. Wow. I'm going to have *a lot* of meatballs by the end of the night.
Knowing that I couldn't possibly make 75 freaking meatballs, I decided to make some tonight and save part of the meat (without having ANY clue what to do with the rest of it. Suggestions??). So I kind of added about 2/3 of the meat to a bowl and decided I would "eyeball" the rest of the ingredients until they seemed right. You know, from all my meatball making experience from the past.
I added an egg to the recipe. Decided to just dump some of the suspect breadcrumbs until it seemed right. Used the entire thing of cheese I bought. 4 cloves of garlic rather than one. I did follow the directions to mix it all with my hands (icky poo) and thought the mixture seemed a little dry. Hmm. I really didn't want to add another egg because of the ick factor of mushing it around in the meat mixture (for all those vegetarians, hang in there, it gets better) and had a stroke of genius (I thought) while gazing around my kitchen for other options. Wine! I mean, when doesn't booze make something better? I dumped a little Fat Bastard Shiraz into the pot and gleefully mushed it in, enjoying the purple tinge the mixture took on.
The recipe called for putting the meatballs on the rack over a cookie sheet, but who the hell has this kind of rack contraption in their kitchen? Seriously. So I threw those suckers (far larger than called for, but I didn't want to be making meatballs ALL night) right on the cookie sheet and threw them in the oven. I had no idea how long they would actually need to cook, so I used my killer cooking instinct as well and gave them 5 extra minutes after I was sure they had to be done.
The result? PERFECTION. I'm not kidding. I could open a meatball store and have customers lined up down the street. I was so thrilled with the result I wanted to call everyone I know. I mean, I feel a sense of redemption from cooking gone wrong so many times in my life, like the now infamous pumpkin pie incident of 2001 (so fine, I tripled the recipe accidentally and made enough pie filling for 9 pies instead of three. Who doesn't love pumpkin pie at Thanksgiving?) I'm hoping my meatballs will redeem me this Thanksgiving and get me off of napkin and tablecloth ironing duty. And silver polishing duty. And "anything we can do to keep DLS out of the kitchen" duty. My prize winning meatballs deserve better than that....
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Reflections
I often forget that I have been out of college for almost 7 years and that my age is more than just a number, but a reflection of time that has passed and events that have occurred. I was thinking about that this past week, with the passing of the sixth anniversary of the World Trade Center attacks. I was startled at the realization that it had been six years since that day--one that is surely indelible in most adult American minds. It was jarring not only because the day passed with barely a mention of the attack, but because it caused me to have this jolt of thinking about the highlights of the last six years.
And it made me remember, as the day normally does, where I was and what I was doing. We all have the epic moments--where were you when Kennedy was assassinated (no, I was not alive), or when the Challenger exploded or the Berlin wall came down. The Bush v. Gore decision. September 11. Some events resonate more clearly in our minds than others, some more permanent and alive, like a photograph gazed at for so long that you memorize not only the features of it, but the feeling encapsulated in that day--that moment.
The Senate was a heady place for a 22 year old, my dad used to say. And he was right. And the funny thing is, it remained this elevated, kind of sexy place before, during and after the attacks. We were at the center. We were the speculated 4th destination. We worked for the Boss who ran back into Russell "because he had staff in there!" We were stoic, in some senses, in our place on the hill. We were united, not only in the cause and the legislative tasks at hand, but in some sort of unspoken fear. I remember the days and weeks after the attacks as clearly as the day of. I remember after the attacks, after the anthrax letters, the phone call. At work. From my father. "DLS. Your mother would like you to come home now".
I left DC the weekend after the attacks. I went to Charlottesville on a Greyhound to feel something familiar and more removed. I got on the bus at Union Station and wanted to sink into my chair as we pulled out, onto 395. I was seated next to an older black woman who seemed friendly enough. I have never been one to be overly friendly to strangers. I would have sat the entire 2 hours reading my book and exchanging the most occasional pleasantries when necessary with her. But it's D.C., and everyone is curious about what everyone else does. She started a conversation and was asking me where I was going. I had graduated from UVA in May, I said. Going down to see some friends for the weekend. No, it wasn't really planned before this week, but I wanted a little break. Oh, what do I do? I work for the Chairman of the Senate Judiciary Committee.
Pause.
We looked over to see the Pentagon, still smoking, with the rest of the bus crowding to their windows, taking pictures. I wanted to throw up. She took my hand and looked at me and said: "Child, you are doing something wonderful. The eyes of the nation are on you and your bosses and the rest of the angels who are keeping this government working in the aftermath of all that has happened. You are a leader and you are doing a remarkable thing."
I wanted to cry. I certainly did not think anything that I was doing was remarkable. Certainly not merely showing up to work in the morning. The following weeks, particularly post anthrax letter (I answered mail, for God's sake! it was unnerving), I would get on the metro at Dupont Circle and arrive at Union Station and more times than once, would consider staying on and not getting off. I mean, it would have been easy enough. But I never did. We just kept doing our jobs, one day at a time, with more security posted and less of a sense of being secure.
And six years later we look back to see the other tragedies that have amassed in that time. Katrina. The Tsunami. Virginia Tech. Myriad volcanoes and earth quakes. War. Life and death. I don't think that every year there needs to be a great pause every time we hit an anniversary of ones of these occurrences. Some events mean more to people in the fabric of their lives than do others. This one struck me this year because I remember the reflections I had on the first anniversary, when I was in Mali, not even a month into my 27 month odyssey. That morning, like the day itself is clear: Standing in open aired mud latrine with a bucket of warm water to take a bath, watching the night sky fade, listening to prayer call being chanted from the Muslim mosque down the path from my host family's house. Thinking of how far I had come and how peaceful this new place was. And about how much that day a year before had affected me.
I guess it's the same as the feelings I had at the end of last summer. It's always good to have things that keep you grounded with a strong sense of perspective. This reflection is one of those for me.
And it made me remember, as the day normally does, where I was and what I was doing. We all have the epic moments--where were you when Kennedy was assassinated (no, I was not alive), or when the Challenger exploded or the Berlin wall came down. The Bush v. Gore decision. September 11. Some events resonate more clearly in our minds than others, some more permanent and alive, like a photograph gazed at for so long that you memorize not only the features of it, but the feeling encapsulated in that day--that moment.
The Senate was a heady place for a 22 year old, my dad used to say. And he was right. And the funny thing is, it remained this elevated, kind of sexy place before, during and after the attacks. We were at the center. We were the speculated 4th destination. We worked for the Boss who ran back into Russell "because he had staff in there!" We were stoic, in some senses, in our place on the hill. We were united, not only in the cause and the legislative tasks at hand, but in some sort of unspoken fear. I remember the days and weeks after the attacks as clearly as the day of. I remember after the attacks, after the anthrax letters, the phone call. At work. From my father. "DLS. Your mother would like you to come home now".
I left DC the weekend after the attacks. I went to Charlottesville on a Greyhound to feel something familiar and more removed. I got on the bus at Union Station and wanted to sink into my chair as we pulled out, onto 395. I was seated next to an older black woman who seemed friendly enough. I have never been one to be overly friendly to strangers. I would have sat the entire 2 hours reading my book and exchanging the most occasional pleasantries when necessary with her. But it's D.C., and everyone is curious about what everyone else does. She started a conversation and was asking me where I was going. I had graduated from UVA in May, I said. Going down to see some friends for the weekend. No, it wasn't really planned before this week, but I wanted a little break. Oh, what do I do? I work for the Chairman of the Senate Judiciary Committee.
Pause.
We looked over to see the Pentagon, still smoking, with the rest of the bus crowding to their windows, taking pictures. I wanted to throw up. She took my hand and looked at me and said: "Child, you are doing something wonderful. The eyes of the nation are on you and your bosses and the rest of the angels who are keeping this government working in the aftermath of all that has happened. You are a leader and you are doing a remarkable thing."
I wanted to cry. I certainly did not think anything that I was doing was remarkable. Certainly not merely showing up to work in the morning. The following weeks, particularly post anthrax letter (I answered mail, for God's sake! it was unnerving), I would get on the metro at Dupont Circle and arrive at Union Station and more times than once, would consider staying on and not getting off. I mean, it would have been easy enough. But I never did. We just kept doing our jobs, one day at a time, with more security posted and less of a sense of being secure.
And six years later we look back to see the other tragedies that have amassed in that time. Katrina. The Tsunami. Virginia Tech. Myriad volcanoes and earth quakes. War. Life and death. I don't think that every year there needs to be a great pause every time we hit an anniversary of ones of these occurrences. Some events mean more to people in the fabric of their lives than do others. This one struck me this year because I remember the reflections I had on the first anniversary, when I was in Mali, not even a month into my 27 month odyssey. That morning, like the day itself is clear: Standing in open aired mud latrine with a bucket of warm water to take a bath, watching the night sky fade, listening to prayer call being chanted from the Muslim mosque down the path from my host family's house. Thinking of how far I had come and how peaceful this new place was. And about how much that day a year before had affected me.
I guess it's the same as the feelings I had at the end of last summer. It's always good to have things that keep you grounded with a strong sense of perspective. This reflection is one of those for me.
Sunday, September 09, 2007
Jumping Back In
I realized a few days ago that I had become a little out of touch on here--I did not realize how long it had been since I posted anything! I've started a couple of posts over the past month, but they didn't ever feel quite right for some reason. So I'm trying afresh.
The month of August lived up to everything I had hoped--it was a solid incredible month--getting an offer, finishing work, attending my good friend's wedding, roadtripping to Vermont and spending one of the best weekends I could imagine on the Lake, heading home to my family, going to Maine, and moving into my own place. It amazes me how quickly it all went--but it was perfect. I spent a lot of hours up north considering what my next professional move would be. DC? Chicago? The Firm? It was unsettling a lot of the time, but it was a necessary process for me to go through in my own mind and with those closest to me in order to be sure I would make the right decision. Maine was a large time of inner debate--the Firm, the past 365 days, the decisions made and that would be ahead. I read books and chatted with my parents. I thought a lot of about the former Boy who had occupied my room in the cottage the previous summer with me and the space that has kind of been left behind since the end of the relationship. It was good to have some quiet and to be able to sit on my private porch and watch the ocean and breathe clean air. I felt like myself. I began to feel balanced again--a feeling that was so welcome after a summer that largely left me teetering around trying to remain somewhat close to my zen spot.
So here I am. I'm on my old couch in my new apartment. For a week I have padded around boxes and bags that remain packed until I buy a dresser and tables. But I don't mind, because it's my own place and my own space. I wander around in my undies, and sit in my living room without a tv and listen to the hum of the refrigerator, largely because I CAN. I walk to Whole Foods and Safeway and local coffee shops and pubs. There have been times where I've felt like I was in an entirely new city, even though I have lived here for years.
I've started my final year of law school. The beginning of the lasts. The last first day back, the last painfully high loan application for school (hooray!). It feels good to be back on campus with friends and academic stimulation. It's jarring to realize how quickly the time has passed, but it seems to be that way with everything as of late.
I looked out my window the other day and realized the days have gotten a lot shorter than the last time I had noticed. I always have a slightly nostalgic feeling as one season fades and another emerges. It's like the lyrics from that great song by Dar: "Summer ends and we wonder where we are, and there you go my friends with your boxes in your car". The feeling of change, movement, re-evaluation. It's never a bad thing, but it does sometimes cause one to pause.
So things in the nation's capital are good right now, and life remains pleasant.
The month of August lived up to everything I had hoped--it was a solid incredible month--getting an offer, finishing work, attending my good friend's wedding, roadtripping to Vermont and spending one of the best weekends I could imagine on the Lake, heading home to my family, going to Maine, and moving into my own place. It amazes me how quickly it all went--but it was perfect. I spent a lot of hours up north considering what my next professional move would be. DC? Chicago? The Firm? It was unsettling a lot of the time, but it was a necessary process for me to go through in my own mind and with those closest to me in order to be sure I would make the right decision. Maine was a large time of inner debate--the Firm, the past 365 days, the decisions made and that would be ahead. I read books and chatted with my parents. I thought a lot of about the former Boy who had occupied my room in the cottage the previous summer with me and the space that has kind of been left behind since the end of the relationship. It was good to have some quiet and to be able to sit on my private porch and watch the ocean and breathe clean air. I felt like myself. I began to feel balanced again--a feeling that was so welcome after a summer that largely left me teetering around trying to remain somewhat close to my zen spot.
So here I am. I'm on my old couch in my new apartment. For a week I have padded around boxes and bags that remain packed until I buy a dresser and tables. But I don't mind, because it's my own place and my own space. I wander around in my undies, and sit in my living room without a tv and listen to the hum of the refrigerator, largely because I CAN. I walk to Whole Foods and Safeway and local coffee shops and pubs. There have been times where I've felt like I was in an entirely new city, even though I have lived here for years.
I've started my final year of law school. The beginning of the lasts. The last first day back, the last painfully high loan application for school (hooray!). It feels good to be back on campus with friends and academic stimulation. It's jarring to realize how quickly the time has passed, but it seems to be that way with everything as of late.
I looked out my window the other day and realized the days have gotten a lot shorter than the last time I had noticed. I always have a slightly nostalgic feeling as one season fades and another emerges. It's like the lyrics from that great song by Dar: "Summer ends and we wonder where we are, and there you go my friends with your boxes in your car". The feeling of change, movement, re-evaluation. It's never a bad thing, but it does sometimes cause one to pause.
So things in the nation's capital are good right now, and life remains pleasant.
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