Unputdownable.

A few months ago, H. and I grabbed lunch at Tommy's in Cleveland. In case you were wondering, I do remember exactly what we got. H had a burger and I had a baba ganoush/falafel pita. FOOD BLOG! But that's not the point...the point is, Tommy's is attached to a little book store, where I found this book:

I picked it up because of the cover, then found out it was a children's book, then convinced H to buy it for me anyway. I just read it this week and I can't recommend it highly enough! It is meant for kids, so if you have a problem with that...then I don't know, you shouldn't be reading this blog. It was completely engaging from beginning to end, and I can't remember the last time I've been so involved in a book. It's surprisingly dark and even a little scary (but I'm very easily frightened). I'm reading the second one now!

Sewing!

The reason for my lack of posting (besides the fact that no one reads this, obvs) is that my life has been taken over by a new obsession: sewing. Basically, much like J.C. Chasez, my life's motto is now ADIDAS, except for me the 'S' stands for sewing (I find that when writing a new blog post after a long while, it's always a good idea to make a reference to a solo album by a former member of N'Sync. It really draws people in!). I really don't want to do anything else but sew lately. Maybe some crocheting, but that's about it.
I've tried many, many other times to learn to sew, but it's never "clicked" for me. For some reason, this time I was serious about it and I've been learning the basics in a slow, methodical way. I started with an apron about a month ago:

Seemingly easy; just a rectangle, right? Well, no! For me, the biggest hurdle (and the reason I could never get into sewing before) was just learning about the machine. Sewing machines can be daunting; they're expensive, heavy, and confusing. It took me an embarrassingly long time just to learn how to wind the bobbin. Even after you learn how to set the machine up, there's the matter of decoding commercial sewing patterns. You'd think they'd be simple, but if you have no idea where to begin, it's like they're written in a different language. I would've given up if I hadn't had my mom around to explain what "baste," "gather," and "blind stitch" meant.
Before I sat down at the machine this go-round, I told myself that this was it. Now or never. I was going to conquer this thing, no ifs, ands, or pouting. My mom walked me through the machine's basic functions and then scurried off to garden or bake a commissioned cake or something. I painstakingly stiched white bias tape onto a pocket. The fabric kept slipping and it was so difficult, but I told myself I couldn't give up. I had to keep doing this even if it killed me, and I was starting to think that it might.
After a tedious hour and a half, my mom came inside and told me I didn't have the presser foot down, which was why my fabric wouldn't stay put. I didn't even know what a presser foot was. Needless to say, I've come a long way in a month.
What I love most about sewing is the deep feeling of connection it gives me not just to the women in my family, but to women throughout history. One of my biggest annoyances in life is people who persist on labeling sewing, knitting, crocheting, or any type of needlework as "anti-feminist" or in some way a step backwards. Debbie Stoller (editor of Bust) effectively counters this in the introduction to her excellent knitting book Stitch 'n Bitch. She explains that domestic arts like embroidery were often the only way stifled women had of expressing themselves; playing with color and pattern were outlets for creativity, not always a necessary chore. In addition to this, she points out that knitting is often looked down upon precisely because it's primarily a hobby for females. Traditional "men's" hobbies (like, for example, fishing) don't have the same stigma. The fact is, many women enjoy these hobbies. We don't need to look at them as trivial ways to pass the time or as a way we allow ourselves to be subjugated. I'm certainly feeling much more powerful just knowing that I'll be able to make several new pieces of clothing.
Here are some of the other things I've made. Definitely nothing spectacular yet, but I'm trying to progress at a natural pace and not attempt anything too difficult before I'm ready. I know how stubborn and easily frustrated I am, and I don't want to burn out.
I made curtains to replace the ugly, dark green lace valances that came with the apartment. I just wish I'd done this sooner.

Also I made this turtle out of a pattern my mom had from the 1970s. I appreciate the attention to anatomical detail.

Last week I completed a pair of PJ pants that I haven't photographed yet, and I'm currently working on a skirt and a quilt (actually, I've been working on this quilt since the SECOND GRADE. Um...yeah). On deck are curtains for my bedroom, another pair of PJ pants, drafting a pattern for PJ shorts, and a really lovely blouse.

Ice Cream Update: Jeni's

You can stop worrying now; I made it back to Jeni's! I know you were like, "Is she ever going to try that Salted Caramel??" This time we went to the Dublin branch (I know I could say "location," but "branch" makes it sound like I was there on official business. Which I was. Official Ice Cream Business.) and it was just as charming, possibly more so, than the location of our previous visit. Downtown Dublin will make you overdose on "quaint." Seriously, it was so cute it was almost too much. This time I got a half scoop of Salted Caramel and a half scoop of Bourbon Butter Pecan. The Salted Caramel had a really wonderful, almost burnt taste. I loved it so much. And the Bourbon Butter Pecan actually tasted like alcohol! Also I'm pretty sure our ice cream scooper was this guy:

Pretty sure.
Perhaps most importantly, this happened:

If I had better/any Photoshop skillz, I would make sure La-duh-loo was sitting right where my purse is. You'll be glad to see that H. is still wearing that hat! He's worn it everywhere for the past two weeks. I'm really not kidding; he's actually worn it every single place we've gone.

Pizza Galore

I made a lot of food for H. this weekend because, clearly, I am the best girlfriend ever.
Saturday night I made a pizza. This was my first attempt at pizza dough and I was pretty nervous, probably more nervous than I should have been, seeing as pizza-dough-making is a relatively small stakes game. But I'm almost as afraid of yeast as I am of drifters, and I spend a LOT of time thinking about drifters. I've never been able to make yeast "work," no matter how many "no-fail" recipes I've tried. I ended up using the recipe from How to Cook Everything, also known as one of my favorite cookbooks ever. It turned out pretty well! This was the pizza before it went in the oven.

H's half is covered in pepperoni, olives, and a cheese substitute called Veggie Shreds, which is made mostly of soy and lots of other things. I was a good sport and ate this on my pizza about a week ago, but in general I don't like to eat anything that isn't made of real ingredients. So, basically anything that's called a "food product" instead of, y'know, food. I can definitely see the benefit of this for people like my boyfriend, though! My half is green peppers, olives, and sliced mozzarella. When I pulled this puppy out of the oven, H said, "It looks like a real pizza!" I'm not sure what he thought I'd been working on; fake pizza? I went ahead and took it as the compliment it might've been intended as. We both really enjoyed this, especially the crust! Mark Bittman was right. He always is.
This morning, I got up early to put together breakfast. You should probably just hire me to come to your house and make breakfast while you sleep, because I am an early riser; I usually wake up a good two hours before H. Today I made pancakes that were unintentionally vegan; I mean, neither of us are vegans, but H doesn't stock dairy products and he didn't have any eggs since he's trying to clear out his fridge before his move. I used this recipe for vegan oatmeal pancakes, and honestly, I didn't expect them to be very good. But, surprise, they basically tasted like regular pancakes! To go along with them, I made some "homefries" that weren't actually fried. I used the "crispy potato" technique discussed in one of my favorite podcasts, Spilled Milk. Basically, you boil the potato chunks awhile, rough 'em up a bit, then put them in the oven with lots of oil (or goose/duck fat, if you happen to have any of that lying around, but H doesn't seem to stock that, either).
Ta-da, breakfast!


I also sautéed some kale to go with mine, but H didn't have any. That boy doesn't eat greens with breakfast. Get outta town.

Ice Cream Obsession: Jeni's

This weekend I "helped" H look for apartments. Mostly this involved me complaining about how ritzy everything was. I just don't like things that look too new, shiny, or uniform. I like character, age, a slight shabbiness, perhaps outdated wood paneling...oh, is that last one just my apartment? Well, the point is I'm not a very useful apartment hunter. But that's okay, because the high point of the day was stopping for food in a cute neighborhood.
I'd wanted to try Jeni's Ice Cream forever. I read about it in magazines, gazed longingly at it in the Dean and Deluca catalog my bosses get in the mail, and pressed my hand forlornly against the freezer case at Whole Foods. Somehow driving, like, 50 miles to get some was out of the question? No longer! I finally had Jeni's ice cream and it was delicious.

Jeni's is famous for flavors like Salted Caramel and Bourbon Butter Pecan, but when it's hot, I need fruit. I wanted to get a scoop of something a little strange and a scoop of something normal that I thought H might try. He refuses to tolerate lactose, but I thought a nice Lemon Blueberry might tempt him. For the wildcard, I chose Wildberry Lavender. The description promised a "complex" flavor. I don't know what that means! It was good, though.

I ate it all. H wouldn't even try it.

I've begun a series of photos of H saying no to dairy. Like this one:

I would highly recommend Jeni's. It's on the pricey side, sure (four dollars for two pretty large half scoops), but they have unusual flavors you can't get anywhere else--Sweet Corn & Black Raspberry, Cayenne Pepper, Pistachio and Honey--and, remember, this is a treat! You don't have ice cream everyday, so when you do you might as well go all out. Don't be like the bitchy lady who exited the store with her four year old and sniped, "Nevermind. We're not getting ice cream. They don't have vanilla. What kind of ice cream shop doesn't have vanilla?" Um, the kind that sells specialty flavors? Also, there was a Coldstone down the street, and I know you can get the Papa Winfrey Special there (vanilla with chocolate chips). I can't wait to go back and get something weirder!

Richard Brautigan

I'm not a poetry person. I used to be, when I was in high school, but even then I was only reading the poets that every teenage girl swoons over; e.e. cummings, Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton. There are poets that I like, but in general I am not going to sit down with a book of poetry. I don't enjoy things that have to be read several times in order to be understood, unless they're going to make me feel really sad or really happy. I like poets that evoke maximum emotion in minimum words, like Charles Bukowski. Easy to read, funny, makes me depressed. Check, check, and check! But what if you want a version of Charles Bukowski that doesn't, like, make you feel terrible to be a woman? Enter Richard Brautigan.

Richard Brautigan manages to describe things in ways that don't make any sense at all, yet they make perfect sense. It's the same way I feel about a really good pulled pork sandwich; I wouldn't be able to tell you why it tastes so great, it just does. Richard Brautigan's poems make me see things from different angles, and they make me sadder than just about anything. Here's one of my favorites:

"Boo, Forever"
Spinning like a ghost
on the bottom of a
top,
I'm haunted by all
the space that I
will live without
you.

Probably my favorite website in all of the internet is The Brautigan Bibliography and Archive. Don't visit it unless you have an afternoon, or an evening, or a few days to kill. You can read his poetry there, as well as read about his life.
Here's one of his most famous poems:

"Love Poem"
It's so nice
to wake up in the morning
all alone
and not have to tell somebody
you love them
when you don't love them
any more.

Not that all of them are so sad. Some of his poems are funny, maybe even cute, without any hint of sadness:

"December 30"
At 1:30 in the morning a fart
smells like a marriage between
an avocado and a fish head.

I have to get out of bed
to write this down without
my glasses on.

You can search by poem title and also by collection title in the archive. It's such a great resource and I'm so happy it exists. You can also, if you're curious, read about Richard Brautigan's life and death, but be warned that it is confusing and tragic, and not in the fun way. If you're near a good library or in the mood to buy some books, I'd recommend his poetry collections. For me, his novels have been a little difficult to get through, but maybe they'll be exactly what you're looking for! Several summers ago on my lunch break from my shitty summer job I was reading Trout Fishing in America, which features a scene where two characters have sex in a pool of stagnant river water and a dead fish floats by. Now I can't eat chicken salad anymore without thinking of that scene. SO be warned, I guess. Regardless of what I just said, please check out Richard Brautigan's poetry and that wonderful, wonderful website. Whenever I visit it, I think, "So THIS is what the internet was made for!"

Books of My Youth: Grandma & Grandpa's Basement Edition

When I was a kid, my grandma's basement housed a lot of things; canned fruits and vegetables, way-too-realistic-looking toy guns from when my uncles were children, a persistent mildew smell. But what I was most interested in, of course, were the books! A shelf in the corner held a relatively small but reliably strange collection of damp books, many of which I read on the long afternoons Alex and I spent there during the summer. I know it's such a cliche to reminisce about the laziness of your youthful summers, but man, it just seemed like we had endless amounts of time then. I could just pick up a book I'd never heard of and knew nothing about and not think about all the other millions of things I should be doing with my time. Okay, to be honest that kind of sounds like my life now. But it was just different somehow. When I think of summers spent at my grandparents', I think of Little Alex running around wearing an army helmet, stray cats that we terrorized (we were just trying to love them!), and rooting through those books in the basement.
Memorable books include a cautionary but still pretty tame story about teen pregnancy that I really wish I could remember the title of; a copy of 1984 that included a picture of George Orwell with a mustache added by one of my aunts or uncles; a young-girl-friendship book called The Secret Language; and this gem, which I just remembered today for no reason at all:

Tomas and his sister didn't have parents or something, and they were trying to avoid being found out by children's services or the welfare agency. It was all very Boxcar Children, but with a Puerto-Rican twist. That cover's been lodged in my brain ever since I first saw it. I wish book covers still had this delightful hand-drawn look. I would say that I want to save this book for my future children, but honestly, it's probably been overtaken by the mildew at this point.