Heart of Glass

Rehearsal was at my house tonight. A glass was broken. Second one this week.

The first one was my Big Mac glass, which I will be forced to replace on eBay. I accidentally knocked it into the sink when I was washing dishes. It's a shame; I got it for a quarter at a yard sale.

I used to have a set of eighteen matching pint, water, and juice glasses, and only those glasses. I didn't want a cluttered cabinet. Although my apartment was a mess, I made a point of storing them in a very particular way, up down up down. Most of them never got used because it was just me and my boyfriend using them, and he didn't live here. I didn't have friends over. I didn't have many friends. I went from work to home and back to work the next day, and sometimes I went shopping. I let all of my friends drift out of touch.

I was so angry when the first glass in that set broke. Now everything was unmatched. It wasn't even. It wasn't right. And indeed my life wasn't right. I was bored. I was unhappy. Eventually I changed. I made friends. I left my relationship. I found a new relationship. I changed everything.

I lost two of the water glasses when a spontaneous rager was declared at my house after a night at The Burren. A pint glass the night the I'm the Rhoda Advisory Council had a meeting at my house while my basement was cleared of past relationship detritus. Susie Cat has knocked a few off tables. I picked up a few novelty pop culture glasses while cruising yard sales with my boyfriend. He moved in and brought his specialty beer glasses. We didn't register for new glasses when we got married. I've embraced having a life where the drinking glasses don't match. If enough people are over that we can't find a matched set, it's a party, and party guests care more about what's in the glass than what it looks like.

I can't own too much in this small apartment, and I like to use the things that I have. I try not to save things for nice occasions, or own pretty things I don't use. I like to own things that have a story.


I have a set of heavy glass mixing bowls that I love. Glass is impractical, but they're the perfect mise-en-place set for my kitchen. My friend Carly gave them to me. She's the friend I met by placing a personal ad in a local paper, back before social media existed. I helped her pack when she moved from Boston to Phoenix, and saved the bowls from a trip to Goodwill. I think of her every time I use them. I dread the first time one breaks, but I know that when it happens I will e-mail her and she will say something that makes me laugh.

It's only a bowl. Or a cup. Or a glass. Things are used. Things break. Ancient pottery shards tell us how people lived, what and how much they ate, what they bought and sold, what was valuable and what was common. I live a life where glasses are broken during games of Mansions of Madness, or because someone didn't see someone's bag on the dark patio. It is evidence of a life lived.

YA-Again: Steffie Can't Come Out to Play

Sometimes when I leave the library, I leave with great literature. Margaret Atwood's Cat's Eye: First checked it out the summer of 1992. The Count of Monte Cristo: Acquired a huge overdue fine when I borrowed it to use as a prop in an elementary school/Somerville Community Access Television production of Rod Serling's The Girl Who Could Predict Earthquakes. (I had the lead and, already displaying method actress tendencies, insisted that I use the actual book.) I finally read it when I checked it out again in the summer of 1998.

Sometimes I leave the library with this:


I like to re-read books. I even like to re-read horrible books. It comes from the same part of my brain that allows me to watch the VH-1 I Love The Marathons in repeats.

I first encountered Steffie Can't Come Out to Play in my elementary school library. It was a badly designed space, that library with a mezzanine entrance to the gym. At least once a year a basketball would bounce out of the gym and into the library, and the librarian's pent-up rage would erupt into wordless squeals. I spent more time there than most. I ate lunch there because I didn't enjoy the cafeteria's atmosphere. (This should not surprise you.)

It was in the YA section. I had special permission to read things in the YA section before seventh grade because I was a nerd and had already read everything in the age-appropriate fiction section. But this book was rumored to be so scandalous, so dirty, that I wasn't brave enough to take it out or be seen reading it. I read it in furtive bursts when the librarian wasn't looking. I read it so quickly that I forgot most of the details. Years later, when I had a nagging memory of a shocking book with a red cover, it took me a while to figure out the title and find the book.

Steffie Can't Come Out to Play is the story of a fourteen-year-old girl with a sad home situation, from a nothing town near Pittsburgh, who dreams of being a model. She runs away on a Sunday night with nine dollars in her pocket. She arrives in New York City on Monday morning, and immediately upon arrival (page 13) meets a suave and mysterious man at the bus station. His name is Favor, baby. Favor. He takes her to dinner and buys her wine, takes her home, buys her bubble bath. If you watch Lifetime you know where this is going. By the end of the week she's convinced she's in love with him and joins his prostitution ring to prove her commitment. That's the end of Chapter One.

The rest of the book is a cliche montage of Times Square in the 70s. You can almost hear the electric bass when you turn the page. Halter tops. Hot pants. Discos. Steffie gets a pair of knee-high high-heeled silver boots. Favor has other women in his employ and there's as much girl-drama as a Taffy Sinclair book. Steffie falls in and out of Favor's favor. She professes her love for him as he drifts in and out of Cadillacs with shirts unbuttoned to show his chest. Her roommate is attacked by a trick with a knife. Steffie herself is attacked by another girl over a teddy bear before finally meeting up with the jaded cop who keeps appearing in a distracting sub-plot with a third person narrative. He sends her to a shelter and she goes home.

When I was a kid, I was sure this book was for adults and got mixed into the YA section of our school by mistake. Reading it now - 33 years old and having read Portnoy's Complaint - it's not so vulgar. It's a book about a teen prostitute for the Ann M. Martin set. It dances around the subject. No dirty words are ever used. The most graphic it gets is a client who asks her to stand unclothed in front of a window, and she gets a cold. Which is actually a decent and age-appropriate metaphor for feelings of humiliation and helplessness that might be part of forced prostitution, but it's buried in pages and pages of Steffie's screamingly bad judgement, ellipses, and melodramatic pining.

Anyway, Go Ask Alice? Way dirtier.

Et tu, Werther's Originals?

It's come to this: I ordered Life Savers online.
This is after weeks of searching. I finally found the rolls for sale at Hidden Sweets in Harvard Square, but they weren't the right flavor and my craving was not satisfied. I've been craving them for over a month. I had to give in.

And did you hear me? It took weeks of searching just to find the classic five-flavor roll. Did you notice that Life Savers have disappeared from every candy display in every drugstore, supermarket, and megamart within... well, I've really only surveyed within driving distance of my house, but it took weeks of searching. Weeks, I tell you. I didn't notice until I couldn't stop looking for them. Sure, you can find bags of them in the candy aisles, but they're individually wrapped candies, and Life Savers come in rolls. Any idiot knows that. And besides, those bags don't come in the assortment I want.

What I was craving, what I'm still craving, and will crave until Amazon delivers, is the Tropical Fruits pack. When I was a teenager, I always had a roll of them in my book bag. They were one of the few candies sold at the strange little school store that sold Snapple iced tea and gold chains. There was nothing better than a study period with no one who wanted to gossip, a paperback novel, and an entire roll of Tropical Fruits. I remember realizing I actually liked Silas Marner as I struggled to let a Papaya Punch dissolve all the way without ever shattering.

To transition from Andy Rooney mode to Holden Caulfield mode, I'm actually pretty angry that rolls of Life Savers have disappeared. They disappeared because we weren't buying them. They disappeared because we didn't care. They were an American institution, like Coca-Cola or Bounty, and we stopped paying attention. They were such a nice, concise candy, with a minimal wrapper and easy to eat surreptitiously. Nicely portioned. Easy to share. Brightly flavored, nothing to get in your teeth. Now how will teenagers find ways to turn out the lights if not to prove that Wint-O-Green Life Savers really do make a spark when you bite them in the dark? Life Savers have fallen out of favor to gum, and I think that's a perfect example of what's wrong with society.

(Almost Vegan) Vegan Cold Cut Sandwich

To clarify, it's the sandwich that's almost vegan, not me. I'm nowhere close to vegan. I'm not even vegetarian. I tried being vegetarian years ago, and it's not for me. I have a lot of respect for people who are ethical vegetarians, but it's not part of my belief system.

I acknowledge that, like most meat-eaters in America, I eat too much animal product. It's not healthy, it's not sustainable, it's wasteful. Whether you think eating animal products is ethical or not, sometimes it's a good idea to eat a handful of soybeans instead of feeding the soybeans to a cow and then eating the cow.

This recipe was inspired by the Tofu Cheese one at Serious Eats, but I've played with it a bit. The end result is a loaf of tofu with a chewy, crumbly texture and a salty, savory flavor that tastes a bit like lunch meat. Not a specific lunch meat, but lunch meat in general. When sliced and added to a vegetable sandwich, it adds that essential something most vegetable sandwiches are missing.

Part I - Prepare Your Tofu

• 1 block of tofu
  

Step 1: Freeze your tofu - In the container, in the water, overnight. You can skip this step, but it really does improve the tofu's texture.
Step 2: Defrost your tofu
Step 3: Press your tofu - Wrap it in paper towels or a kitchen towel. Sandwich it between two cutting boards or unbreakable plates, and put weights (I use books or cans of beans) on the top layer. I like to press it a full 24 hours so the tofu gets really flat and compact and dry.

Ghostly backlight optional

Part II - Prepare Your Marinade

• 1/3 cup miso paste - This is the stuff miso soup is made from. You can find it at Asian grocery stores and many conventional supermarkets, near the tofu.
  
• 1 tbsp. rice vinegar
• 1 tbsp. mirin
• 1 tbsp. sake
• 1 tsp. soy sauce
• 1 tsp. to 2 tbsp. optional additional seasonings of your choice - Minced garlic? Sure. Red pepper? Go ahead. Grated onion? Great idea. I'd advise making the basic recipe once, then going whole hog with experimenting. It's a forgiving process.

Step 1: Mix all of your marinade ingredients in a small saucepan over low heat. Stir until combined, and keep stirring until the mixture begins to bubble. Remove from heat. It will look somewhere between peanut butter and caramel sauce.
Step 2: Transfer half of your miso mix into a container that will snugly contain your pressed tofu block. If you've saved your tofu container, all the better.
Step 3: Put your tofu on top of the miso mix, then cover with remaining miso mix. Make sure all of the tofu is covered, turning it around a few times if you have to.
Step 4: Cover and refrigerate.

Part III - Wait

Let the tofu sit in the miso mix for at least 12 hours, preferably overnight, and even longer if you can stand it. It only gets more flavorful as time goes by.

Part IV - Make Your Sandwich

You already know how to do this, I hope. Two pieces of bread, stuff between. Slice the tofu loaf into slices less than a half inch thick, and put the leftover brick right back into the miso mix. The sandwich in the picture above has mayo (that's why it's not vegan), sliced tomato, lettuce (picked from the garden before it died), and thin slices of onion.

You can also dice the marinated tofu loaf and add it to stir-fries or salads. Or just eat slices straight up while you're snacking out of the fridge.

Tomorrow's Lunch: Wheat Berry Salad with Cranberries and Almonds

A family that was out of town last week gifted us their CSA pick-up. It was great, because we opted not to subscribe to a CSA this year, and I'd forgotten how much fun it is to be assigned food I'd never think to buy. It also reminded me of why we don't subscribe to a CSA anymore, because it fills up our fridge with unfamiliar vegetables that are most delicious cooked when it's too hot to cook, and leads to tense discussions that include statements like "We already have so much food here," and "Fine, we'll have salad."

The lot included a brown paper bag that rattled when I shook it. Organic popping corn? Locally grown coffee? Nope - wheat berries. They look like barley and the internet disagrees as to whether or not they need to be soaked before cooking. I avoided the issue entirely and used the slow cooker, one of the most useful items in my kitchen because it lets me cook things without heating the place up during the summer. (We don't have air conditioning.)

So, into the slow cooker:

• 3 cups chicken stock (Because we always have jars of chicken stock in the fridge. If you're not in the habit of boiling carcasses, use veggie stock or water with some salt and a big spoonful of whatever dried green stuff you have in your spice cabinet. You'll be fine. This isn't rocket science.)
• 1 cup uncooked wheat berries (Do heed the warning that they're a natural product that should be looked over carefully because they may contain stems. I found stems.)
• 4 cloves garlic, thinly sliced

Stir to combine. Make sure the slow cooker is plugged in, then walk away and do other things. I used the time to buy dried cranberries, eat something else for dinner, write a sketch, and watch Sondheim teach on YouTube.

(Best watched at home alone, so you can wear your headphones and sing along without embarrassment.)

After three and a half hours, come back, and add:

• 1/2 cup unsweetened dried cranberries (Be sure to complain that the unsweetened kind are a full dollar more per pound than the sweetened kind.)
• 1/4 cup almond pieces (Because pistachios were too expensive.)
  

Let it sit plugged in another half hour while you watch more YouTube.

(I like the "dolphin, dolphin, dolphin, dolphin" part.)

Drain and let cool. While it's cooling, mix up the dressing*:

• 1/4 cup olive oil
• 2 tbsp. lemon juice (Fresh-squeezed if you're feeling like a martyr, but the stuff in the bottle won't kill you.)
• 2 tbsp red wine vinegar
• 2 tbsp mustard
• 7 mint leaves, cut into a chiffonade if you're practicing your knife skills and just torn up into little pieces if you're not.
  

Toss with the stuff you already cooked. Makes two lunch-sized portions.

*This makes a little more dressing than you need. Save the rest for one of the other salads you're going to have to eat later in the week.

My Friend, the Hippopotamus

One of the families I'm working with has introduced me to a wonderful book, Sandra Boynton's But Not the Hippopotamus.
The plot is intricate, but I'll do my best to summarize. See, there are all these animals - a dog, a hog, a cat, some rats, a moose, a goose, a bear, a hare. And they're doing all these great things - cavorting in a bog, trying on hats, drinking juice, going to a fair. They're all having tons of fun, all out in the open, loving life and drinking Pepsi. But every page or two, you see this zaftig character hiding behind something, looking apprehensive, and we're told that whatever kind of frivolity everyone is partaking in, there's someone who's not playing - the hippopotamus.

Now - SPOILER ALERT! - on the next-to-last page everyone asks her to join in, and after some deliberation she does. Yes, the hippopotamus plays! (But not the armadillo, seen on the last page looking sad and confused. )

Why the pause, hippopotamus? Why choose to be lonely and not join in the fuss? Afraid if you spoke no one would laugh at your joke? Were you popular once but now feel like a dunce? Worn down by your day and too tired to play? Too busy with your job? Are you just a stuck-up snob?

I've been on many sides of this situation. I've been the cat, out partying with the rats, wondering what the hell is up with the hippopotamus. Why is she standing there glaring at us? If she wants a hat, she should try on a hat. My life is too busy for drama like that. I've been the moose, drinking hard with the goose, so caught up in listening to him rant that I don't notice the mammal hiding behind the houseplant. I've been the bear, out with the hare, expressing to him that I really do care about the hippopotamus. I wish that she felt like she could join in with the lot of us.

Today, thanks to things that are going on around me, I feel like the hippopotamus. There's fun and I'm not part of it. These dozens of words about it aside, it's not really a big deal. It's taken me a long time to learn the platitude "don't take it personally" applies in these situations, though it's going to take me even longer to learn not to take it personally. People don't have fun for the express purpose of making others feel left out, at least not most of the time, not after high school.

Pages will turn and there will be another picture, one where I'm wearing the party hat (not the pity party hat) and drinking a milkshake. The dog and the hog and the cats and the rats and the moose and the bear and the goose and the hare and the hippopotamus and I will be tagged in Facebook photos and everything will be fine. But it won't, not for everyone. Because even when your problem is resolved, hippopotamus, there's still the question of the armadillo.

I Only Miss the Turtle Food

We got rid of the cable in December. I never thought I'd do it. I loved cable from the moment we got it, back when Nickelodeon only aired until 7 pm and then A&E took over that place on the box; back when the cable box didn't have a remote and operated through buttons and switches:

The few times that I lived in dorm rooms or apartments that couldn't get cable service, I cursed the lack of entertainment and vowed that I'd never be without the Food Network again. I love TV. It has been my friend, my mentor, my pacifier.

My husband grew up in the woods didn't feel the same way. Although he's come to enjoy some nightly staring at the screen, I grew to agree with him that most of what was on was unwatchable crap. Even my beloved Food Network had gone to hell, just show after show about edible sculpture and binge eating.

We got rid of the cable service and switched to AppleTV. For the first week or two I missed the variety, but I have grown accustomed to it and I have seen the light. It is better. Life is better. I watch less, but I enjoy it more. Except for the shows I watch on my laptop (see below), I haven't seen a commercial in seven months. The only one I miss is one for a local business called Pet Cabaret. They carry Turtle Food. (TURTLE FOOD!)


The new system costs less than cable. The device itself was $99. Our monthly subscription to Netflix is about $10, and because it streams on AppleTV I can watch all the reruns of The Cosby Show or Cheers that my heart desires. (My heart desires about a half hour of each every two weeks.) We subscribe to The Daily Show and The Soup for very reasonable prices. I've purchased entire seasons of America's Next Top Model because I find I can watch them over again, marathon-style. I've started following several shows on ABC Family at $.99 per rented episode.

(Yes, I'm 33 years old and still watching shows about teenagers. What can I say? The writing is better than you'd expect. Huge had smart discussions about body image, gender identity and religion; Switched at Birth intelligently explores Deaf culture and features a sex-positive teenage girl who hasn't -yet- decided to become a born again virgin; Make It or Break It is about gymnastics!!!)

I've become more discriminating. When you're flipping channels, it's easy to rest on a show and give it time. It's even easier to waste a full hour with flipping. With this system, I have to commit up-front to 23 or 44 minutes with a set of characters. There are some shows I just won't pay to watch. (Hello, Teen Mom. I find your exploitative/entertaining qualities in questionable balance, so I'll be watching you on my laptop.) A new episode of The Family Guy isn't worth $.99, since the jokes won't be any fresher than the old ones already on Netflix.

It wasn't all AppleTV. LOST changed my viewing habits forever, making me more demanding of the product and less tolerant of crap. I want more quality TV, and I'm willing to pay for it. I want to vote with my entertainment budget, paying only for the shows I watch. I don't want to pay for the Golf Channel, or Fox News, or Home Shopping, or real or fake housewives from any city.

The system isn't perfect. I suspect there are shows I'm missing out on, because there are no commercials to tell me about them. I don't know what I'd do if a good show were airing on CBS or some other no-mans land. I've had to add some shows I enjoy to my Facebook feed just to keep up with the news, thus telling the entire world that I'm a regular viewer of Make It or Break It (it's about gymnastics!!!).

My TV is dark a lot more than it used to be. It is still a friend and mentor, but rarely a pacifier. I don't keep it on for company. Which isn't to say I've grown lonely. I have NPR.