Thanksgiving

Have a good Thanksgiving? Who doesn't. Even a good fight makes for a good Thanksgiving. I suppose it's a more meaningful holiday when you take the time to explain its significance to young children, or you think about it yourself. But if you find yourself at the table with extended family, wordlessly packing in the carbs, it's a bizarre exercise.

I do generally like the food at Thanksgiving though, and I suppose like everyone else I've gotten used to the way my family does it, and that's the way I like it best. Aunt Mimi's stuffed mushrooms, Aunt Nancy's yams with pears and ginger, mom's pies. The feast strongly resembles the Christmas dinner, with maybe a swapping out of the turkey for a ham or some other roast animal. I even like the turkey, the low-fat carob of meats, which I otherwise experience during the year as an inoffensive protein source in my sandwich. On Thanksgiving day the roast turkey is a time sensitive issue: the skin stays crispy for so long, the dark meat is only good while it's warm, and even the leftovers for sandwiches just have a couple of days before you have to give them to the dog.

But the past couple of years I have left my family manse to feast with my husband and his family (well, I guess it's my family too). Every trip to Virginia, holiday or otherwise, involves a plummeting of my intake of vegetables. While Korean cooking involves vegetables, they are usually mixed up with lots of meat. Fortunately I am one of the few white people around who likes kimchi, the smelly staple dish of cabbage fermented with ground shrimp and fish sauce. It's a side dish at nearly every meal, even the Thanksgiving one, where the table will also include a deep-fried bird and sweet potato casserole with marhsmallows.

This year the meal was not made by my mother-in-law but by another relative who is also a home-cook extraordinaire. I longed for food from my aunties. I think the issue is that while my new family likes to cook an American-style Thanksgiving dinner, they do not use recipes for their Korean cooking, so they stalwartly do not use recipes for anything else either. Mashed potatoes were just that, no butter, no cream, minimal seasoning. A salad was served for a vegetable, which was nice but functional, and I am no fan of bottled dressing. We did have a deep-fried turkey, are rare treat for us Yankees, but the gravy was forgotten, and the tougher parts of the bird cried out for moisture. No cranberries in sight.

Korean dessert is usually fruit, often the enormous Korean pears that manage to be very crunchy and sweet and juicy. To contribute to the meal I made a sweet potato pie with some Asian twists, thanks to a fortuitous new recipe from everyone's favorite Mark Bittman. The graham cracker crust calls for coconut flakes, and he adds coconut milk to the pie, along with the expected seasonings.

My mother-in-law and I went shopping for the ingredients she didn't have at home, the graham crackers - which I was surprised to find in an Asian market - and the coconut milk, which does not regularly fit into Korean cooking. (She does advise it for a soak for squid though.) We came home and were surprised to discover that she did not have ginger in the fridge, one of the three in the holy trinity of Asian cooking (garlic ginger and soy sauce). We luckily found some pieces floating around in her turnip pickle mix, which although it was fermented at least wasn't covered in hot sauce. We washed off a few probiotic slices and mashed them up for the pie. It was a hit, and no one knew the difference.

Hmm, maybe I could get cracking on a pie a week, just for practice....

Chicken Dinner

I was being rather productive last Monday morning when I had to hustle out of the house for my mid-day Feldenkrais class on the West Side.  Traversing this skinny island does not look like it would take much, but on the 79^th street bus it becomes a 45-minute passage.  I drop what I’m doing at 11:30 to run out the door to get there in time.  The night before I had put a frozen chicken in the fridge to defrost for the night’s dinner, and I left it out on the counter while I was home to speed up the process.  Somewhere on the bus, I couldn’t remember if I had put it back in the fridge before I left. 

It had been a happy chicken.  Before becoming my chicken it was at the farmer’s market, and before then – one presumes – at a farm.  Some big beautiful farm somewhere upstate. I spent the $15 on it not only with the hopes of a wholesome, locally-sourced, sustainably-harvested, lovingly-slaughtered meal for me and my mate, but the promise of a more chickeny chicken experience.  Something that would taste of bird and grain and grass and not Styrofoam or antibiotics. 

I mentally bargained with my chicken as I sat on the bus.  You can’t be defrosted yet, surely you’ll do just fine on my tile counter for an hour or two until I get home.  The more desperate I got, the more manageable my chicken’s situation seemed to be.  It was wrapped up in plastic, that will hold the cold.  My mother used to leave meat on the counter all day, surely I would be okay this time.  Though the chicken was squishy to the touch when I left, I assured myself that the 3 hours that my trip would take still could leave it with ice crystals on the inside.  Surely cooking it would kill any germs.  Surely I wouldn’t be poisoning my little family.  But I did put it back in the fridge, didn’t I?

I hurt my shoulders in Feldenkrais.  The method, a less-popular cousin to the Alexander technique, appears to be a sort of extremely gentle yoga for middle-aged women and the occasional young person, like me, who has managed to develop pain just from how they move doing day to day tasks.  Yet a class, which looks like a bunch of people rolling on the floor, can leave you feeling released, taller, more comfortable, and somehow more willing to believe in yourself.  But I spent the time thinking about my chicken, my inability to take care of such a simple task, how this must reveal many other character defects, and how I surely I would be a terrible mother someday.  I thought about my chicken, bloody at the joints, blue in the veins, turning into another pile of wasted American food.

Returning home at 3 pm, I raced up the stairs, hastily unlocked the door and rushed into the kitchen, where my gleaming white counter stared at me blankly, as if asking what the fuss was all about.

The chicken was snuggled in plastic on its customary shelf in the fridge, still with ice crystals inside.  It was a fast roast for a small bird, yielding a beautifully burnished skin.  The meat was lean and chewy, but very flavorful, and was a texture foil to the tender squash and onions we roasted along with it.  I put the bones in the freezer – I just double checked – to make stock.

If you can't beat 'em, blog 'em

As part of my wild and crazy New York life, I am sitting on a bus. A bus back to Boston for a concert with my band. It's pretty disproportionate, ten hours of travel and two overnights for an hour of music making.  I could whine forever about this, but I suppose this is always how it is. The funny thing being that during those few moments of performing, nothing else exists in the world, not even this excruciating trip on the bus.

Forget my numb butt for a moment.  Forget the dangers I'm putting myself in by typing without a comfortable set up. Let's talk about the boys in the back of the bus.

Or better, the boys right smack next to me. I've been listening to their loud, inane conversation for nearly three hours now, coming right through my ear plugs. I will chronicle the juicier bits of their discourse now, making up the rest of their life stories as best I can.

Their names are Judd and Dimitri, I bet, and they've been best friends since freshman year.  Both grew up in minor Massachusetts cities (are there any other kind?). Dmitri named by left-leaning parents who wanted him to lead the proletariat, Judd named by left-leaning elites who wanted him to seem more approachable to the proletariat. Judd is wearing a suit (on the bus?), has long hair in a pony tail and no neck, yet holds a neck pillow on his lap. Dimitri also has a pony tail, curly hair, and a pubic mustache.  Friendship doesn't describe it right.  Rivalry, kept in check by keeping each other close, as they would surely tear each other to pieces or perish from the sexual tension if they remained apart. They have each had sex exactly once (I can tell), neither of which were especially successful occasions. Their laughter and gasps get very excited

Judd: "Ice wine is amazing, so sweet, I love it.  Romania actually makes some amazing sweet wines."
Dmitri: "I like port, it's not really wine though."
Judd: "Neither is ice wine I guess."
Dimitri then discusses the port wine process, "The things you learn from reading Wikipedia!"
Judd then ponders who gets to be on Wikipedia, and how that would be such a "me-high."
Judd asserts that the measure of human achievement is when you "have scholars." As in, Bill Gates has scholars, Steve Jobs has scholars, Macintosh.  This seems to mean that there are scholarly people writing about them. "How about Chomsky?" "Yeah, he has scholars."

"Did you hear about the biggest pot bust ever?"
"What did they do with it? Burn it?"
"Yeah, it was the saddest thing I heard about. I bet the price of pot went up that day."
"Isn't it bad for the atmosphere?"
"They can do it in sustainable ways."

Judd and Dmitri are now fortifying themselves with an 8-piece box of Roy's chicken, yet still their mouths are running.  They drink gatorade, one blue and one orange.

"Why is there such a controversy around corn syrup?"
"There's a big maple syrup farm around here."
"For my 21st birthday I had a maple-sugaring contest, and my best friend at the time, a little tiny girl, won."

The subject of women keeps coming up, once when they mentioned some girl who "apparently very  smart, kind, and funny, and just happens to have enormous boobs." And when Dmitri offered to set up Judd with some girl, "she really is a scientist," but Judd declined, citing his contacts with all sorts of people all over the world.

"Braintree [?] was an absolute disaster and the reason why I didn't get into Harvard. I had a letter of rec from Marc Warner's campaign manager and [someone else] and I still didn't get in. Tufts and Brandeis actually called my mom to say that they weren't sure if he could pay for it and would need a bank statement certifying his funds."

"My plan was to kill myself for a while, but I went to Montreal instead to smoke and fuck my brains out. If I can't get smart I want to get dumb and happy."

Dmitri: "One of the easiest ways to get money from a company is to have a party. You buy a bunch of foodstuffs, get reimbursed for that, then throw a small party, then at least you have some free food."

Now they are discussing recreational use of prescription and other kinds of drugs. "I'll take some amphetamines to help me stay awake. I was pulling out beard hairs and stressing out about this paper. I went out into the hallway, lit some candles, and just sat their shaking. I got an extension."

"I think he didn't like me because I wouldn't sleep with him. Oh my god, that was a perfect 3-way thing: She was making out with him to get to me, he was making out with her to get to me, and I was making out with him to get to her."

OK, I'm done. Is this really my writing for the day? This trip is always a dip in a cesspool- the wasted hours of my life mixed with those of strangers. (Judd is now blowing his nose.) Funny though, all these trips combine into one memory when I've reached where I wanted to go: either to make music, or to be home with my dear one.