Oh Like the DYNASTY

Update: THIS is a Tang horse. I was thinking either that it was kind of like Lik-a-Maid but with Tang or it would just be a horse covered in vaginas. Boy was I wrong.

Affectionate, Attentive, Divorced, 5'8"

Since those in the 55+ age group don't really understand how to manipulate social networking tools, or believe that maybe they are too educated for match.com, they, much to my enjoyment, still write personal ads. My friend Nick showed me that the very best ones can be found in the back of The New York Review of Books.

I could go about trying to write a fake ad that exemplifies how hilarious these are, but I know it would just fall short. Better yet to give you excerpts and let you see how many super attractive, super old, retired astrophysicists who read The Economist live in the Boston/NYC area. The answer is: A LOT. And they are all seeking same.

Here is a fairly typical one listed by a man:
"INTELLECTUAL ODYSSEUS (Ph.D., 66) seeking California Penelope to share the arts and life with."

It's short, to the point, non-specfic, and totally dorky.

The ones from women, on the other hand, are like completely out of control and very, very long. Here's a good one (and this is just part of it):
"Flexible definition of high art: The Sopranos on A&E, Martin Puryear at the MoMA, Grand Marnier soufflé in the Dordogne. Emotionally open and alert. Movies, meals, biking through the Cape Cod dunes; anhingas and flamingos in Florida, red-tailed hawks over Columbus Circle, Tang horses at the MFA. Stylish and heartfelt; outgoing and thoughtful. Boston/Cambridge, often visits New York. Seeks smart, warm guy, 55–68."

First of all, what are Tang horses? I know I could just look this up but NOT knowing what they are disqualifies me as a candidate for any of these singles, so I think I prefer to remain in the dark about it.

Secondly, I guess it's possible to find someone else who likes eating souffle with emotionally open widows but you would think these ladies want to leave more options open...which leads us to the age ranges.
Here is a smattering of the age ranges listed:
"55–72"
"47 to 64"
"52–66"
"55–68"
"49–65"

I'm not kidding. I cut and pasted these in. So, "stunning European novelist" if you found a guy who is in to improving rusty French, Kendall Square movies, and the Fore Street Cafe but he was 73 and not exactly financially solvent, you wouldn't throw caution to the wind and invite him along to test drive Astin Martins on your next trip up to The Cape?

Ich don't think so.

Cheez-it

I think that I have had two pieces of soul-stirring apple pie in my life. One was a perfect crumble top made by my friend Peter's mom who is a serious Becky HomeEcky, and the other was a slice I ordered at a New Jersey diner and came with a piece of sharp cheddar cheese melted on top.

While this was hardly a new idea, I latched on to it and found a recipe for a version that incorporates the cheese right into the pastry. I think this is best when combined with fairly sour apples like Granny Smiths, but it would also be great as a pot pie crust. You could also use the scraps for various other fatty appetizer things. They would make awesome pigs-in-a-blanket.

Cheddar Cheese Pie Crust - yields two 9 inch crusts

3 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1 cup shredded Cheddar cheese
1/2 cup unsalted butter, room temperature for blending
1 1/2 cups Crisco
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 tablespoons granulated sugar
1/2 cup ice water

Sift flour and set aside. Then cream Cheddar cheese and butter together with a hand or standing mixer until smooth. Stir the Crisco into the cheese mixture until it's just barely combined. Start to slowly cut the sifted flour into cheese mixture by hand until mixture is crumbly.

Next, dissolve salt and sugar into ice water. Add the water slowly to the cheese mixture and use your hands to combine all together until firm ball is formed. Do not over-mix. Divide dough into 2 balls, seal in plastic wrap, and chill for at least 30 minutes before rolling out.

When chilled, roll each ball out to about 1/8-inch thickness on a lightly floured surface, to a size 2 inches larger than the pan into which it will be fitted.

This crust does tend to be more finicky because of the texture and the combination of shortening and butter. It's important not to overwork this one or it will not come out flaky. I like to bake the bottom shell first at about 375 degrees for 8-10 minutes so that the cheese in the bottom crust browns evenly with the cheese on the top crust.

The Late Greats

Following in the footsteps of his father, my nephew became a published poet this week. His work will appear in a literary magazine for kids, but I am leaking it here on piefinger because I am just so proud.

Also, the poem is kind of genius.

"I love The Bible
This I know
Cuz I love Jesus
Head to toe"

Just so you know that he isn't some weird prophetic religious zealot, I also heard him cry out at his brother as they were wrestling "OOOWWW! My little lady lumps!" So he's getting a healthy mix of Sunday school and top forty hits.

Slip Sliding Away

Certain gene pools will give you good teeth, predispositions to sickle cell anemia, mid-digit hair growth, or two different colored eyes like Kate Bosworth. I inherited a shelf ass. Like, shelfier than most. So shelfy that my brother once tried to sit on it. So shelfy that my sisters (one of whom is pictured above, alongside my shelf ass, wearing stage makeup) mused about me having my own TV show where I was a "butt-ler" and did things such as serve tea, churn butter, and sort mail with my ass. So shelfy that I once broke a porch swing, ripped right through a lounge chair, and got stuck on a waterslide. All in one summer.

This is not going to be a Tyra-esque story about how I learned to "embrace my booty" (Which, by the way, was the theme of one of her recent episodes. Way to make a great leap ahead for all womankind, Tyra. So revolutionary! You're right THIS is what we should be concerned with). No, this is about how I managed to get stuck on the waterslide.

Since I was about nine or ten, I have been one in a group of four or five friends who makes the annual cabin retreat up to Bay Lake for an extended weekend of boozing and wheelchair racing. The boozing wasn't until college, but the wheelchair racing is a tradition firmly rooted in the past so we try to keep it alive as much as possible. This trip often includes a jaunt into the nearby city of Brainerd, and on more than one occasion has included "disguising" ourselves as guests at the resort across the lake. This way we could use their steam room, kayaks, and giant floating trampoline.

On this particular visit, while in our early teens, Britta and I somehow caught the unwelcome and relentless attention of a lonely/diabolical nine-year-old girl. She followed us into the gift shop, to said steam room, around the indoor pool, by the lockers, to play pinball, and etc. We tried to lose her by swimming out farther than any pre-pubescent should be able. Nothing worked so we resigned to the fact that she'd be toddling after us all day and that would be the price we'd pay in exchange for her silence. Having grown up a little sister of her own, Britta was very good at negotiating this.

Being sort of late in the day, the beachfront had pretty much emptied. Free of little kids, aside from our own special tagalong, Britta and I had unfettered access to all the things that teenagers should be too cool to play with or on, but which were still extremely fun. This mostly meant the crap waterslide that spat you out into the shallow water.

Britta went down first, I climbed the ladder behind her, and Dobby the house elf was about one second behind. I positioned myself excitedly as Britta shot out into the water and squirmed to give myself a push from the top of the slide. I believed this little move is what locked me in place so solidly.

I tried again.

Nothing.

From behind me came Dobby's little voice, "You can just go ahead. She's already done! She's out there! In the water!"

Me: "I can see her. I know. I'm trying herrrrreeee."

Dobby: "I've been down it like ten times. It's not scary! Don't be scared!"

Me: "I'm not scared. I'm just stuck. Now if you want to be helpful, you could go fetch me some olive oil or perhaps some butter...."

Britta: (laughing uncontrollably from down below)

In the end, I was glad to have Dobby there. Had she not been anxiously awaiting her turn down the slide, I don't know how I would have gotten that extra little push that eventually sent me down my one and only turn on that slide.

Only in Dreams

Thank God.

Like My Pizza is the Only Pizza That Matters

As I look to the post below I notice that Christie Brinkley, like Melissa Joan Hart, has what my mom would classify as a lazy eye and what she calls lazy eyes are not really lazy. The following is a conversation I once had with her on this topic:
Mom: "Do people ever say you look like anyone famous?"
Me: "The only one I ever get is Melissa Joan Hart, you know from Sabrina the Teenage Witch."
Mom: "OHHhhhh yeah. I can see that. You know, because you both have a lazy eye...."
Me (incredulous): "What?! I do NOT have a lazy eye!"
Mom: "Well you know what I mean. Kind of sleepy...like a little twinkle in them."
Me: "Mom, having a lazy eye is VERY different than having a twinkle."
Mom (faraway): " *magic*..."

Well I'm kind of loathe to do this so early on in my blogging endeavor but I'm going to go ahead and link you to a craigslist posting that sends me into giggleville every time I read it. Mostly because I identify with it. A lot.

http://www.craigslist.org/about/best/aaa/425529349.html

That's Not Her Style

MyHeritage: Celebrity Morph - Old photographs - Pedigree

Please, please go to My Heritage and make one of these of your very own. Then post it somewhere so I can figure out how much of this is based on the particular angle of you face in the picture that you upload. 100% you say? Oh, okay. Because that is the only way to explain me morphing into Uptown Girl. I wish I had access to more hilarious, large, front-facing pictures of myself here at work, but I just don't. If I did, I would make a morph of me turning into Markie Post, Clarissa Darling, or Smurfette.

A big nod to Maven for this tip.

Begin at the Beginning

Part of the idea for this forum was that it would also include recipes. There are a bunch of sites out there that do this better and more prolifically than I have, can, or ever will. Whatevvvvvs. This is the recipe for the most basic pie crust I make. It's the first one I ever used and the one I go back to the most because I always have the ingredients around, you can control the level of moisture in it even in humid weather, and it barely shrinks when baked.

I also like it because you don't need any fancy equipment to make it. I do like to use a pastry cutter if I have one handy because it helps you work quickly so that the butter doesn't start to melt and ruin the texture of the dough. If you have a food processor you can pulse the butter, flour, salt, and sugar together very quickly before sprinkling the water over it and kneading by hand. My favorite method when making Pate Sucree is to simply cut the very cold butter up into small pieces and rub it into the flour. This gives the dough the most even distribution of fat and makes it easy to roll. It also means that as the pastry bakes, the butter will melt through it uniformly, making a very flaky crust.

Pate Sucree
1 crust about 9 inches (recipe is easily doubled)

1 1/4 cups flour
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon sugar
8 tablespoons (1 stick) unsalted butter, cold and cut into pieces
3 or so tablespoons ice water, ice strained prior to sprinkling

Use one of the methods mentioned above to combine dry ingredients with butter. Sprinkle 3 tablespoons ice water over top and incorporate until dough forms. Press into discs and wrap in plastic wrap. It's very important to let this dough rest at least 30 minutes in the fridge (ideal) or 10 minutes in the freezer (if you are in a rush).

Sprinkle work surface with a scant amount of flour. The tendency here is to use a generous amount so that your dough doesn't stick. DON'T CHASE THAT FEELING. Your dough will become tough if it absorbs too much flour. But you should be fine.

Once you've rolled it out about a quarter of an inch thick, roll the round gently onto your pin and lay it in a buttered tin or glass dish. You don't need to press the dough into the corners of the dish, it's best to let it settle naturally.

Prick the bottom all over with a fork and brush with egg yolk after trimming the excess from the edges. Press all scraps together and keep in the freezer in plastic wrap for up to a month. You can use this extra dough for decorative cutouts or lay small rounds over the back side of the cups of a muffin tin to make little fillable tart shells.

Bake unfilled shell at 425 for 7 minutes, decrease heat to 350 and bake for an additional 5 before filling. This way you guarantee a non-soggy bottom, which no one likes.

Crying on Command

Okay, the subject of this post may lead you to believe that I can cry on command. I should probably tell you right now that I can't. And in my particular line of work, I'm not really called upon to do so. Ever. Still, I used to practice this skill as a child. Partly because I had some aspirations to act on stage and partly because I already spent a lot of time talking into the mirror working on my impression of Neve Campbell's character from Party of Five. She cried, or near-cried, in practically every episode so I got a lot of time in furrowing my brow, making ugly chin, and saying "Griffin" in a halted voice while waiting for the tears to start flowing. Sometimes they would kind of well up but would stop as soon as my brain went "yesssss....victory over Julia Salinger..."

There are many other things that will ALWAYS move me to tears though. I mean real things which I would never abuse or manipulate in like a quest to cry but events which, as they happen, make tears unavoidable. These are things like seeing your own mom cry, or singing "Were You There?" on Good Friday. But if ever I am in the mood to cry just for pure old-fashioned catharsis, I don't need anything fancy, or even particularly deep. The following is a list of what I keep in my emotional reserves...or channel surf Nick at Nite or ABC Family for:

1. Little Women - the scene where Beth dies. Also the scene where sick Beth (or the Beth that you "will find much altered") gets the piano. Claire Danes can ugly cry like nobody's business and her quivering chin is so large that it practically makes tears of its own. Also the spit bubble inside the corners of your mouth? Nice touch, Danes.

2. Sister Act 2, Back in the Habit - the last song. I just sincerely feel proud of those kids. Even when they are wearing overalls and crop tops and Guatemalan knit hats and Cross Colors. My friend Sarah's little sister Jessie states that people doing things in unison is what tends to set her off. I couldn't agree more J-Man. This scene is perfectly illustrative of that.

3. Stepmom - the conversation Jackie and Isabelle have over drinks at that ridiculously inviting-looking bar. I kind of don't like that what they are talking about is a thirteen-year-old girl's future wedding but still, C'MON "my fear is...she won't" gets me every time.

4. The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, "Papa's Got a Brand New Excuse" - the scene where Will's dad leaves him again and he talks about all the things he learned to do without him and then collapses, crying, into Uncle Phil's arms. His backwards hat falls off. I lose it. This is just good TV acting, people.

5. Anne of Green Gables - Matthew dies.

This is all I can say on #5.

Jalapeno

One of the greatest benefits to not owning a car and not driving at all, is that I walk a lot. I wish I could say that this was an earth-conscious, go green kind of decision or that I have made a commitment to taking a thousand steps a day toward better health, but really neither of these things are true. I walk out of pure necessity. Riding a bike makes me sweaty, and, let's be real, Rollerblades are for tools. Or dads. I won't even get into how Segways are stupid so I am left with my own two feet.

If I did bike, or roll, or drive to work every day, I would have completely missed out on the opportunity to engage in one of the most mystifying relationships I have ever been in. With a hawk.

There is a little bridge on Washington Avenue that I walk across twice a day, every day. I believe all the strangeness I have witnessed on this bridge is in large part due to the fact that this bridge is situated above train tracks and across from a strip club. One day I found a huge ball of synthetic hair in the sewer grate there, and a piece of shit too large and too familiar to have come from a dog. I also once peered over the edge of the bridge just in time to see a homeless man puking. All these things happened before 9:00 AM.

Several weeks ago I was bopping down Washington, listening to my ipod as I often do, when I saw the outline of what I could, with certainty, identify as a bird of prey. My dad is a dork and a bit of an amateur ornithologist, so as I neared this thing I got very excited. It was a hawk. Right there in the middle of the warehouse district. And it wasn't moving. Even as I moved very close this hawk just continued to look me right in the eye and remain perfectly still. It was winter and there was no one else around, so I felt like maybe I was about to die. Die in some very literary, magical realist fashion. It turned out not even to be a bad omen to the day I was about to have so I put it out of mind.

That night as I walked from my office back to my bus stop, I crossed the bridge and saw a half-empty bladder of that liquid nacho cheese they put in dispensers at concession stands. It's a weird thing to see on the street anyway but weirder still was that the next morning, it was gone.
The synthetic hair - still there, but the half-empty bladder of nacho cheese - M.I.A. I had two thoughts at this point:
1. This could explain why that one dude was throwing up.
2. If it was the hawk (which is what I wanted to believe), why would he take the bladder and not the huge ball of synthetic hair which would make a very comfortable nest?

That evening I crossed the bridge excitedly, and looking for signs, feeling like I could DEFINITELY talk to animals. I got nothing. As I continued down Washington I happened to look up. There in the sky, very near Sex World, I saw the hawk WITH THE NACHO CHEESE BLADDER CLASPED SECURELY IN HIS TALONS. It appeared that no one else noticed this, and that he was putting a show on solely for me, which I appreciated.

I thought of the people in their cars on their evening commute potentially having, what they would assume to be bird shit, plopping on their windshields and arriving home to smell that it was actually drops of liquid nacho cheese. How did it get there?

The answer: Jalapeno.