Ramen Love With You

I don't know about you, but I am feeling a chill today. Blue skies with a few wisps of clouds, a soft breeze, 63degrees--a perfect day. But I am cold down to my bones. Fortunately, I have my secret weapon, and it's not my nappy-ass sweater or my stripey socks, it's a hot steamy bowl of Ramen Noodles. I have found very few things, save for submerging myself into a hot bath, that help with a chill. Beyond the warmth of the spicy and tongue preserving saltiness of the broth, it must have something to do with the msg. I bet that could help with the energy crisis and global warming and fuel costs. We can all go back to the days of cold-water flats and keep ourselves warm with ramen fuel. Well, I'll leave you to ponder that, as my Ramen awaits.

A Stache Grows in Brooklyn

Lately I have noticed a ridiculous number of men sporting thick furry strips on their upper lips. Gone is the hirsute uber hipster full on beard (praise be to Allah, Buddha and Ganesha on that one). Seems they have been shunned for a trimmer sleeker slip of the fuzz. I am not sure how I feel about this. It's also curious how I have seen most of these men at McCarren Park, running about the track in black socks. Really. Feels kinda dirty to me. Really (yes, I meant to say it twice). Hence, the stache is dirty. Maybe these crumb-catchers are being grown for humanitarian purposes? One can only hope.

Thou Shalt Not Covet

OK, for the record, I was raised by Hippie-Freak-Heathens, very well educated, highly evolved artist/intellectuals, but HFH's none the less, I mean c'mon, my father wanted to name me Lotus Blossom for *uck sake...but I am digressing. My point, if I have one here, is that we never went to church, save for the three times we went with Baba and Gogo during our rare Christmas visits. So for me, to feel that I have done something wrong, to know that I am feeling something wrong, well that comes from the moral fiber within myself. I am having feelings for an inanimate object, a material thing. While I may not be 'sinning', I can tell you my obsession with this frilly vermilion postage stamp of a trench coat (3/4 sleeves? are you kidding me?!) feels pretty dirty, OK, not 'dirty' per se, but there are certainly other things more deserving of my thoughts and click thru time than of fantasizing about wrapping myself in a silly trench of cotton with a bit of nylon for sheen, the ruffle trim accentuating my decollete, those three-quarter raglan sleeves allowing admirers to, well, admire my slender wrists, and that smart self-belt which tucks into a bow a the waist, its length falling to my knees. I want this coat. I must have this coat. Oh, the things that might happen if I had this coat. Thankfully, my moral fiber (yes, it's probably more of a mores thing, but who really cares), that 'single mommy with just enough scratch for the essentials' fiber, keeps me from slappin' down the plastic। Sighhh; I suppose I'll go flagellate myself now.

"Uchhh, You Look Like a Cow"

Last week, while I was heading into the city on the L to get my monkeys from school, I was reminded of my maternal grandmother, M.K.. As I leaned against the door, my eyes drifted about the crowded train car; I spied something very odd and somewhat remarkable-- a rather large herd of people chomping away on gum. Not one or two narcoleptic gum chewers, but a head count of at least seven. Not a soft nibbling of gum behind closed lips, but a mouth wide open, lip slopping, teeth gnashing, tongue rolling kind of chew. The kind of chewing that might cause 'one' to compare another to a cow. That 'one' being my Baba; she had a sweet tooth to rival all sweet tooth's. She was clearly born with a Goldberg Peanut Chew in one hand, and a See's milk chocolate butter cream in the other. Her freezer was always packed with ice cream, candy dishes (overflowing) littered her home, in her purse was a tiny arsenal of treats, and she even had a stash of Goldberg’s in the top drawer of her dresser where she kept her stockings. What she didn't have tho, ever, as in NEVER, was gum. She loathed it. I never asked her why, but I think she felt it a lower class habit. Having come from a shanty-Irish family in Upper Darby, PA, she worked hard to separate herself from her lower class beginnings, which she was able to do because she was very bright, jaw dropingly stunning, and most importantly, she did not chew gum. My brother and I appreciated all of the goodies she put out for us on our visits, but we also had a thing for gum--breaking our jaws with Bazooka, puffing on 'cigars', nibbling bottle caps and chiclets fruit flavored...the gum from underneath the table at the Diner (don't deny you never tried it). We just adored the junk. Whenever our Baba got an eyeful of us with our mouths full, she would pull a face and mutter "uchhhh, what are you chewing on? You both look like cows." We would snort and go on our cud chewing way. I still enjoy gum; orbit mint mojito gum in particular is my current fave. But I have to say, during that mohhhhsey of a train ride under the river, having nowhere to look but deep into the mouths of that gum smacking herd, I finally understood my Baba's disdain, because inside of my head, until I was able to flee the cattle car, was, "Oh yuck! shut your mouths, shut your mouths, shut your mouths, you look like effing cows!"

Let Them Eat Hoochie Mama Cake

My baby brother turned 40 the other day. Couldn't tell you exactly when he morphed from a wisecrackin' chicken legged critter into a towering dry witted man, but he did. Socially conscious, he said he didn't want any gifts that would end up in a landfill. What he really wanted, what most men seem to desire, was a Playboy Bunny jumping out of a cake, and onto his lap. Falling just short of having any connections with the Heff (save for that one dream I had about frolicking about the Playboy Mansion circa 1973, I kid you not) I went out and found myself one 'Susie', (aka Hoochie-mama) cake topper. The cake I chose to bake up was chocolate (of Horseradish Grill fame) dense and moist; between the 4 layers was a mocha ganache; the frosting, a coconut cream. The stage was almost set; there was the round cake--a round bed. My monkey, S., and I patted shredded coconut onto the coconut cream frosting--the white fur blanket. We placed 2 acid-red Hostess Zingers near an edge, and tossed on a few heart shaped chocolate dipped cookies--the bolsters and pillows. Little Hoochie Susie, in her naughty nitie, took repose upon the 'bed' with her glass (filled with yellow sugar and dragees) and bottle of champagne. Quite foxy; very Ann-Margret a'la Tommy. Baby brother was very, very pleased with his gift, and at his age, a Bunny jumping onto his lap might very well have given him an unkind jolt. G. was so taken with Susie, she now keeps him company (as part of his toy collection) at work, and will no doubt, like any good hooch, find herself upon many a cake in the future.

The Well Heeled Baker

A little while ago I joined my bff, Z, for a little shopping excursion to a super swishy store in the Meat Packing district. She was hot to spend a gift certificate, I just relished the opportunity to take a break from Sugartown.
Initially I was completely taken by a Dior number, a floaty vermilion dream of a dress with a floppy poppy upon one shoulder; another story, another lifetime perhaps, sigh. What distracted me from my opiate laced dream, were the shoes. Glorious, well heeled shoes of insane proportions. Shoes not meant to be worked in. Shoes one would wear only to be carried about in a chariot no doubt. Chariot to elevator, chariot to desk, chariot to coffee machine…Still, I was taken.
With the work that I do, baking, and the occasional catering gig or cooking party, flat shoes are, as snoozy as my new perception makes them, a must—typically a pair of blunnies or converse. When I worked at AshBox I was so brazen as to wear flip-flops. This has for the most part meant that these vertically challenged varieties are the ONLY variety of shoe that I wear. From morning to night. From cradle to grave, I fear. Flat, flat, flat.
Adamant I was to change this. The other day a cute pair of very tall and strappy espadrilles caught my eye, and I snatched them up and brought them home. I slipped my feet into them, fed the tiny strap through the clasp, and off I went about my kitchen, posture improved, bum in the air. Simpler to reach those things on high, tho a bit of a wobbly challenge to dip low to retrieve needed items.
I now wear them when I cook supper, or test a new recipe। My daughter is taken with the notion as well, and uncovered quite a few pairs of long neglected heels of mine that are soon to experience a rebirth as we put them on and shuffle about. I have mastered the terrain of my kitchen, without too much pain, and with a bit of grace. I know that one day these heels will touch pavement, hopefully with chariot awaiting (that, or I remember to keep some flip-flops in my bag).

The Sign of the Cookie

Quite often customers request that a gift card be enclosed with a shipment. I usually don't pay too much attention to them, but every so often one stands out.

"Sometimes me think what is love, and then me think love is what last cookie is for. Me give up last cookie for you."
~ Cookie Monster

Cookie and I have a bit of history, but not for the obvious CM:cookie connection. It's because my friend J helped me thru a rotten ass-whoopin of a year with his loving and supportive Cookie Monster laden emails. They were silly and sweet, and boosted my spirits at times, and am thankful that he was there in some way for me. It wasn't however, without an undercurrent, of course, as along with J and CM, there was that nasty bugger of a monster, 'unrequited love monster'. Eventually, when my life began to resemble a simmering chaos rather than the rapid boil that it had been, it got to be more painful to have J in my life than not. I would completely fall to pieces after we would hang out. I wished him well in my heart and tried to move on. When cookie monster came up in an order I for a single moment, thought it a sign; J had come to his senses* and realized that he wanted my 'cookie' aka my heart, but I knew it was just another kick in the head that the fates have disguised as something 'random' (what is up with that anyway!).

But, despite my romantic failings, (and how I took someones loving sentiment for their mother and turned it into something to add to my self suffering) I still adore Cookie Monster, his simple nature and sloppy exuberance. As for J, well that's trickier, I'm sure you know how that goes. My cookie, well it's just about mended, and looking for a plate to call home.


*You see boys and girls, (unfortunately) I do believe in fairy tale romances-- both my Baba and my mom had them. I figure it's just a matter of time before I get mine... or that long over-due lobotomy.