Haute Cuisine...or not

I recently finished a great read (made infinitely better if you are of the softer sex and were born between the years of 1976-1982...or so- it's a generational thing) by Sloane Crosley, called "I Was Told There Would Be Cake." I found her in an excerpted chapter on Salon where she covets the idea of a one night stand. Personally, I think they should have chosen the chapter where Sloane is propelled by guilt to the title of Maid of Honor (in pink plaid, no less) in a friend's wedding to whom she hasn't much spoken to since they were making forts out of couch cushions. Incidentally, this is exactly the type of book I can see myself writing- nostalgic and sarcastically dripping with humor- if my writing wasn't all over the place. Perhaps someday. Getting back to the point, in one of the last chapters/essays, Sloane laments her futile attempts to put together an elegant tart dessert in her Manhattan kitchen the size of a phone booth.

I used to bake. That is, I would occasionally blend a pre-mix of Betty Crocker Devil's Food Cake in the oven for 30 minutes and throw raspberries on top of it after mucking up the pre-made frosting 3 or 12 times and considered myself a lover of baking. This, when I had a kitchen in my converted apartment within a Victorian home in Massachusetts the size of my entire current NYC apartment.

I have taken criticism and and jaw-drops to my eating habits, or lack therof for years. I suppose, like all good children, I can blame my mother for this. Before I moved to New York, I had never tasted crab cake, or foie gras, and most of my foods were blissfully processed with things no one should be able to pronounce. Growing up, my mother had a philosophy that if her children didn't know what they were eating, all the better for them. Sadly for her, she had a wily tomboy on her hands who didn't want to eat if she didn't know what it was and would rather snack on the crabbing bait. Yes, in that manner, I shake my head at what a disgusting and quizzical child I truly was.

We weren't allowed cereals with sugar as one of the first three ingredients listed (seriously), enjoyed the state powdered milk and cheese for a long stretch, couldn't afford the more glamourous meal ingredients, and Mom worked a lot, so we dined on similar meals from week to week. There was no viewing of Julia Child, or Rachel Ray to come up with 20 minute healthy meals. So, it is that which I attribute my palate's adjustment, and ultimately, enjoyment of what others would consider painfully bland foods...and Lowry's Season Salt.

When I was 16, a six month stint working at McDonald's was all it took for me to swear off condiments for life. I still don't eat them, and won't eat anything that's remotely touched, or looks as if it's touched one. I fear change, obviously. The Subway folks hate me because I make them change gloves.

Today, with the growing list of foods I'm allergic to and the steadfast list of foods that make me recoil in fear and disgust, I have increasing fun trying to figure out what to eat. I once saw a Biggest Loser episode where a contestant was chided for his daily turkey sandwiches. "You're not going to eat those every day for the rest of your life, are you?" I took one look at the TV, and thought YES, by God, I can.

Moving to Manhattan, one of the foodie capitals of the world, has only highlighted this love/hate relationship I share with the stuff we need to keep on living. Amplifying this is that my kitchen really is the size of phone booth. There's a sink, but not a whole lot else going on there. No stove, no burners...my microwave sits on top of the small apt. size refrigerator and gloats that it's only really good for heating lean cuisines and campbell's soup.

One of my goals, and reasons for wanting to leave pristine Tudor City is in hopes of gaining a kitchen. A real actual kitchen that a 30 year old should have. Maybe once I get it I can work on expanding my palate. Nothing crazy here, there'll be no condiments- I'm not ready for that yet, but maybe I'll make a tart.

Confidence is Key

Not long ago, a new girl (I say girl, and not woman for specific reasons- see below) joined our firm and began sitting on my floor. She is a quintessential shlumpadinka (thanks to the source of that word- you know who you are) who consistently wears extremely unflattering clothes, man shoes, doesn't bother to do more than run a brush through her hair, doesn't wear makeup, and is considerably overweight. I can think of many TLC driven shows that would be keenly interested.

Why is this relevant, do you ask? Why does this girl- whose name I don't even know- bother me? How can I think such profoundly nasty things about someone I don't even know? I cringe every time I have to pass her. There was one occasion not too long ago, where she was wearing one of her blah white button-up shirts oh so cruelly tucked into her tummy flab and high waist pants that her entire right breast was hanging out of because she needed serious help from some double-sided sticky tape- and I was prepared to march her down to Saks to get it...alone with a few other essentials.

I realized recently that I hate to look at her (it pains me to look at her) because I was her. I'm not talking about me a year or two years ago when I was at my highest weight ever (but still dressed very well, thank you), but more like 10. This "girl" of perhaps 27 or 28 was me in high school. I say this because I don't get the sense that she's rebelling or turning down the "man" by dressing or lacking accessories the way she does, but that she 1. doesn't have a clue how she is presenting herself to the world and/or 2. lacks self-confidence and gave up trying (perhaps).

I recently watched an old French class VHS of me circa 1994. The hideous glasses, the tucked in t-shirt that had nothing to do with what the styles of the times were, the flat hair that I barely made effort to blow dry and brush, the lack of any makeup, the fact that I spent so much time looking towards the ground it's a wonder I didn't realize how ugly my shoes were....cringeworthy. Oh, and I did cringe. Jesus...I was Ugly Betty, without the confidence she carries or the trendy cable ratings.

When I had lunch with the friend who I made the tape with not long ago, we talked about how we had changed since high school. For her part, she's lost about 40 lbs and 6 sizes; and as for me, I gained a style (I like to think), and a confident sense of myself that I couldn't have begun to conceptualize back then. Life was just too shitty.

I don't know if this new girl on my floor is depressed or doesn't care, or just plain too tired at the end of the day to do more. I also couldn't ever attempt to intervene because it would be inappropriate and rude. But I'd like to. I like to think that makes up for some of the cruel thoughts I have about her appearance. I don't want to make her like me, but I could see me swooping in like the "what not to wear" guru's and turning her into a stunning reflection.

Perhaps I'm wrong. Perhaps she's totally comfortable and confident with herself and how she looks. Perhaps I'm a nasty bitch for this entire rant. Then again, if I'm right she could probably use some guidance and a lunch friend. Maybe I'll even have time to try that before I leave this place for good.

Tragedy Strikes!

Oh Holy God, I have grey hair. There is no way to sugar coat this frightening yet inevitable turn of events. So far, there has only been one rogue sprouting, wiry white fleck, but to be sure, more are coming. I completely ignored every old wives tale and superstition about 7 replacing 1 and plucked that sucker out seconds after I saw it.

I have vivid recollections of dying my mom's hair in the bathroom when she didn't want to be bothered with the salon, or felt it wasn't worth the expense that month. I have to add the caveat here, that as a granola woman who felt it misogynistic to shave her legs, she barely felt it necessary to do to begin with and mainly did so (I think) to appease me (though she always liked it afterwards).

If genetics have anything to say about things (and they will- we looked a lot alike) I have lots of white, unruly hair coming to me, particularly in the top and front. I'm sure wherever she is, she's laughing heartily at my current misfortune.

I've done the calculation, and I think I have a safe countdown of at least a couple of years before I can no longer pluck out random hairs and the non-stop coloring begins. Unfortunately for my hair follicles, which are healthy now after I stopped coloring over a year ago, I don't think I will wait that long. And so begins the death sentence...

Trials and Tribulations

So, my friendly readers...it has been more than a month since I've managed more than a thought or two towards this blog (usually just a passing "damn, it's been a while since I posted", and then I go back to Perez Hilton). Unfortunately, I'm afraid now that I've returned, though I do have some things to say, not many of them are cheery.

On the upside of things, I've been working steady with John, my personal trainer, for over a month now and I feel stronger and healthier for it. Getting to the gym on the days I don't meet with John are still a challenge, but it's getting easier.

I took Richard to Las Vegas for the weekend + two days for his birthday celebration. Expecting to gain several pounds in liquor and bad poolside eating, I actually dropped about 7 subsisting on a diet of cosmo's and not much else, including sleep. I'm thinking of selling the "Vegas" diet on the internet somewhere. I'm sure there's a market for it.

The big news waited until I got back, and had settled into the office Thursday morning. The news we had at least partially expected, but expected to take much longer had arrived. They're closing down my group, which means one of two things. I can either accept the extremely gracious offer of switching to something else within the firm, or look elsewhere if I wish to stay in bankruptcy.

It's Friday now and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't still a little shell-shocked. My mind is racing with contacts and possibilities. I'm going to Connecticut this weekend for a fundraising walk. I guess I'm hoping inspriation will strike me on the highway, where my metaphorical highway of choices will meet the real one and a decision will snap into view. Wish me luck.