Let Me Eat Cake
On Sunday I made a cake. As I may have mentioned, baking is not my core competency. I’m good at the savory aspects of cooking, especially those which afford room for improvisation. I’m not one for following recipes to the letter—I’d rather just get the gist of a dish. Especially since one of my cooking mantras is: Life is Short. This justifies my use of canned chicken stock, frozen garlic cubes, prepared pesto, and no-boil lasagna noodles—and my refusal to prepare anything that requires a meat or candy thermometer, a water bath or double boiler, an ice cream maker, or yeast.
Because of this combination of laziness and lack of detail orientation, I’ve never been big on baking. My few attempts have been unimpressive—a bland pear tart, a dry orange cake, soggy cobblers. I’ve come to terms with this.
But then last week, I finished reading
Julie and Julia, which you should read if you haven't done so already.
Julie and Julia is a blog-cum-memoir of a disgruntled secretary who decided to infuse her life with meaning by cooking all 524 recipes from Julia Child’s
Mastering the Art of French Cooking— in one year. Julie (the blogger-cum-memoirist) masterfully describes her conquests over aspic,
canard en croute, and lobster thermiodor.
I became inspired. I told myself: If Julie can do aspic, I can bake cake. I am going to follow directions—
all of the directions. I am going to create
the ribbon (which is what JC—aka Julia Child—calls the indicator of perfectly integrated butter, sugar, and eggs).
So I went out and bought a new rubber spatula and a springform pan, and then I invited two friends for dinner, planning to tackle a flourless chocolate cake (which is not one of JC's recipes, but whatever) .
I almost wimped out when I realized that the recipe required baking the cake in a springform pan set into a
roasting pan filled halfway with water. I do not own a roasting pan large enough to contain a 10" cake, but even if I did, it wouldn't fit in my narrow oven. I debated whether to go out and find a narrow roasting pan or a smaller springform pan, or to just make a different dessert. Then I applied the Life is Short mantra to the situation, and decided that the cake would be perfectly capable of surviving
without a water-filled roasting pan, dammit.
OK. But then the recipe called for a blend of 6 ounces of
unsweetened chocolate and 6.5 ounces of bittersweet chocolate, and the chocolate came in 4-oz packages. No unsweetened chocolate was available. So I flouted my vow to follow all the directions, and I used a combination of bittersweet and semisweet and adjusted the sugar.
I followed all the
other directions. And I am pleased to report that the cake turned out fine. It was sunken in the middle, and a little cracked across the top, but I flipped it over to disguise that. The cake texture was so fudgy that a dinner guest wondered (kindly and respectfully) whether it was undercooked. The jury's out on that one, but I think I'm making progress.
Posted by Dori at 10:37 PM
Gobble Gobble
So I'm not sure if I've gone into the fact that I pretty much hate all "national" holidays except Thanksgiving.
Christmas: commercialized and cloying
New Year's: cold, crowded, kissing at midnight
Valentine's Day: horrible if you're single, pressure-filled if you're not
4th of July: hot, bugs, traffic
Halloween: Too Much Candy
... and that brings me to Thanksgiving, which is great because (setting aside for a moment the whole Native American genocide aspect) I love the concept of a day set aside just for gratitude. Also, there's nothing to do but eat. Which, as you know, is one of my favorite activities.
I also happen to adore Thanksgiving food. In particular, I love cranberries (in fact, one year I attended the New England
Cranberry Festival, and let me tell you, it was memorable). I also love this yam-marshmallow-pineapple concoction, to which I like to refer as
food of the gods.
I acknowledge that this particular dish has probably never been featured in
Gourmet, but I am not a
food snob, so I'll heartily endorse it.
I spent Thanksgiving at home with my family, until I was stuffed and bored enough to come back "to the bean" (as my brother refers to Boston aka Beantown) yesterday afternoon. Since then I have polished off my take-home portion of the remaining yam combo (I ate all of it), the leftover turkey, and this cheese/corn casserole that my mom makes. Similarly gluttonously, I watched most of the second season of the L-word on DVD before succumbing to a night of tryptophan-and-Showtime-TV-enhanced sleep.
And now, it is 1 p.m., and it is time to finish my essay for my writing group (which is overdue), work on some job stuff, and get my ass to the gym. Nothing like a little blogging to kick off some productivity.
Posted by Dori at 12:59 PM
Today, I Hate Everything
Just to keep you all in the loop about the reasons for my wretched mood, in no particular order:
1) I'm fucking cold.
2) I hate winter.
3) I hate Christmas and I hate New Year's even more (rant forthcoming), and the sound of sleigh bells ringing is already driving me insane.
4) I continue to lust after the Ikea hutch but continue to lack the means of getting my ass in a van and the van to the store before the holiday madness explodes.
5) The aforementioned winter is causing me incredible anxiety because I no longer have access to a driveway, and I don't know where I will put my foster car once it starts snowing and there are snow emergencies and people get all territorial about spaces they have dug out. And the evil City starts towing innocent victims like me.
6) I emailed my alderman (for whom I fucking voted) about this issue and have thus far heard ZIP.
7) At any moment, my foster car could be snapped up by its rightful owner, thus leaving me car-less, and anxious about buying a car which I don't know how to do.
8) I BOTCHED my year-end perfomance evaluation and screwed myself out of a raise, which I now need to renegotiate because I have financial goals including the purchase and maintenance of a car (see above).
9) My lovely, hip Primary Care Provider is now on fucking maternity leave.
10) When, through a referral by aforementioned departing PCP, I went to see a very mean dermatologist, who was completely horrified by the state of my pores, further devastating my self-esteem. She prescribed two different creams that I will now have to co-pay for--another $20/month.
10) While we're talking about beauty (or lack thereof): I hate my haircut that I got impulsively last week and which makes me look like a 1980s ice-skater.
11) I have no boyfriend to help me deal with the snow, deal with the purchase of a car, drive a van to Ikea, assemble the hutch, stroke my bad hair, tell me I look great despite my pores, and cheerlead me through my forthcoming salary drama.
So be nice to me, OK?
Posted by Dori at 10:10 AM
Boar By Boar
One of my friends is somewhat interested in a guy, and we've talked at length about their plan-making process, which has, thus far, been characterized by vaugeness, confusion, and lack of commitment. Together, we've been pondering why it so hard to establish a time to hang out. What is it with boys and plans? Why do they insist on making plans on the day of? Are boys just genetically indisposed to concrete decisions?
My friend and I have discussed possible explanations for this behavior, tracing it back, as always, to the cave days, when humans learned to walk upright, use the wheel, and adapt behaviors that would frustrate one other for thousands of years to come. In the cave days, we reckon, the men brought in the wild boars, and the women brought in the wild berries. And did the men know in advance when the wild boar might hurtle by? Of course not. They had to be poised at all times for armed pursuit. That meant they couldn't commit to hanging out by the bonfire at any specific time, or agree to canoodling by the cave with any advance notice. Everything was--and remains--minute-to-minute, boar by boar.
The women, on the other hand, have always known where the berries are, where they grow, and how long they take to harvest. Since the beginning of time, we have artfully balanced cave cleaning, childbearing, and berry gathering (or the equivalent). Thus, we've developed capacity and desire for foresight.
When I shared this theory with my male friend A., he snorted.
"It's not about food," he said, predictably. "It's about sex."
According to A., women are all about predictable cycles. Cavewomen cared less about berries than they cared about babies. They knew when they were fertile and when it was the best time to get monolithic. There was no point in procreating on the wrong day of the cycle--better to spend that time talking about feelings. The guys, meanwhile, have always wanted (and been equipped for) action at all times.
According to A., this explains why men don't need to plan and women wish they would.
Posted by Dori at 9:56 PM
An Open Letter to Men Pursuing Online Love
So I'm still healing from my breakup with my former boyfriend. It has been almost four months now, and I am not completely opposed to the idea of pursuing romance anew. Thus, I have been doing some very noncommital online browsing, and would like to take this opportunity to write:
An Open Letter to Men Pursuing Online Love
Dear Men,
If you are seeking a mate via the Internet, and have received a lackluster response, it might be because you've committed one of the CARDINAL ERRORS OF ONLINE DATING POSTS, outlined herein, with actual true-life examples.
1) Expressing Anger/Social Ineptitude
Contrary to what many male e-daters seem to think, women do not find it compelling to read about your frustration with dating, your boredom, or your loneliness. The subject line “JESUS CHRIST I AM SO F***ING BORED!!!” followed by the admission that “I am stuck at work with absolutely zero to do. I can feel my intellect starting to wane. It feels like it's being pulled out of the back of my skull with a rusty fork. I'm not above begging for entertainment” is not funny, or cute, it’s just unbecoming. Everyone gets lonely and bored sometimes, but it’s not attractive to flaunt it. Much better to come across as playful and inviting i.e. “would love to engage in stimulating email exchange with wise and witty lady” or something like that.
2) Expressing Astonishment
SO many ads start with “I never thought I’d do this” or “just giving this a whirl”. I think we can take it as a given that NONE of us came out of the womb expecting to place a personal ad on the web. We know you didn’t plan on posting the ad, just as much as we didn’t plan on reading it. OK, so now that we’ve got that established, we can move on.
3) Being vague/cryptic
A sampling of recent “headlines”: Mellow weekend - Winter Warmer-
420 and a flick - Feeling spontaneous? - 420 right here - tonight! - Shanghai Slippery Mangosteen Surprise.
As we all acknowledge, we all scroll through hundreds of posts. Usually we’re looking for something specific in a GUY. So we’ll click if we see something we like about YOU, not the weather, not the weekend, not 420, not the bar or movie you want to check out, definitely not Shanghai Sliperry Mangosteen Surprise.
4) Expressing an "ism"
Everyone has a physical “type” and it’s fine to say so if you’re only attracted to thin/tattoed/big-breasted/red-headed women. It’s NOT fine to be abusive to people who may not fall into one of those categories, aka “If your 'big boned' or large, dont reply, I do not believe in the obesity gene... I think its just lazy to be fat” [sic]. The guy who posted that (besides having no grasp of apostrophes) has alienated not only heavy women but all women who value respectfulness and kindness.
5) Abandoning principles of grammar/spelling
If you can’t take the time to carefully check over your post, it bodes poorly on your ability to check over your physical appearance/hygiene/etc. Lots of us really care about this stuff! It’s worth running it through the spell check.
Hope this is helpful! Good luck! See you in cyberspace (once I've fully healed, of course)!
Posted by Dori at 9:44 PM
I'm Swamped. And I Hate it When People Say That.
So my work is madness lately. Madness, madness, madness. My desk is covered with papers and folders because I just can't seem to put anything away, which of course makes it worse, since I subsequently can no longer
find said papers and folders. Then I have to swear out loud and express my rage.
Everyone keeps calling me and emailing me with very compelling needs and questions. Elderly ladies stop by to ask about their place on the (literally) 13,000-person list for Sec. 8 vouchers. One lady in particular likes to drop in for, "a little sit-down" just as I'm thinking:
please don't sit down! She talks about how unfair her situation is (no kidding? Why do you think I fight for economic justice all day long?), and then she goes off about how it's all the fault of immigrants who eat up all our resources and go to college for free when our born-and-bred-American-kids are struggling to access the Ivory Tower. I cannot stand talk like this and find it very hard to nod in a cold way, while acting on my belief that I'm not going to change the opinion of an elderly lady in my office, and that even if I could, I don't have time to do so. I said something cold and final-sounding, and she headed out. I returned to the deluge on my desk.
So my point (after all that). I hate it when I ask someone to do something and she don't get back to me, and then eventually says breathlessly that she's swamped. When this happens, I think: Do you think I care? Do you manage your time much? What makes you think I am less swamped than you? When did "I'm swamped" become an excuse?
And alas, today, I was That Girl. I was curt on the phone. I was cold to an elderly lady. I owe several people calls. I said I was swamped. I'm sorry.
Posted by Dori at 5:19 PM
I Like Ikea
If you've talked to me at all over the last--oh, year or so--you know that I've been waiting with bated breath for the grand opening of
Ikea in Stoughton, MA. An estimated 20,000 people attended the debut. Traffic was backed up for a
mile outside the parking lot. And throngs of people
camped out overnight to be among the first customers.
When I was growing up, the nearest Ikea was in Elizabeth, New Jersey, and my family and I frequently contemplated making the 6-hour drive, but we never actually did it. Then Ikea opened in New Haven (only 2 hours away). I discussed the possibility of a pilgrimmage to the Mecca of Affordable Scandinavian Furniture on many occasions, but it never happened because a) I never had a car and b) I had no means of transporting or assembling large pieces of furniture.
The much-heralded arrival of the Stoughton store prompted me to do some surveillance on the Ikea website, such that I've identified my first purchase, the
Liatorp buffet with top cabinet which will, in one fell swoop, solve the abysmal storage situation in my kitchen. I have this gem bookmarked on my computer, and I look at it periodically with the kind of fondness normal people reserve for babies or pets.
I still haven't established how I will get baby Liatorp home (it is seven feet tall). My friend's truck, upon which I had pinned my hopes and dreams, has died. I may have to rent a van. And then I will have to pay someone to conduct the intense assembly process.
But does that dampen my joy? Was Rome built in a day? I think not.
Posted by Dori at 9:08 AM
The Sweet Smell of Democracy in the Morning
So in the past 24 hours I have devoted 5.5 hours to civic engagement. Last night I prowled around my neighborhood putting signs on people's doors reminding them to vote for a cool progressive friend-of-a-friend of mine, who's running for alderman. Campaign tidbit: you only put the signs on the doors of the people who have already indicated that they support your candidate. Otherwise, you're reminding the opposition to vote. So this means walking around in the dark with a clipboard, trying to find the individual houses of supporters listed on a spreadsheet, without ever setting off a burglar alarm, being accosted by dogs, or falling down the stairs of code-violating homes.
If that wasn't enough democracy for you, this morning I woke up at the crack of dawn, newly knighted as the "coordinator" for one of the districts in the suburb in which I work. We've been working for months on a ballot initiative that has a very slim chance of passing, but damnit, I was there "coordinating", regardless. Mostly this meant holding a sign that encouraged voters to "Vote Yes on Question 1", and switching my cold hands between my coat pockets and the sign's handle. It was mighty chilly today in this particular cradle of liberty. After a few hours of sign-holding, I went back to my office. And my "co-coordinator" called me at least four times to discuss the "hand off" of the signs at the end of the night, and the possible volunteer lineup for evening "voter prime time." (Confession: I sucked as Coordinator. The signs got crushed in the backseat of my foster car, and then I couldn't pry them out. I didn't really care about the "volunteer lineup", figuring I'd find out who was coming when and if they showed up.)
I held my "Yes on 1" sign next to a guy holding a "No on 1" sign. This guy is a nasty, spiteful, crackpot, known in town as a real crank. He writes crazy letters to the local paper, spreading lies and misinformation about progressive causes. Today he handed out "No on 1" leaflets festooned with skulls and crossbones. I despise him, and tried to avoid looking at him, but he engaged many of my "Yes on 1" cohorts in dialogue, and he was relatively respectful, and I'm proud to say that "my" people calmly responded to his wrong ideas and did us liberals proud. One woman nodded thoughtfully while he talked, casting out a few of her own thoughts about immigrants and taxes and her partner and her adopted Latino child. Then she turned to me and sighed and said, "I love this country." I'm not sure how I feel about this country at the moment, but I sure as hell love democracy when it looks like that.
After I finished with the signs, I went home and voted in my own neighborhood. As always, I was misty-eyed. I love local elections: democracy in its purest form. I love the elderly election officials who lord over the process and tsk tsk at you if you happen to flash your ballot visibly before it goes into the machine. I love the poll watchers who sit with their clipboards and track the activity on behalf of the different candidates. I love that they have my name and address on their spreadsheets, with a capital "D" for Democrat.
And I love how, for one day, the progressive people and the conservative people and the just plain outlandish people and the townies and the yuppies and the elders and the college students all file through some public building, giving a damn about their communities. And I love how the people on opposite sides of contentious campaigns stand on opposite sides of the sidewalk with their colorful signs, and pass around coffee and snacks and respectfully regard one another. They put their respective scorn aside, just for those fleeting 12 hours between the opening and the closing of the polls, when the future is up in the air, and there's nothing else to do.
Posted by Dori at 8:32 PM
You Crazy Kid!
In keeping with the "don't write about work" theme, I'm share an anecdote about some mail I received a few days ago. It was a blanket resume/cover letter combo, sent by a recent graduate of a good liberal arts college.
I am debating whether to reply to him with some version of the following response:
Dear Mr. Recent Liberal Arts College Grad,
I would never consider hiring you for a number of reasons, outlined herein.
First, you addressed your letter to "Human Resource Manager", which is hilarious, because my office is so tiny that we sure as hell don't have an HR function of any kind. I perform any and all HR duties, such as procuring the "Signs of Sexual Harassment" poster that I am legally obligated to display. It is rolled up under some wires, next to the used printer cartridges.
Mr. Liberal Arts, you must be familiar with the most ubiquitous Google? It would have taken mere minutes to look us up on the web and discover that you should have addressed the letter to me, thus actually indicating that some thought went into this correspondence. You would also have saved 37 cents, since there is clearly no job opening listed on our site. At the very least, you would have established that I am female, and therefore could have avoided the oh-so-awkward "Dear Sir or Madam".
Second, you wrote at least three times that your "people skills" ("I am an extremely personable individual, and I believe I possess several areas of competence that would contribute to the growth and success of your organization" ... "I possess a sharp, young mind") qualify you for a (nonexistent) position at my organization. The loveliness of your personality is for
me to assess.
Third, your very long cover letter detailed some impressive and relevant experience that might intrigue me, had you not violated so many central tenets of the job search process. But then your enclosed resume did not incorporate said relevant experience, focusing instead on your lifeguarding experience and those pesky"people skills". AND you mentioned your membership in a "national fraternity." Honey, this is not a selling point.
Fourth, your resume included the line "references: available upon request." That's like you saying "interview: by appointment only." Your references? Available, baby. That's implied.
Fifth, you did not include your email address. Do you think I'm going to
call you about a nonexistent job opening? Do you think I'm going to
send you a letter? You struck out on the Google front. This is a nail in the coffin.
Instead of pitching your missive in the trash, I have kept it next to the used printer cartridges for a few days, because I used to work for the career office during my own college years, and I'd like you to get this feedback so that someone, somewhere, can tap into all your people skills.
But you didn't enclose your email address. So your letter and resume? Headed for the curb.
Sincerely,
Dori
(
Director, HR Manager, IT Specialist, Administrative Coordinator,
Copy Bitch.)
Posted by Dori at 1:57 PM
Not So Hard Work
So first, let me say how much I suck, because my posting lately has been rather sporadic. This is in large part because work has suddenly because not just busy but interesting. Also I have been experiencing some stiffness in my hands that freaks me out. This happens periodically, and terrifies me long enough to inspire the procurement of some new ergonomic implement (a gel pad, a keyboard tray), do some hand stretches, and abstain from lifting weights at the gym (a real sacrifice, I know).
Which brings me to the topic of this here post. Last week I had dinner with Melissa, a friend from college. I was a little surprised when Melissa called me to have dinner, since I hadn’t seen her in over six months. I wondered if she wanted something (not in a bad way … I just assumed there was some impetus for her calling out of the blue).
So here’s the thread. Melissa has a severe case of repetitive stress injury, such that she can’t type at all. Her most recent job search centered largely on “non office” jobs. One such opportunity (which I’m stunned she didn’t pursue) entailed supervising at-risk youth as they launched an earned-income-workforce-development initiative, a pushcart venture called Tacos Unidos. Instead, she took a job at a consulting company, which is big enough to outfit her with voice-activated software, so she can write reports and take notes without ever approaching a mouse pad. She is thrilled to finally experience “work stress” as opposed to “health stress.”
So … the impetus for the call. Her company has just fired three staff members. She wants me to apply for a job as a “senior associate” because, as she said candidly, after describing the long hours, abysmal morale, and not-so-stellar pay, “I might be able to stand it there if I had someone cool to work with.”
When I categorically rejected her idea, she asked about my job.
Since a central tenet of the blogosphere is not to write about work, I’ll just say that the first year at my current job was really, really hard, and the idea of “moving on” occasionally occurred to me. I will also say that while my job is quite stressful on a number of levels, it really is a pretty much 9-5 operation. In fact, I officially work 32 hours a week. Some weeks are insane and I have to go to annoying meetings at night, or show up for early morning meetings with volunteers, but I get paid by the hour, so really have every incentive to make sure “comp” time happens. Thus, I enjoy social breakfast encounters with impunity, and have no problem taking off early if there’s a compelling activity in the early evening. I work half days on Fridays. PLUS, as you’ve observed, I can routinely spend an hour or so blogging. I don’t bill for these hours, which makes for a nice, guilt-free existence. And (touch wood) my hourly rate is decent enough to be comparable with a full-time job.
I never thought about how completely wonderful this is, until I heard Melissa’s complaints. And shortly thereafter, another friend’s laments about his high-powered consulting job, in which he routinely stays at the office until 11 p.m. and works weekends too (he gets paid a lot more, but still). My former boyfriend works similarly insane hours and has sacrificed years of his life on the altar of the medical profession.
I always thought of myself as a striver, a Miranda-from-Sex-and-the-City type, ambitious and even craven in my professional pursuits—someone literally hungering after power and influence.
But upon reflection, I’m not sure I’m willing to make the lifestyle choices that typically foster power and influence. I am definitely not willing to put myself at risk for the carpal tunnel. I am not ready to give up my Friday afternoons (The $4 movies! The empty gym! The cozy naps! The cooking!). I hate the thought of going back to that horrible mode of grad school/college of feeling constantly burdened by work (or the thought of it).
So the dinner was revealing, ultimately. I may have stumbled across something excellent, without ever having truly appreciated it. And I’m spoiled now, perhaps in a good and self-protecting way.
Posted by Dori at 1:50 PM
