I sort of have a guest blogger today. With permission, a friend of mine, who requested I withhold his name, has allowed me to post the note I received from him following the big blizzard. There had been an intimate gathering at the home of friends in the Village, and we all departed relatively early (after copious amounts of awesome Chinese takeout, wine, champagne, Waterfront Alehouse Sam's eggnog and whisky) to make it home in the snow. My F train ride was somewhat eventful, diving through snowdrifts on the walk home and clawing my way up my stoop to get into my building. But the following story about my friend's journey home in Westchester is epic. And an impressive recounting considering my friend's state when he was writing it on most of a bottle of Van Winkle 12 Yr, hours after that big boozy dinner. Enjoy.
P.S. He's way too old to play my friend by decades, but I somehow picture Steve Martin in the movie version.
Little after 2. Just got in. Had a bit of an adventure getting here. The train doors didn't open at my stop. Stood there pounding on the glass, pushing the emergency call button, watching my snow covered car getting smaller as the train carried on to the next station. Went back through four or five cars to finally find a conductor who was no help at all and by that time we were at the next station about six miles from my car and home. No trains going back the other way until morning, no cabs in the blizzardy soup and no kind fellow travelers to bum a ride from. So I walked down the middle of the main road in a rather grim parody of Jimmy Stewart's George Bailey on my slow, cold way to Bedford Hills, not Bedford Falls.
Whiteout conditions up here, I walked a ways, trying to flag down the occasional plow or sander going past to no avail. Got about halfway and wondered if I shouldn't just sit down in the snow and crack open the Van Winkle. Then decided I could walk and drink at the same time. When I was about a mile away from the station, about five miles and a good four fingers of fine Bourbon down, one of the big department of transportation plows pulled over and took pity on me. I explained the situation and climbed aboard, saving myself a little walking. To his credit, the driver refused the drink I offered him and wouldn't take a dime, but dropped me off next to my car. Then I just had to slip and slide in low gear up the lousy hills of Bedford frickenfracken Hills. And here I sit, pouring some more fine Bourbon into a little tumbler of Lactaid eggnog and typing out this long stupid note to you all. Which has oddly enough made me feel much better. That and the fact that "Mansquito" is on the SciFi channel in the background... truly awful in a so awful it's good way.
Thanks to you all for the presents and booze and company tonight. It's good to have good friends, and after my lovely trip home I'm more determined than ever to move closer to the lot of you. Happy Holidays and safe travels to those traveling! Right. Shoveling snow and then bed. Joy.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Friday, December 11, 2009
Good Grief
So guess what?
I got a job!!!
Patrick Watson of Smith and Vine, Stinky and Jakewalk, businesses I have been a huge fan and patron of since they started five years ago, offered me a job at the brand new Brooklyn Wine Exchange next to Trader Joes on Court St.! The plan was to help them set up, then holiday sales, then eventually become a manager or some sort of buyer once the dust settles. My starting hourly wage was the highest on offer, and everyone was "so excited" to have me on board!
So I spent three and a half days schlepping hundreds of cases of wine up and down steep, scary basement stairs, carefully placing bottles on the shelves according to varietal and region, helping to make shelf talkers, etc. then three more days getting their sales going. All the while tired and sore, but also "so excited" and hopeful. Finally. A wine job for cool people who don't yell at me constantly or sell crap to please the common denominator, five blocks from my house, and some of my very favorite off the beaten path wines to turn people on to. So what if my social life would suffer. So they didn't have a spirits license yet. All in due time. I can be a great wine bitch when it's needed. I am all up in that.
And then guess what?
Patrick informs me that evenings are too quiet. Too many staff on the floor. Not enough to do yet. My hourly wage is too high to maintain. Myself and another staffer had to go. Yes, I was good at what I did and well informed. Yes, I demonstrated sales ability. But they just couldn't afford me. And that was it. Come get your step stool and cash for your last shift. We'll give you a stunning recommendation if you reference us.
Huh?
Now Elizabeth Kubler-Ross has her classic grief cycle, but mine kinda goes something like this:
1. Shock
2. Anger
3. Extreme Anger
4. So Angry I Can't Even Scream or Cry
5. Wait I Can Cry Now But There Is Nothing To Throw Without Pissing Off The Neighbors
a)Screw the Neighbors and Their Newborn, I Have Old Plates I Can Throw!!!
b)No I Can't Do That
c)Well, Maybe
d)OK, No
6. Acceptance (That I Need To Dispose Of Said Plates In an Open Field)
8. Run Errands
9. Pick Up Step Stool and Cash Without Letting Now Former Boss Say Anything Further
10.Tell Parents
a)Explain Once Again How Call Waiting Works
b)Explain Once Again DVR Programming Functions
c)Turn Down Offer To See Broadway Musical
d)Make Dinner Plans For Random Event 2 Weeks From Now
1. Look, When Your Cousin's In Town, Where Should We Go For Lunch?
Cry Again
Order Chinese Food
I got a job!!!
Patrick Watson of Smith and Vine, Stinky and Jakewalk, businesses I have been a huge fan and patron of since they started five years ago, offered me a job at the brand new Brooklyn Wine Exchange next to Trader Joes on Court St.! The plan was to help them set up, then holiday sales, then eventually become a manager or some sort of buyer once the dust settles. My starting hourly wage was the highest on offer, and everyone was "so excited" to have me on board!
So I spent three and a half days schlepping hundreds of cases of wine up and down steep, scary basement stairs, carefully placing bottles on the shelves according to varietal and region, helping to make shelf talkers, etc. then three more days getting their sales going. All the while tired and sore, but also "so excited" and hopeful. Finally. A wine job for cool people who don't yell at me constantly or sell crap to please the common denominator, five blocks from my house, and some of my very favorite off the beaten path wines to turn people on to. So what if my social life would suffer. So they didn't have a spirits license yet. All in due time. I can be a great wine bitch when it's needed. I am all up in that.
And then guess what?
Patrick informs me that evenings are too quiet. Too many staff on the floor. Not enough to do yet. My hourly wage is too high to maintain. Myself and another staffer had to go. Yes, I was good at what I did and well informed. Yes, I demonstrated sales ability. But they just couldn't afford me. And that was it. Come get your step stool and cash for your last shift. We'll give you a stunning recommendation if you reference us.
Huh?
Now Elizabeth Kubler-Ross has her classic grief cycle, but mine kinda goes something like this:
1. Shock
2. Anger
3. Extreme Anger
4. So Angry I Can't Even Scream or Cry
5. Wait I Can Cry Now But There Is Nothing To Throw Without Pissing Off The Neighbors
a)Screw the Neighbors and Their Newborn, I Have Old Plates I Can Throw!!!
b)No I Can't Do That
c)Well, Maybe
d)OK, No
6. Acceptance (That I Need To Dispose Of Said Plates In an Open Field)
8. Run Errands
9. Pick Up Step Stool and Cash Without Letting Now Former Boss Say Anything Further
10.Tell Parents
a)Explain Once Again How Call Waiting Works
b)Explain Once Again DVR Programming Functions
c)Turn Down Offer To See Broadway Musical
d)Make Dinner Plans For Random Event 2 Weeks From Now
1. Look, When Your Cousin's In Town, Where Should We Go For Lunch?
Cry Again
Order Chinese Food
Thursday, November 26, 2009
A Very Schuster Thanksgiving Special
(Sorry no photos, folks. When I get the scanner. I'll add Dave and Carlotta to the top of the post).
I remember few Thanksgivings prior to 1989, and no, it's not the whisky. It's just that is the year that what has become our annual tradition truly took shape. It was my freshman term at NYU and it snowed. My two best pals, Allan (my future ex-husband) and Jason (my then pseudo boyfriend and now brother-once-removed) made the trek out to CT, where my family lived at the time. Our good friends Chris and John, as well as a couple of my father's graduate students (my dad is a chemistry professor) who had arrived earlier in the day also joined us, as did family friends Paul and Nesren Salkin and their son David, who is my age. Grandma Nina lived with us; Grandma Cele drove out from Long Island. I picked Allan, Jason, Chris and John up at the train station. They had all somehow met and sat together on the huge train, not realizing till halfway through the trip they were going to the same place, and were already joking together like they'd known each other forever. When we arrived at the house, ascending our long winding driveway, the lawn, the trees, the roof, the glow of the interior, were an idyllic New England early winter wonderland setting. Everyone caught their breath at the same moment.
Which is good, because my dad decided to greet everyone at the door by shoving our 18 year old, long, gray-haired cat, Mabel, belly-up in their faces. "Look. Smell her. Smell my cat. Doesn't she smell like talcum powder? Doesn't she smell like a baby?" WHAT? I was mortified. But just as I contemplated running for the hills, Jason nearly fell over laughing. "Smell my cat! Doesn't she smell like a baby, like talcum powder?" my dad repeated to everyone over and over, thrusting all six pounds of poor defenseless Mabel right under people's noses. My dad's student George said, "Dave. Only you would greet Amanda's new boyfriend at the door asking him to smell your pussy." And thus, 20 years later, Jason's love of my family is entrenched.
Then the meal, Mom's chestnut soup, the family recipe turkey, corn pudding and all the sides, my pumpkin pie with pecan brittle, everything all came together. Paul was horribly allergic to cats and asked that Mabel be kept out of the dining room while we ate. "Has the cat been removed?" He asked in a oddly James Bond villain manner. Throughout the evening we kept erupting in waves of laughter at any little thing, especially when my mother slapped her shoulder, which she does any time someone says something peculiar. Like, say, "My cat smells like talcum powder." The grandmothers just shook their heads and chuckled as they held court on their end. Our fun lasted well into the night when Chris sat at the piano (at the time he was the saloon talent at Windows on the World) and the boys and I stood around and sang Monty Python's "Lumber Jack Song." Then we went outside and made snow angels on the lawn and got into a snow ball fight. The next morning, Jason and Allan, who slept on the foldout couch in the office, were greeted by my dad knocking on the door, "Rise and shine, boys." And Allan let out a very audible fart on cue. 10 year relationship, people.
In years to come, we repeated various elements of that night. It was a revolving group of students, but Allan (now my boyfriend, still my future ex-husband), Jason (it would never have worked), Chris and John had become our regular crew. The cat was dead, but the Salkins decided to do things at home from then on. For some reason, for three consecutive years, we kept having little natural catastrophes that would always occur On. That. Day. One year the Koehler faucet in the kitchen broke and my mother declared a "state of E-German-cy" when we had to keep washing and schlepping everything to and from the downstairs utility sink. Another year my dad made a fire and forgot to open the flue, so the house filled with smoke. Jason said it gave the term "flame retardant" a whole new meaning. (Double shoulder slap). Each house in that town had its own well which was electrically pumped. Wouldn't ya know it, the next year, the pump went on the fritz and there was absolutely no running water for 3 days. We managed anyway, using a lot of jugged water and flushing toilets with pool water. No one stayed over.
While dinner was cooking, we would sit around the large living room by the fire (it was only that one time), drinking cocktails and grazing on snacks. We used to play games like "Dictionary" where we agree on a word no one knows and come up with our own definitions. My favorite was John's for "repoussage," which is of course what happens when someone is assaulted using a jar of French mustard.
My grandmothers both died within a few months of each other, between 2000 and 2001, which was also the year my marriage to Allan finally choked on its own vomit. But we managed to get the rest of the group together, plus a new cat. My dad provided the running gag of the evening as he tried to work out his new digital meat thermometer that kept chiming even though the turkey wasn't close to being done. And luckily for Bruce the cat, he doesn't smell anything like talcum powder. Though it was hard for me to ignore two of those empty places. A toast to you two great dames.
My parents finally sold the house in 2005 and permanently moved to a duplex in Manhattan. The first couple of years in that apartment, they had Korean neighbors who occupied the top two floors. My folks kept complaining that the doorbell would ring at all hours. In 2007, our friend Malvina said this van drove up to the apartment as she was leaving. She heard someone say, "Yep, this is the place," and then drove off. By Christmas Eve, the neighbors were all arrested in a prostitution bust. Yep, happy ending massage parlor right above my parents! When my dad greeted me at the door the next day, oh, how I wish I'd had a camera. The ideal Kodak moment, police tape emblazoned with "PROSTITUTION" covering the door leading upstairs. Their landlord was cleaning out the place. By Christmas night's end, the sidewalk was strewn with used mattresses, satin sheets and a lot of clocks.
This year it's nearly a whole new crew. John still joins us, but Chris has to go to Maryland to be with his ailing mother. Jason is spending the holiday with work friends but has already checked in. Malvina, a wonderful lady who gave up a cushy career to become a Bronx public school history teacher will be there. The new upstairs neighbors, Padma and Oskar, who are my age, (They're bankers. For real. Nary a satin sheet up there as far as we know) will be coming downstairs for the festivities. Over the years we got another John, my now ex-boyfriend. So we have gay John and English John. And get this, English John's other ex-girlfriend, Anastasia (we bonded) will be here visiting from Seattle, and her lovely 22 year old daughter Liza visiting from Moscow, and her friend Vanessa (no idea where she comes from) will all be present. English John has to work at the Harefield Road in Williamsburg and will be missed. Yes if I could, I'd draw you all a chart.
What am I thankful for this year? Well, it definitely was one of the worst ones of my life, have to say. But there is no way I'd come out of it OK without my crazy parents and all the love, support and patience they have shown me and the people around me. No way. No way at all.
I remember few Thanksgivings prior to 1989, and no, it's not the whisky. It's just that is the year that what has become our annual tradition truly took shape. It was my freshman term at NYU and it snowed. My two best pals, Allan (my future ex-husband) and Jason (my then pseudo boyfriend and now brother-once-removed) made the trek out to CT, where my family lived at the time. Our good friends Chris and John, as well as a couple of my father's graduate students (my dad is a chemistry professor) who had arrived earlier in the day also joined us, as did family friends Paul and Nesren Salkin and their son David, who is my age. Grandma Nina lived with us; Grandma Cele drove out from Long Island. I picked Allan, Jason, Chris and John up at the train station. They had all somehow met and sat together on the huge train, not realizing till halfway through the trip they were going to the same place, and were already joking together like they'd known each other forever. When we arrived at the house, ascending our long winding driveway, the lawn, the trees, the roof, the glow of the interior, were an idyllic New England early winter wonderland setting. Everyone caught their breath at the same moment.
Which is good, because my dad decided to greet everyone at the door by shoving our 18 year old, long, gray-haired cat, Mabel, belly-up in their faces. "Look. Smell her. Smell my cat. Doesn't she smell like talcum powder? Doesn't she smell like a baby?" WHAT? I was mortified. But just as I contemplated running for the hills, Jason nearly fell over laughing. "Smell my cat! Doesn't she smell like a baby, like talcum powder?" my dad repeated to everyone over and over, thrusting all six pounds of poor defenseless Mabel right under people's noses. My dad's student George said, "Dave. Only you would greet Amanda's new boyfriend at the door asking him to smell your pussy." And thus, 20 years later, Jason's love of my family is entrenched.
Then the meal, Mom's chestnut soup, the family recipe turkey, corn pudding and all the sides, my pumpkin pie with pecan brittle, everything all came together. Paul was horribly allergic to cats and asked that Mabel be kept out of the dining room while we ate. "Has the cat been removed?" He asked in a oddly James Bond villain manner. Throughout the evening we kept erupting in waves of laughter at any little thing, especially when my mother slapped her shoulder, which she does any time someone says something peculiar. Like, say, "My cat smells like talcum powder." The grandmothers just shook their heads and chuckled as they held court on their end. Our fun lasted well into the night when Chris sat at the piano (at the time he was the saloon talent at Windows on the World) and the boys and I stood around and sang Monty Python's "Lumber Jack Song." Then we went outside and made snow angels on the lawn and got into a snow ball fight. The next morning, Jason and Allan, who slept on the foldout couch in the office, were greeted by my dad knocking on the door, "Rise and shine, boys." And Allan let out a very audible fart on cue. 10 year relationship, people.
In years to come, we repeated various elements of that night. It was a revolving group of students, but Allan (now my boyfriend, still my future ex-husband), Jason (it would never have worked), Chris and John had become our regular crew. The cat was dead, but the Salkins decided to do things at home from then on. For some reason, for three consecutive years, we kept having little natural catastrophes that would always occur On. That. Day. One year the Koehler faucet in the kitchen broke and my mother declared a "state of E-German-cy" when we had to keep washing and schlepping everything to and from the downstairs utility sink. Another year my dad made a fire and forgot to open the flue, so the house filled with smoke. Jason said it gave the term "flame retardant" a whole new meaning. (Double shoulder slap). Each house in that town had its own well which was electrically pumped. Wouldn't ya know it, the next year, the pump went on the fritz and there was absolutely no running water for 3 days. We managed anyway, using a lot of jugged water and flushing toilets with pool water. No one stayed over.
While dinner was cooking, we would sit around the large living room by the fire (it was only that one time), drinking cocktails and grazing on snacks. We used to play games like "Dictionary" where we agree on a word no one knows and come up with our own definitions. My favorite was John's for "repoussage," which is of course what happens when someone is assaulted using a jar of French mustard.
My grandmothers both died within a few months of each other, between 2000 and 2001, which was also the year my marriage to Allan finally choked on its own vomit. But we managed to get the rest of the group together, plus a new cat. My dad provided the running gag of the evening as he tried to work out his new digital meat thermometer that kept chiming even though the turkey wasn't close to being done. And luckily for Bruce the cat, he doesn't smell anything like talcum powder. Though it was hard for me to ignore two of those empty places. A toast to you two great dames.
My parents finally sold the house in 2005 and permanently moved to a duplex in Manhattan. The first couple of years in that apartment, they had Korean neighbors who occupied the top two floors. My folks kept complaining that the doorbell would ring at all hours. In 2007, our friend Malvina said this van drove up to the apartment as she was leaving. She heard someone say, "Yep, this is the place," and then drove off. By Christmas Eve, the neighbors were all arrested in a prostitution bust. Yep, happy ending massage parlor right above my parents! When my dad greeted me at the door the next day, oh, how I wish I'd had a camera. The ideal Kodak moment, police tape emblazoned with "PROSTITUTION" covering the door leading upstairs. Their landlord was cleaning out the place. By Christmas night's end, the sidewalk was strewn with used mattresses, satin sheets and a lot of clocks.
This year it's nearly a whole new crew. John still joins us, but Chris has to go to Maryland to be with his ailing mother. Jason is spending the holiday with work friends but has already checked in. Malvina, a wonderful lady who gave up a cushy career to become a Bronx public school history teacher will be there. The new upstairs neighbors, Padma and Oskar, who are my age, (They're bankers. For real. Nary a satin sheet up there as far as we know) will be coming downstairs for the festivities. Over the years we got another John, my now ex-boyfriend. So we have gay John and English John. And get this, English John's other ex-girlfriend, Anastasia (we bonded) will be here visiting from Seattle, and her lovely 22 year old daughter Liza visiting from Moscow, and her friend Vanessa (no idea where she comes from) will all be present. English John has to work at the Harefield Road in Williamsburg and will be missed. Yes if I could, I'd draw you all a chart.
What am I thankful for this year? Well, it definitely was one of the worst ones of my life, have to say. But there is no way I'd come out of it OK without my crazy parents and all the love, support and patience they have shown me and the people around me. No way. No way at all.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
WhiskyFest!
Getting a ticket this year was a real nail-biter, seeing as my liquor peeps don't have as much to gain by my attendance as in years past when I was a spirits buyer. But one did thankfully come through, perhaps mostly due to my Patron Saint of Brown Spirits. Unfortunately, this was not a VIP ticket, which meant losing out on the first hour of the event, when all the high end drams are available to taste. The anchor was cast with my friends Stephanie and Leo at P.J. Clarke's (my first trip there, and I WILL be back!) for steak and fries right before the event. But once we arrived, I had to wave goodbye to my friends as I stood outside the ropes in the cattle pen, pathetically watching them enter the room like a Kindergartner abandoned by its parents on the first day. I vow next year to buy my own if no one gets me one in time.
I was furious to see that some people had gotten in at that time, only to take advantage of the outside bouffet table!! People, you could be tasting Trace Vintage Collection! Michter's 25 Year! Highland Park 30 Year! Dalmore King Alexander, Papy Van Winkle 23 Yr and countless other gems I am salivating to try and may not get to because they will be hidden from me in an hour. But no, you eat. Way to live up stereotype. You know who you are.
But my time finally did come. Registration. Wrist band. Let the bulls run!
What to drink first? So much build up, so much expectation. I was immediately greeted by my pal Dan Fisher, who had just purchased a VIP dram of Highland Park 1964 and was generous enough to offer a sip. A beautiful way to start. My favorite scotch flavors: a little briny, sea-salty, kelpy, then dark chocolate and yeast. Chocolate covered pretzels with smoke. Love at first sip. Next, my new tasting buddy, Rob (via Twitterati) and I headed to the Heaven Hill table. Met the man, Parker Beam again, he seemed to remember me, unless he was just being polite, which I'll take. I shook his weathered hand and was given a glass of the new Parker's Heritage release. Sharp pie spices, brown sugar, tempered by nuts and sherry. Gets better by the year, I say. Rob had the Evan Williams 2000, which I decided was the dram of the night. Yeasty, a bit like a sweet mash, cinnamon buns, balanced by salt and leather. Mmmmm. We then met up with Stephanie and off to Wild Turkey! Managed to elbow our way in and try the last drops of Tradition, which was also glorious. Pecan brittle, but not too sweet or syrupy, heather and hay.
From there it starts to get fuzzy. I know we made it to Michter's, where my pal Kenny informed me he had been holding a taste of the 25 Yr for me, but couldn't find me and let it go!!! Quel disappointment! Yep, gotta be a VIP next year. The Dalmore table yielded a taste of the King Alexander from Jura distiller Willie Tait. Gloriously mellow, but flavorful, nutty and deep. The 15 Year was pretty awesome too. I could spot my friend Dave, an excited, curious first timer who bought his ticket early on my suggestion. He weaved toward me and said, "You didn't warn me about the pacing!" He luckily had a couple more tastes in him and I steered him toward Andrew Gray of Bruichladdich (pronounced "Brook-lahddy") to taste some of the new finishes, and made sure he went to Wild Turkey. A very quick visit to the Maker's table, with John Henry making cocktails. I got a Mark and Stormy. Nice idea. But I needed this like Liberace needs a sequin.
It was time for Pappy. Pappy, ohhhh, my Pappy! Hello to Julian and right to the 20 Year. But hold on, Dave from Buffalo Trace is here. Would I like to taste the Vintage Collection I missed during VIP hour? Does the Pope shit in the woods? Ok, give me your glass. With half a dram of Pappy 20 left in it. Dave dives under the table. I take a long sip, tip the glass over the bucket, closed my eyes and let go. The shame. Where did my life take a turn that I dump a precious Pappy 20 to taste something else? But my palate and what was left of my sobriety thanked me. Rare, wheated William La Rue Weller softly kissed my throat and hot, tangy Sazerac 18 Year rye jolted me back. Oh yes.
My favorite moment of the night, among many, I spot Macallan master distiller John Ramsey, whom I had just met for the first time the day before at a special tasting at Astor. Wave hello and he warmly greets me and says my name without anyone prompting him!
The room is steaming, no air anywhere, but we keep going. A quick bite at the bouffet and suddenly it's 9:30. Last call! Scrambling for a final dram, I want to end on a high, sweet note. Highland Park is in its dregs and brand ambassador Martin is elsewhere. Glenrothes already packing up. Yamazaki too crowded. But score back at Heaven Hill! My own pour of Evan Williams 2000. As good as the beginning. A righteous way to end. A final gathering of various Twitter folks and friends. So good to meet you. So good to see you again. Lynnette with her Irish handcuffs, holding two early birthday drams in each fist. Most of us are surprisingly in command of our faculties. Maybe it was the steak. The descent down the escalator and in minutes Steph and I are back on the C train to Brooklyn. Another year gone by. My sticky souvenir glass for 2009 will be washed tomorrow, joining 2007 and 8 in my cabinet like long lost family. Thank you John Hansell and Malt Advocate for just being you.
Crap! Forgot to taste the Jefferson's Reserve!
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Where the Month Went
I have been remiss.
Well, I have been busy.
Instead of my usual essay on a single topic, I present to you the entire month of October in a nutshell.
Patti Kelly's stained glass studio. I'm working here two days a week now. Patti is a friend of friends who has had her own studio in the East Village since the late 80s. She recently took on a big project to restore 20 windows for a church in New Jersey. "Restore" means that the windows from the 1960s, which were badly put together in the first place, need new support bars, new frames, new lead phlanges to hold the glass in, which involves soldering, some glass replacement and a lot of puttying and polishing. The windows come four to a box, which weigh upwards of 300lbs, and the windows themselves buckle and sway when they are handled and the glass makes scary, pingy-cracking sounds. Very nerve-wracking when that time comes, and it takes at least 3 of us to flip them over. When they are re-boxed, there's a lot of carpentry involved creating holes in the wood with power drills and saws so the boxes can be handled, and then drilling the pieces together. It's a lot of hard, physical labor and hours on the feet, (at the end of it and for days after my arms feel like dislocated noodles and the bottoms of my feet burn) but I'm loving it. My bod is getting buff too! Patti is very cool-headed and snarky, and our cast of team members - local artists and barflies - are so much fun to be around. Through them, I am learning all about the neighbors, the cops, the worst odd jobs ever, the best parts of human nature, how to swear in Italian and where to get the best sandwiches in Alphabet City. None of us on this church project is a believer. We are sooooo getting smote upside our heads! But if not, we are all planning a field trip to Jersey to see our hard work in place at the end of December. That's me with power tools working on the window boxes. Groovy! Fall colors unintentional, yet timely.
Food Writing class at Media Bistro taught by Andrea Strong. Though in the course of 8 weeks we are only responsible for two articles and two pitch letters, somehow, this seems to suck a lot of my concentration, but in a good way. There are ten of us, all girls (there used to be a boy, Peter, a chef, but he hasn't shown up the past two weeks. I think he felt overwhelmed by the estrogen-charged attention, poor guy). Usually in a class that size there is always "That Person" you don't like (you know the one). But I am happy to report we all really get along and genuinely enjoy hanging out. We read out writings out loud, but we also spend a lot of time just gabbing and giggling, as a group of gals with common interests will do. We are of diverse backgrounds, but we all love food. It is the ultimate bonding agent. Andrea is super cool too. So glad I decided to do this. I'm learning a lot.
Last week I got to go to a taping of the Daily Show! If I was attracted to Jon Stewart before, I am now officially smitten. So worth standing out in the rain for. It was a total blast.
Tried out Henry Public. Met a cute guy. Who called me immediately and did a lot of enthusiastic texting. Then bailed out of our date when the weather was crappy and hasn't returned my subsequent texts. All I did was mention when I next had a free night, nothing beyond that, nothing stalker-iffic. Sigh. It was indeed too good to be true. But I still like the bar, the cocktails and look forward to tasting their turkey leg sandwich. Maybe he'll show up again. If my life had a soundtrack, this would have been "Da Doo Run Run" followed by the Smith's "Never Had No One Ever." Or maybe just the sound of the trumpet, "Wha Wha Whaaaaaaaa..."
Still looking for work. Joy. More too good to be true scenarios. What's that trumpet call again?
Revisited Saul with my parents and experienced wonderfully-prepared dishes and fantastic service. And ate my first baked Alaska in like 15 years! Hadn't been back there since my 29th birthday. I'm not doing the math for you.
And finally, my uncle, whom I love dearly, has been very sick. It's been an unsteady battle that experiences the occasional cease fire, but doesn't end. We have become close over the years and it's been pretty nerve-wracking. I can only hope this ends up OK.
Well, I have been busy.
Instead of my usual essay on a single topic, I present to you the entire month of October in a nutshell.
Patti Kelly's stained glass studio. I'm working here two days a week now. Patti is a friend of friends who has had her own studio in the East Village since the late 80s. She recently took on a big project to restore 20 windows for a church in New Jersey. "Restore" means that the windows from the 1960s, which were badly put together in the first place, need new support bars, new frames, new lead phlanges to hold the glass in, which involves soldering, some glass replacement and a lot of puttying and polishing. The windows come four to a box, which weigh upwards of 300lbs, and the windows themselves buckle and sway when they are handled and the glass makes scary, pingy-cracking sounds. Very nerve-wracking when that time comes, and it takes at least 3 of us to flip them over. When they are re-boxed, there's a lot of carpentry involved creating holes in the wood with power drills and saws so the boxes can be handled, and then drilling the pieces together. It's a lot of hard, physical labor and hours on the feet, (at the end of it and for days after my arms feel like dislocated noodles and the bottoms of my feet burn) but I'm loving it. My bod is getting buff too! Patti is very cool-headed and snarky, and our cast of team members - local artists and barflies - are so much fun to be around. Through them, I am learning all about the neighbors, the cops, the worst odd jobs ever, the best parts of human nature, how to swear in Italian and where to get the best sandwiches in Alphabet City. None of us on this church project is a believer. We are sooooo getting smote upside our heads! But if not, we are all planning a field trip to Jersey to see our hard work in place at the end of December. That's me with power tools working on the window boxes. Groovy! Fall colors unintentional, yet timely.
Food Writing class at Media Bistro taught by Andrea Strong. Though in the course of 8 weeks we are only responsible for two articles and two pitch letters, somehow, this seems to suck a lot of my concentration, but in a good way. There are ten of us, all girls (there used to be a boy, Peter, a chef, but he hasn't shown up the past two weeks. I think he felt overwhelmed by the estrogen-charged attention, poor guy). Usually in a class that size there is always "That Person" you don't like (you know the one). But I am happy to report we all really get along and genuinely enjoy hanging out. We read out writings out loud, but we also spend a lot of time just gabbing and giggling, as a group of gals with common interests will do. We are of diverse backgrounds, but we all love food. It is the ultimate bonding agent. Andrea is super cool too. So glad I decided to do this. I'm learning a lot.
Last week I got to go to a taping of the Daily Show! If I was attracted to Jon Stewart before, I am now officially smitten. So worth standing out in the rain for. It was a total blast.
Tried out Henry Public. Met a cute guy. Who called me immediately and did a lot of enthusiastic texting. Then bailed out of our date when the weather was crappy and hasn't returned my subsequent texts. All I did was mention when I next had a free night, nothing beyond that, nothing stalker-iffic. Sigh. It was indeed too good to be true. But I still like the bar, the cocktails and look forward to tasting their turkey leg sandwich. Maybe he'll show up again. If my life had a soundtrack, this would have been "Da Doo Run Run" followed by the Smith's "Never Had No One Ever." Or maybe just the sound of the trumpet, "Wha Wha Whaaaaaaaa..."
Still looking for work. Joy. More too good to be true scenarios. What's that trumpet call again?
Revisited Saul with my parents and experienced wonderfully-prepared dishes and fantastic service. And ate my first baked Alaska in like 15 years! Hadn't been back there since my 29th birthday. I'm not doing the math for you.
And finally, my uncle, whom I love dearly, has been very sick. It's been an unsteady battle that experiences the occasional cease fire, but doesn't end. We have become close over the years and it's been pretty nerve-wracking. I can only hope this ends up OK.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
MCC
Here's my only photo from the Manhattan Cocktail Classic. Blind tasting of 4 cognacs and armagnacs during a class moderated by Da Man of the Spirits Journal, F. Paul Paccult, with cocktails by Clover Club and Flat Iron Lounge's Julie Reiner and sexy spirit slinger Charlotte Voisey!
I need a new camera. The iPhone just isn't cutting it for these events and my 5 year old Nikon is too clunky to travel and has weird, useless settings. Now that my computer might have been saved, I think I need to invest in a Cannon Sureshot. Anyone know where this never-retail-paying Jew can get a good deal on one? Please comment and let me know.
Great weekend. Sarah, my close friend since we were 11, came to visit and participated in some of the MCC events with me. It was great to get an outsider's perspective about the industry and just wind her up and watch her go. She didn't know who any of these people were, or who represented what spirits or what the politics of the cocktail bars were about. For her, it was just delicious drinks. By Sunday afternoon she was getting her cocktails directly from Jim Meehan and Guiseppe Gonzalez at the bar, charming them with her high pitched giggle and enthusiasm, and just having a great time. As it should be.
I also got to meet some of you fellow Tweeters! May you lush long and prosper, great to put a face with a chirp, ladies.
On Sunday, still buzzed from the afternoon, (I went to Wondrich's class on the History of the Cocktail in NYC and then stayed at the bar way too long), Sarah and I met our friend Jason at Po, stupidly drank a bottle of wine with our pastas and fish and went to Clover Club as the rest of the cocktailians attended the gala. I almost had free tickets, but alas.
So we drank at Clover and nearly spent as much on drinks as on a gala tickets. Brilliant. And let me tell you, if any of you catch me asking a bartender for "...the liquor equivalent of an amuse bouche... for the road..." Please make me go home. Please.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
October, It's the Tenth Month!
Sorry posting has been so sporadic this month. Been lots going on.
I'm taking a food writing class at Media Bistro, taught by Andrea Strong, of the Strong Buzz. In it, we are writing two food articles and two pitch letters, in hopes that these actual articles will be published in actual publications! Seems like a good move in the right direction, yes? A lot of energy and time and been put into this so far, hence less writing on the side.
The other fun hilarious news is that my laptop has been acting up. It's a Mac iBook, three years old. And running great until I spilled water on it over the summer. Like half a glass. And here I am reacting, furiously trying to dry the keyboard and underneath, without thinking to maybe turn the MACHINE off so it doesn't fry. Then I watched in horror as the screen image literally just slid off and went black. I think there might have been a quick flash of two x's for eyes and a bottle of poison with a skull label, but not sure. Then, because clearly the women's daily multivitamin I've been taking was laced with a 500mg of Idiot and 750mg of Technological Helplessness supplements, I called Apple Care in a panic to see what could be done.
Big no no. Apparently, as nice as they are on the phone with the, "It's going to be OK. Let's just get you into an Apple Store and take a look. No really, you'll be fine." It's so not fine. As cute as they sound over the phone, with the flirting and the helpful calm assurances, once they know you've gotten your machine wet, basically, all your Apple Care is negated. In reality, the flirtatious geek on the other end is a vengeful enfant terrible who knows you need his expertise and gets paid to make you need it and that extra $200 (cost may vary) you spent useless. They wear headsets just so they have their hands free to rub them together premeditatively as they speak. Apple doesn't cover water now because all those people who bring their laptops to coffee shops have had too many liquid-related "accidents" (as well as the countless times other people have most likely dumped stuff on their computers on purpose for snarky comments and bad tipping). And they flag your account in case you try to bring it in for maintenance down the road, if it lives.
Well, somehow, my trusty iBook awoke from the spill and was working fine. But I was warned that since they wouldn't open it up to check, could be some water still inside that will eventually rot and fry the machinery. So it could be fine one day, and not be fine another, with no guarantee of time or extent of damage. In the meantime, back everything up like an Oxycotin addict.
That day started to come last month. It basically regressed, but way faster and more entertaining than Benjamin Button. First it had trouble waking up, then sometimes it got cranky and didn't want to stay awake or perform on command and crash in the middle of activity, sometimes it forgot passwords and couldn't sleep properly, I think it actually tried to shoo me off the keyboard and shake its mouse at me, then one day it simply wouldn't start at all.
Luckily, my friend Max, bless him, knows A LOT about Macs. Max for Macs. So like the uber-sweetie he is, dropped everything two days this week. Unsuccessful first attempt first day, was here all day yesterday uninstalling and reinstalling everything. Plus, bonus, gave me Snow Leopard! She's running like a champ now. Bless you, Max, the Mac Whisperer.
But she could still die any second. I'm basically operating under the assumption I need to plan on about a $1000 addition to my debt in the near future. I'm not a praying gal, but let's see if I can finally catch some breaks this fall. Maybe I could just pay that outright. It's about damn time.
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