Mmm...Soft Focus

Okay, so, this is the post where I wanted to dazzle you with photos of my spectacular pigs in blankets, but I pretty much rely on one friend to document my life for me (Do you have that friend? The one who you always think of when you’re going ready to go out, and contemplate lugging a camera because you always wish you had more pictures, but then you realize that your One Friend will be there and she always takes loads of photos? That’s Sarah.) and she hasn’t yet posted the images on Flickr. Anyway, suffice it to say that the blankets were fluffy and lovely, and my pastry-making confidence was further bolstered.

While searching for photos of my own food last night, I got to thinking about an observation that a friend of ours had made about the latest trends in food photography in general. He noted that older cookbooks tended to feature almost panoramic photos of elaborate tablescapes with a bunch of different crap all stacked up next to each other, often against a black background. But now, people seem to favor very tight shots with a crisp, central focal point and softness radiating outwards. I am such a sucker for that shit. I’m pretty sure that I could be convinced to eat a vacuum cleaner belt if you topped it with heirloom tomatoes and photographed it like that.

The Precious

If I haven’t been posting as often recently (my sincere apologies to the three of you reading), it’s because I’m over blogging. My new obsession: puff pastry. As I may have already mentioned, my pies are the stuff legends are made of, but I’m hardly one to rest on my laurels. Puff pastry is a challenge that I knew I would eventually face, and I have been gathering strength for that day. I knew not what form it would take – turnovers? danish? croissant? – but I knew that the task would require a quick wit, great patience, and 2 pounds of unsalted butter.

Last week, in a vision, I saw the One Ring: pigs in blankets. In the past I have relied upon cocktail weenies in Pillsbury Crescent Rolls, but such parlor tricks are no longer adequate for the Queen Baker of Bed-Stuy. The blankets, they must be made from scratch! You cower in fear! You quake before the hundreds of delicate, buttery layers! Will you not take up your rolling pin and fight beside me?

The humid August air threatened to take from me all that I held most dear. My hands were swift, but could it contend with the moist air that threatened to descend upon the work surface. Again and again I cast the flour down, folding and rolling and folding again, until the stubborn pockets of butter blended seamlessly with the dough. The battle was over. My enemy retreated into the refrigerator to rest.

At daybreak my worst fears were realized: the dough was stiff. With my last ounces of strength I pounded it into submission until it lay before me in a docile sheet. As I cut it into strips and rolled the weenies, I knew that once I cast it into the fires of the oven the test would be complete. Only time would tell.

In tomorrow’s installment: will the weenies rise up in their blankets?

Most Likely To...

Last week I got back in touch with an old friend from high school who recently moved to New York. I’m not really friendly with anyone else from back then, save the occasional email exchange, and for the most part I’ve been really okay with that. But when I heard from this particular friend, I got really excited. He was one of those people who seemed a little bigger than our school, like he had already figured out that how popular you were at 16 didn’t really mean shit in the long run, which is a pretty advanced concept for someone that age.

When we got together, I learned that 1) he was (duh) gay, and 2) I was unbelievably naïve as a teenager. Apparently, while I was at home picking out Indigo Girls songs on my six-string, fantasizing about a boy who never talked to me, my friends were trafficking illicit substances and engaging in polyamory. I mean, I knew the popular kids were drinking and having sex because they talked about it all the time, but I just assumed that my friends were as lame and confused as I was. Not so much. My innocence was so obvious that nobody had the heart to break it to me. Somehow I managed to miss the bongs rattling around with the Burger King cups in their back seats.

Now I live in New York City, one of the world capitols of all things seedy and perverse. I find it odd when I don’t see a tranny for a few days, and I can’t walk from my apartment to the subway without witnessing a drug deal (though I generally take pains to look away—I saw nothing!). When I meet someone new, I usually assume that 1) they are (duh) gay, and 2) they have a weed man. I’m sure that in many ways I’m just as innocent as ever, but I’d still probably give my high school self a heart attack.

Kinder Surprise, Or Not

I was listening to the Brian Lehrer show on NPR the other day, and they were discussing taste and memory, i.e. why certain foods trigger specific feelings and memories. Some people called in to talk about the best slice of pizza they ever had, or how they couldn't stand raw tomatoes because they associated them with the day someone died or something. That got me thinking about how for the longest time I could not stand cornbread, and I know exactly why. My parents both worked, and for a couple summers they put me in this day care center called KinderCare. I HATED KinderCare. I don’t remember much about it now, except that it was run by a really large woman with frizzy hair (the horror!), and that every single day we had the same snack: grape juice and cornbread. Every day. For three months. For a good ten years I associated cornbread with fluorescent lights and broken toys. And that horrible minibus they used to drive us around in with the pictures of happy children on the side. I never saw those kids. I think they died of an amino acid deficiency.

Through repeated exposure I’ve finally gotten over it and learned to appreciate - even love - cornbread, but grape juice still makes me gag. Then again, does anyone love grape juice?

The Sunshine of My Life

This past weekend, I made the mistake of exposing my skin to direct sunlight for more than fifteen minutes, and once again I was reminded of my genetic legacy of pallor. When I was a teenager, I spent many summer afternoons lying on our deck in my bathing suit with my body smeared in baby oil in the hopes of getting a tan like the popular girls. Except that there was just one problem: I can’t tan. It’s not like I turn pink and then tan, I just turn bright pink, then peel. The best case scenario is that I wind up with a few extra freckles. It took me an embarrassingly long time to finally accept this, and at least once every summer from age 13 to 18 I would subject myself to a near-paralyzing sunburn because I was sure that I over the winter I had developed the ability to produce melanin.

After years of voluntary exposure to damaging and potentially deadly UVA/UVB rays, by age 22 or so I finally got it through my fair skull that sunblock is my friend. Probably my best friend, even more so than corrective lenses and lip balm. Since then I never leave the house with less than SPF 15 on my face, even at night in the dead of winter. For a summer weekend of swimming and boating, I break out the heavy artillery: an SPF 30 formula that was determined by researchers at the Environmental Working Group to provide the best broad-spectrum protection. It feels like body armor, and after 40 minutes of floating in the lake followed by a vigorous toweling off, I was still greasy enough to leave a Kat-shaped stain on a deck chair.

By Sunday evening I felt bloated from overindulging in red meat and margaritas, but it seemed as though my sun protection efforts had paid off – no pinkness, no pain. I must’ve been sufficiently cautious, right? So why did I wake up on Monday morning with a disgusting, prickly red rash covering my forearm? It’s as though nature has to find some way to punish me for not wearing a caftan 24 hours a day. At least my freckles are still kind of cute, because between the grease and the rash, I can use all the extra charm I can get.

Cease and Desist, Dawgs

According to Kanye West, "Only white people and older black people say 'bling' now." Mr. West brings up a good point: sometimes you just have to let things go. Here are a few other slang phrases that are way past their prime:

• “You go, girl!” – My mom stopped saying this two years ago.
• “Represent,” as in “East Lansing, Michigan represent!” – Just…no. See also: “In the house.”
• Women saying “Don’t go there!” Followed by a cackle indicating her delight at her own sassiness. Note to That Girl: you are not truly sassy until you have backhanded a nail salon employee. Am I right, Foxy Brown?
• “Get my swerve on” – Unless you actually can swerve, don’t let you mouth write that check.
• “Where’s the love?” – A hint: it’s UP MY ASS.

Lights, Camera, Pants

Working in Manhattan’s Greenwich Village, I pass through film shoots fairly regularly. As any New Yorker will tell you, nine out of ten times it’s Law and Order. But every so often, it’s a real Hollywood feature with real celebrities (apologies to Sam Waterston). The Will Smith vehicle “I Am Legend” took over Washington Square Park for a few weeks, no doubt disrupting business for the local – cough cough – entrepreneurs. Though Mr. Smith is a bona fide movie star, friend of Tom Cruise and TOTALLY NOT a Scientologist, I’m not much of a fan (my father is incredulous at this, since he cannot get through the trailer of “The Pursuit of Happyness” without being moved to tears). I agree that he’s a good actor, and Lord knows I loved the Fresh Prince when I was a kid, but it still bothers me that sold out his talent in favor of action roles for which he could record a middle school dance-friendly pop hit. And what the hell did he do with Jazz? By the way, have you listened to the lyrics of “Parents Just Don’t Understand” lately? I find myself agreeing with his mother more and more every time I hear that song, and that’s just depressing. God, I’m old.

Anyway, “I Am Legend” is now in post-production, leaving the Square free for a more exciting project: “The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2: Forever in Blue”! Little America “Healthy Body Image” Ferrera! Little Rory Gilmore who can’t act her way out of a wet paper bag! OMGPON1ES!!1!* (Apparently there are two other girls to whom the pants also travel, and I am just going to have to apologize to them right now, because couldn’t pick them out of a lineup and I will probably cut them off in line at the deli. I’m sure they’re very talented, though.) Keep it here for more updates on the Pants and their Travels…or maybe just some more posts about my neighborhood and pies and stuff. KBYE!


*Source: Slashdot, via Cute Overload