UVA

Civilization, Regretting Chocolate, Brain Fatigue

Children don’t understand what it means for your brain to be tired, so they ask complicated questions at bedtime, or when you are trying to daydream while driving. What is the next number in this series? Why is it important to be civilized? This is the point in the test at which I want to start bubbling in C for everything. Or is it B? I think it’s just important that you fill in all the bubbles, or was it one bubble per row? Will I be expected to show my work?

Usually I cool off at some point and give them the correct answers—both are logarithms—then remind them of the child’s mandate to read everyday, even better if you read something besides the names of Minecraft video clips on Youtube. My own parents must have felt just as strongly about reading, which is why they set limits by having only one TV and no TV reception. The house was full of books, and while my friends who had cable were out to dinner or on vacation with their families, I read several of them.

My dad must have noticed that I didn’t pack Die Odyssee when I left for college—I had discovered it was a translation, not a vampire book—and I think that’s when he started sending me clippings from The New York Times to encourage me to keep up my vocabulary and critical thinking skills. In fairness to UVA, Physics for Non-Majors, e.g., might have provided either of these, but I didn’t sink my teeth into it as I might have if I hadn’t had mono so much. After school I tested out a non-linear series of jobs and then got married, and he continued to send the clippings. I wonder if they still come now and then–I rarely open my paper mail. Come to think of it, when I was in my twenties, there were times I was in Las Vegas or Cuba or living with a mouse and a catalog model and a Swedish recluse in Gramercy and generally difficult to pin down. I might have missed some letters then too. I bet that’s when my dad sent the epic letter containing all his “life advice.” If I had read it, I might have had a better answer for my son to his question why be civilized? As it is, it sounds like what he has learned from me is to regret eating chocolate, a behavior I hope I have neither modeled nor promoted.

Every so often, I try to read one book to the two children. Recently it has been Rebecca. More than a page about the rose bushes of Manderley is enough to convince my daughter she wants to read something current, in solitude. Her brother falls asleep. When my brain is tired from making up answers all day, this works pretty well.

Role models, Smut, The Rebel Army

I watched Gone With the Wind some embarrassing number of times around the year of its 50th anniversary release, and then I read the book twice. I wouldn’t say I identified with Scarlett O’Hara though. I would never have married Charles Hamilton. Her self-preservation instinct was just so much stronger than I can ever imagine mine being, probably because I grew up with air conditioning and very little exposure to war.

When I was 14, we moved to Connecticut where I had two friends, some whole wheat croissants, and a copy of Vivien Leigh’s biography, which turned out to be mildly smutty. There was a fun role model! I don’t have it anymore, so I can’t go back and check on these things, but this is my impression of that book: Vivien Leigh hated to leave a party early but got up early to make everyone breakfast and never had or at least never complained of a hangover. At some point, she married Lawrence Olivier, who was a virgin until age 24. I wonder if he was insecure about that. Vivien didn’t like her hands. Maybe they commiserated. Actors.

When I took a film class in college, I was surprised to learn Blaxploitation had nothing to do with Butterfly McQueen. I guess I was less surprised my film professor didn’t share my enthusiasm for Gone With the Wind. I think that was exactly how he put it, though he let me get away with one of those papers that must be so tedious to read, where every casual detail is meaningful. I remember, for instance, making something of the one black and one white puppy (or was there also a kitten?—interspecies would have been even better) spooning on the front porch while the Tarleton twins explained why they needed to join the Rebel Army. That paper was so boring, I think it cured me.

Paleo Babies, Essence of Isabella, Eggs on Everything

I never got around to trying the Paleo Diet. I’ve been focused on savory crusts this winter and I’ve just learned I can order Atora Suet online. Anyway if it’s true Pete Evans is trying to use the Paleo Diet to kill babies, I’m not sure it sounds as appealing even as a complement to my intended boulder-rolling regimen. Unless… could Pete Evans’ Paleo-baby cookbook have been an Onion news story mistakenly picked up by the major outlets and the joke is on me, like the one about certain states legalizing powdered alcohol? Either way, if you’re still running Moveable Feast, PBS, I’m interested in any hosting jobs that may be opening up*.

Maybe my problem with Pete Evans is that I’ve never really wanted anyone to make me a carrot salad, though Zatinya might have a pretty good one—do they? I always fill up on fava beans. Nevertheless Mike Isabella was responsible for the seminal taste of my DC girls’ weekend—indirectly(!) by way of the earthy Countryman Pizza at Graffiato, which I added to our order at the last minute, grazie a Dio, because they never brought us our gnocchi. I wouldn’t say this was a throwaway reservation (Saturdays are for Mintwood Place, which is our new Rasika), but on Friday night there’s always the chance someone will be stuck in traffic on 95 till eleven o’clock, and we’ll end up having minibar tequila and Mauna Loa nuts for dinner. So Graffiato had been on my DC list on the strength of Zatinya and the novelty of prosecco on tap. Since I know I will want to recreate it, I’ve searched for mentions of the Countryman pizza online, and I wouldn’t say it’s been appropriately raved about, but I suppose it’s too subtle for a lot of people. It has, though, been adequately described, so I’ll just say it has a soft cooked egg on it, and like the one on the Gus Burger, it is just the right addition.

*And even if it does exist, I promise not to use powdered alcohol, however creatively, until at least halfway through taping.

Japanese Vending, Jethro Tull, Special Peanuts

When I was very young and knew more about the world (or however Bob Dylan said it), I decided it would be a good idea to work in the travel agency at UVA, mentoring students who didn’t realize they could play beer pong in Europe or that Japanese vending machines dispensed pornography. One excuse I would like to offer for persuading one of my best friends to come work there with me for what seemed like about a year (do you care, LinkedIn?) sitting in a basement office listening to Jethro Tull, was that I believed we were going to end up doing a lot of jetsetting as soon as our IATA cards were approved by Head Office. I didn’t yet realize that being a travel agent wasn’t anywhere near as good as having an American Express Platinum Card for getting hotel room upgrades or imagining strangers admire you. It was all wasted on John anyway. I think he has always gotten things for free. Why is that?

It seems awfully linear to mention this, but only in the sense that I’m picking up a thread from my last post–it has nothing at all to do with the last paragraph, except insofar as the parties have met: It’s starting to look like I might not make it back to Concord Mall for hats before the weekend, when I have my next two birthday celebrations. If you are Katie or Stevie, and you love a surprise, you might want to stop reading this.
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So the good news is, even though, thanks to the snow, I will likely not be able to buy trucker hats for either of the above from Spencer Gifts–and I was kind of wanting to boycott anyway, because last time they were out of “I ❤️ the old Latin mass”–I was able to make each one a cupcake today. They are an homage to Christine’s birthday cupcakes from last week, with the same dark chocolate cake, chocolate ganache center, marshmallow buttercream frosting, and salted caramel drizzle (perfect for those avoiding sugar). I added candied peanuts this time, to commemorate the very special milestone birthdays we’re celebrating this weekend. Can peanuts be said to be wizened? No, no–I’m sure that’s not the word I meant to use.

Lance Armstrong, Casseroles, Not-Snobbery

This was going to be my Lance Armstrong entry, where I talked about DNF-ing in the NY Marathon, and quitting being forever, etc. I guess that might have sounded a little self-loathing. Even though I was not able to get my hands on any good blood transfusions, I finished the run on Sunday, so I guess if I’m going to be able to put anything new out there today, I have to try to do something with Billy’s suggestion, and talk about casseroles.
On Sunday afternoon, when I saw Billy for an unlikely second time in three weeks, I had just run a marathon, and then tried for about an hour in the freezing wind to find our hotel, which was only a few blocks from the finish line, while he, Brad and Ty watched a little dot track us on Stevie’s phone, laughing meanly as we walked several blocks in the wrong direction. Then I arrived at the hotel bar and quickly finished two tequila grapefruits, so I thought chances were pretty good I would forget he’d mentioned the casserole thing.  Well, all I wrote was

casseroles  blog

so I don’t remember if there was a context, and now I can’t ask Billy because he is back in Guatemala, dealing with what sounds like some very sordid business of the kind you probably already associate with Guatemala, I would have said unfairly. And, actually, in order not to perpetuate any stereotypes, I won’t say what it is, except it’s not gastroenterological in nature, and it doesn’t involve exploding helicopters either. I suspect, now that I think about it, that he was trying to goad me into revealing a little bit of snobbery, like the time he tried to suggest the burrito I was eating during the ALS Facebook challenge wasn’t from Taco Bell, or that I wasn’t even eating it, or, damn it Billy… I did the challenge, even after it stopped being cool.

I have two things to say about casseroles.

Thing one: When we were second years at UVA, I wanted to make something Sara Rydell would like. At the time, she didn’t enjoy lentils, for example, as much as Bridget, Jill and I did. We liked to share mini packs of M&M’s #covertbailey #insidejoke #deliberatemisuseofhashtags, but otherwise our taste in food didn’t overlap all that much. So I decided to make Sara Grandmother Shippy’s Heavenly Hamburger, because I knew she liked hamburgers! But she did not–as it turned out, at the time, as it turned out–like tomatoes, sour cream, onions, cream cheese, garlic powder, onion granules, egg noodles… Sara, please edit. She was really sweet about it. I bet we grabbed a fro-yo after.

The second casserole thing: I was introduced to a Sandra Lee semi-homemade chicken enchilada casserole at some point while I was pregnant. It had cream of mushroom soup in it, which I left in. I adapted it to include real cheese, corn tortillas, and some plants, like cilantro and scallions.  And pickled jalapeños. It still felt like cheating, but lots of people have eaten it and not complained. I haven’t made it lately because the Cooks Illustrated recipe for chicken enchiladas seems more defensible.

But it turns out I’m still very lazy in the kitchen. The other day, I came across a recipe for harissa, and I realized I have been buying prepared harissa. Which reminds me of the other thing Lance Armstrong says: “Fool me once, shame on…shame on you. Fool me — you can’t get fooled again.” That was him, [sic] right? I don’t know of any casseroles that call for harissa, but I bet they’d be flavorful.