mozzadrella

Migrated these curds...

2009-03-06T15:59:00.003-05:00

...over to mozzadrella.wordpress.com

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New Age Mozz Stops Complaining about the West Coast

2008-11-28T16:37:00.003-05:00

If you tire of detail, intricate narrative, or fascinating anecdotes easily, I recommend against eating amongst the anthropologists. However I find them to be the best of company, and hearken back to the cultural universality of manioc root on a weekly basis. This past week saw the divine summit of all things anthropological in San Francisco at the AAA conference, and your humble Mozzadrella was fortunate enough to attend.

I actually hadn’t been to the Bay Area—brace yourself for the geek quotient here—since high school, when I went to a Model United Nations conference in Berkeley, and THEN summer economics camp in Palo Alto. It’s a miracle I manage to dress myself, even though my style these days screams “professional kickball player.” At least that’s what the burlesque “ladies” at Aunt Charlie’s Lounge told me.

Though I really didn’t stray from the “Tenderloin” area where the conference was being held, the food impressed so much I will no longer vow to set all of California alight. I had been dreaming of Salt House, an industrial/rustic-chic haunt, and its braised short rib for three days. Though the cavernous interior amplified sound—we could barely converse with the people next to us—I had the most delicious cocktail I’d ever sampled. The “New London” features cold Hendrick’s Gin with a kaffir lime-ginger syrup, and a chili-cardamom salted rim. I swooned. I exalted. I had two.

I admired the sweet delicate quality of the roast beet salad, but the braised short rib with mustard crust sent me reeling. As you raised your fork to it, the meat fell apart like a warm savory bloom. As it was served atop brussels sprouts and fennel, my appetite waived away all sense of reason or discretion. In that moment I began to see the reasoning behind elastic pants.

After I recruited Tiny and Mark, I insisted upon Vietnamese food whilst in Pacific time. We went to Mangosteen, also in the Tenderloin area, where the quail was served table-side, flambé-style, the skin snapping with searing crispness. All of our fresh rolls were delicious, and will the Pho was a tad waxy, and the décor a little 7-Eleven, I’ll be thinking about that quail in the months to come.

I still find San Francisco strange—the constant smiling from strangers made me wonder if I was suffering from early-onset dementia—I did take squealing happiness in the Ice Cream Parlor/Laundromat down the way from our hotel. Genius!

Borre Saethre, PS1

2008-11-08T15:42:00.003-05:00

Mozz feels a little Wilted today, misses home

2008-10-20T11:04:00.004-04:00

Indulge me a little concrete-clover love!

Upcoming events: Mozz's little sister is coming to visit! I am taking her to Sunset Park for Dim Sum, will drag her to Queens to see PS1, take her to the coop and have her help me carry bulk items home, and take her to Styleklash to benefit Harriet's Alter Ego. Anything else anyone can think of that's sister-suitable?

Pre-PreFab, or the Modness of Tommy Edison

2008-10-13T20:10:00.005-04:00

Thomas Edison is a rock star. Literally: the man created incandescent light. Voices can boom and resonate thanks to the microphone. Global financial markets expand and contract on his tickers. The man held 1,093 patents (true, his factory sucked fresh ideas out of young idealists, but still).

I was unaware until recently of one of Edison's most prescient ideas--in 1906 he conceived of one of the first mass-produced domicile solutions. The dream of affordable housing, according to Edison, could be made manifest in concrete molded residences.

"His system involved the use of elaborate forms and machinery for pouring a one, two, or even three-story house in a single operation, and offered concrete built-ins such as a bathtub. Sectional cast iron forms bolted together were to be assembled on the foundation walls to the height of the house, ending in a centrally located funnel into which the concrete was poured."

The first single-pour concrete house was built on Hixon Street in South Orange, New Jersey (I guess J gets a little more love). Turns out that the cast iron mold for the house was ungainly and unwieldy, so only 11 were ever built.

What makes a movie a "Movie Event"?

2008-10-13T11:42:00.002-04:00

Just curious if anyone could suss out the difference. Lifetime seems to have way more "events" than movies, which would make it quite the service.

Alex Guarnaschelli ousts Giada as My Number 1

2008-10-07T08:34:00.000-04:00

She's sharp. She's deadpan. Her last name ends in "elli."

Giada who?

"LM: If you were going to be known for any one thing how would you want people to remember you?"

"AG: That I make great soup always. I make a split pea soup with fried bacon and fresh peas in it that I really love. I also make a great clam chowder. It takes five days to make, but it's worth it. I think soup is a good barometer of chefs. It's beyond upsetting when you have a crappy soup. You can have the best steak in the world and the best cherry jubilee afterwards, but the feeling of being let down by a watery, crappy soup never leaves you."

A Higher Cause I'm On Board With

2008-10-06T08:16:00.000-04:00

I give you, Sister Noella Marcellino, the Cheese Nun:

Back in Black: ‘Drella hits the Ground, Ponders a Leather Jacket

2008-10-04T15:28:00.005-04:00

I am clicking-my-heels-happy to be back in Brooklyn. And while it’s taken me some time to arrange my furniture and purchase plants, I’ve slated a full fall syllabus of activities. Mozzadrella swoons with aplomb!

I turned 26 on Thursday, walked down to the Brooklyn Bridge to see the waterfalls, and tried fruitlessly to find an electric blue blazer. On recommendation from my pal J’Wep, I also visited the East Village Cheese Shop on 3rd Ave., near 10th Street. I thought him a mendacious yutz when he spoke of Jarlsberg for $5/lb. That’s a cock-and-bull fiction.

“Look for the butcher paper in front,” he said, “with unreal prices. I promise it’s there.”

Interesting.

As it turns out, cheap imported Swiss cheese is not just the stuff of daydreams—in addition to bargain brie, muenster, and feta pre-cut in the cooling case. The wheel selection at East Village is not for the haughty curdspert; these are pretty standard middle-drawer items: President, St. Andre, Fromager d'Affinois. And since there’s a no-tasting rule at East Village Cheese, it’s fitting that you basically know what you are going to get.

There were a few surprises, though, like Moriber, which is a French cheese with a thin tasteless band of ash horizontally bisecting the wheel, traditionally separating the “morning milk” from the “evening” milk. Now it’s purely decorative. Which I appreciate.

The bevy of soy cheeses was mysterious, perhaps because I find soy cheese puzzling in general. (I’ve never been comfortable with soy—it’s just too creepily versatile). In particular, the soy blue cheese struck me as too common in color to play-doh to take a chance on.

Speaking of chances, would it be just too stale for me to get a leather jacket? What if it was green instead of black?

Mozzarella, an Unlikely Star, Opens in Midtown

2008-10-03T13:46:00.002-04:00

I can't WAIT to go here next week!

"OBIKÀ is how Neapolitans say 'here it is.'

Obikà will open on Sept. 22 in the sculpture garden of 590 Madison Avenue, the former I.B.M. building.

'It’s about time,' New Yorkers might respond.

After more than a year of construction and red tape, the latest installment of Obikà, which opened its first mozzarella bar in Rome four years ago, will open on Sept. 22 in the sculpture garden of 590 Madison Avenue, the former I.B.M. building, between 56th and 57th Streets.

Haulin' these curds back to Brooklyn

2008-09-09T21:01:00.003-04:00

What's that Mozz been up to, and why hasn't she been keeping it fresh? Answer: I'm moving back to Brooklyn, which I am amped about, and I've even been nesting. That's right, I put all of those hours of rapt HGTV-watchin' to work and painted.

I won't be spending sweat waiting for the PATH train with its mercurial sense of time, and I won't have to drive to the supermarket, which means I'll have more than beer and horseradish mustard in my fridge. And I'll be closer to all of the Mozzadrella-oriented adventures I want to tackle this fall.

I'll be up and running next week, in the meantime, there is something SERIOUSLY wrong with this. Michael Pollan has apparently made a dent in the zeitgeist.

Fresh Mozz Phone Home!!!

2008-09-03T22:24:00.015-04:00

I never thought I’d suffer from homesickness. I left the continent at 18, quickly locked down an apartment on Ave. Emile Zola, pivoted to the highway oases of Iowa, then motored (once via Greyhound) to freespirited and unleashed Montana (see below for details).

When people would ask me about home, I’d rail against the oppressive white sky of winter, the shabbiness of the Chicago Tribune, the toxicity of Cubs fans and their pickled valor.

All of a sudden, I miss Chicago. A lot.

This weekend, the El ran effortlessly (for me, at least). I shoveled deepdish to my face twice, saw Peter Sagal MC Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me with grace and poise, ate ice cream with Tiny in Bridgeport, drank Lienie’s where it was cheap and readily available, got a driver’s license (heaven help you!), hit the Botanical Garden, was smug about the Art Institute, and strolled along the Lake. It was damn near perfect.

One of the best treats about going home is staying with Adrienne in Andersonville without being formally invited. I love the books, food, and furniture stores in that neighborhood, and she totally called me out on my lust for a distressed dresser: “It’s not ‘distressed’ Vanessa, it’s OLD. You’ve been living in Brooklyn too long.” Woof!

For sure Andersonville has a colorful bent, but it also has a distinct Scandinavian vibe (hence the functionalist/modernist furniture galleries) and the Swedish Bakery peddles solid kolachki, brioche, and imported dry goods.

(I’ve never seen these at IKEA. Maybe in the IKEA of my dreams?!)

The wholesome bakery assistants, who are pert in a sort of militaristic way, deftly swipe, box, and tie pastry with a precise economy of movement.

Later in the afternoon I went to visit my intellectual nemesis Dave, who has again outpaced me by taking up residence at Pastoral, an artisanal cheese shop in Lakeview.

Pastoral puts cheese front and center, but they also assemble sandwiches, sell cured meats, fresh crusty bread, and wine.

I caught up with Dave with he was rolling Prosciutto San Daniele (more delicate than the only slightly more popular di Parma).

Other identifying feature to note viz cured meat: San Daniele prosciutto is sold WITH the leg, which is referred to as a “trotter.”

Since it pays to be difficult, I asked Dave for a sheepsmilk with bite and character, the item with the bizarrest backstory, and for a series of action shots.

Item: Jamon Iberico is a Spanish cured porcine product with a production story that edges upon myth: the black-hoofed pigs feast only upon chestnuts to foster their exquisitely marbled tissue. At $89.99/lb, that fat should be salty silkworm spun through the meat!

Since Dave has taken such an intimate interest in all things fromage, I plan on peer pressuring him to guest blog here soon. All of his fierce food knowledge is going to waste in that lil blonde head of his!

For kicks, one of my fav photos of MT: the iron herd bull on the front lawn of the Montana Historical Society.

Medusa Marinara

2008-09-03T17:00:00.002-04:00

Vik Muniz, Art Institute

Get your Gelato On

2008-08-19T16:52:00.014-04:00

Not to be too patchouli about it, but I’ve got a lot of Karma. Not necessarily bad or good, just a massive steady stream of it—I find $100 bills, but I get stuck in elevators and fall down stairs. I’m that girl—the one with the story.

This summer has brought such a spate of events. (For example, I’m currently down both a state ID and a debit card.) Then I had the best. Weekend. Ever.

To top it off, I think I closed the gap on this farmer’s tan I’ve been fighting all summer long. This is extremely fortunate, because the tourists at the World Trade Center PATH station had begun to follow me with their eyes like a zebra at the zoo.

Anyhoo, the Fresh Mozz and Ms. Posanne spent Saturday exploring some of NYC’s gelato mainstays, and we set out to answer to question: what makes gelato different?

Image credit: Nodame

We started at Grom in the West Village, which feels like the confectionary equivalent of an old-style tiled bar where vested ‘tenders fix egg-white cocktails.

All of the gelati rest in gleaming climate-controlled containers, and our esteemed server doled out samples with effusive pride, as if to say: “No you absolutely MUST try THIS one next.” The optimistic melon and zippity mint were among out favorites, and the slushier “granitas” bloomed with a subtle effervescence.

Federico Grom and Guido Martinetti brought Grom and their particularity for ingredients to the Upper West Side from Torino in 2007, where it broke like Pinkberry—food bloggers marveled at the 30-foot lines outside their West 76th street gelato emporium. They opened their West Village location shortly thereafter.

Let me refine, for a moment: gelato (trans. “frozen”) is an Italian dessert that resembles ice cream but is not ice cream.

The major points of difference? Quality, milkfat, and air.

Ice cream in the fat plastic drums from Dominick’s doesn't use vanilla, I doubt they even use extract. And it tastes like cold wet sand. In contrast, gelato seeks to concentrate and essentialize the best aspect of the flavor, so every ingredient is top drawer: Bronte Sicilian pistachios, Amalfi lemons, Venezuelan chocolate, San Bernardo mineral water from Piedmont. (Grom also uses carob flour). The thickness and density also differ: ice cream primarily uses cream with a 10-18% milkfat content, while gelato holds the fat down to a low roar at around 8%. Since milkfat clouds and overwhelms the flavor of the overall product, a leaner frozen dessert condenses the flavor. Grom has a more upturned take: "Also, in our opinion cream tones down too much the incisiveness of the flavors."

And while you may have guessed that gelato or higher quality ice cream has less air, the number is actually quite surprising—its between a quarter and half, pumped directly into the unfrozen liquid. By contrast, gelato only has 10% air, leading to a creamier end product.

I think we love gelato it because also possesses a mystical quality; it hoodwinks the palate into conjuring the ideal form of a flavor. For a moment, we forget that oranges are round and heavy, almonds and their bite, or coconut’s grainy pieces, and in that second gelato flash mimics the essential character of the flavor in another form. At the same time it surprises with a new dimension to a food you thought you knew well, you thought were well acquainted with. Ms. Posanne put it best when she said, "It's like the Jetsons, it's like a flavor pill from the future."

Il Laboratorio del Gelato does this best. It was started by Jon F. Snyder, who also brought you Ciao Bella gelato and sorbet. After he sold Bella (at the ripe age of 25), he founded Il Lab which produces its mod rectangles of tasty on the Lower East Side. There we found enlightening flavors like Guinness (which I didn’t taste) and ricotta (which I did, and it was one of the most delectable pillowy textures I’ve ever crossed).

It might be a little less traditional, but the new insights into the “ideas” of flavors were provokingly satisfying, and made me reconsider my taste expectations.

To cleanse our palates between tastings, we went to Murray’s cheese shop, which might be heaven on earth.

Throw in some glasses shopping, bocce in the park, and savory waffles and color me happy.

Lastly, I’m working on coming back to Brooklyn. More details, as we say in the business, “t/k.”

Achievement; Defeat

2008-08-15T15:57:00.002-04:00

Sorry, project meatless...

After braving the hour+ line at the Shake Shack today, victory was mine. I drank from the chalice of victory...and bought myself the finest hot dog in all the land.

Loving Lemon Pledge

2008-08-14T16:27:00.010-04:00

The veneer between persuasive and pushy is both thin and permeable. On good hair days, when the back cowlick of my crown does not resemble Alfalfa from The Little Rascals, I fancy myself “persuasive”…but I do harbor a tendency to foist limoncello onto unsuspecting guests.

I introduce limoncello as highbrow, haute, and an acquired taste for an advanced palate. “Some believe limoncello tastes like lemon Pledge” I’ll condescendingly dismiss, “when it’s actually the nectar of the Sorrentine Peninsula, using the most choice Amalfi lemons.” (Some acquired tastes just need a little push toward the summit of appreciation).

Upon first imbibing, limoncello frequently meets with sour expressions. However, the “lemon pledge effect” wears off after 10 minutes or so, and I notice that deniers usually pour themselves a second splash: I’ve won another patron over to the cause.

For those who are unfamiliar, limoncello is an Italian liqueur that hails from coastal Italy, often Sicily, easily recognized from its arresting neon color and cloudy opacity. Served freezer-chilled in cordial glasses, the dense thickness coats the palate with a robust wallop of lemon flavor. And while I usually engineer the liqueur’s image as “delicacy,” the truth is somewhere closer to “bathtub punch” because of its simple list of ingredients and rustic production process. However, store-bought ‘cello tends to be too syrupy and a little waxy, so I thought I’d try my hand at Italian moonshine.

Ingredients:
6 lemons
1 fifth of high-proof vodka or grappa
2 cups sugar
2 cups water
2 bottles (or mason jars)

Step One:

Peel the zest of all six lemons with a peeler or a box grater, ensuring that you skim only the skin and leave behind the bitter pith. Purists will use Sorrento or Eureka lemons—in our liberal arts version, we used lemons. From a plastic-mesh bag.

Step Two:
Go ahead and add the zest to the high-proof vodka—I used 100 proof Smirnoff—which will draw more of the lemon oil from the rind.

I’ll let Charles Perry from the LA Times do the math for you:

“Using 100-proof Smirnoff 57, the usual recipe will give you a limoncello with the same alcoholic content as commercial varieties: 60 proof. If you use the more common 80-proof vodka, on the other hand, you'll have to steep the peels longer to get as much flavor out of them, and the recipe will give you a 50-proof limoncello.”

Close that mason jar or bottle and leave it out, at room temperature, for a week. (I gave it a little hustle routine about once a day to mix it up.)

Step 3:
Drain the lemon peels from the infused vodka, which should have a deep yellow color at this point. (Note: if you are not using a mason jar, have another receptacle ready for the last step—those lemon peels cling to their former home, and do not easily extract themselves from inside the bottle.)

Step 4:
Stir the sugar and water together over low heat to create the simple syrup, and reduce by half. Let the syrup cool to room temperature.

Step 5:
Pour the simple syrup and lemon infused vodka back into the mason jar or bottle, careful not to fill it to the brim, and stick it in the freezer. The liquid should grow cloudy after 8-9 hours in the ice box, but I left it there for another 4 days.

The result: a far more buoyant, crisp flavor than store-bought ‘cello, and a use for my beloved, physically-challenged cordial glasses.

You can also use different citrus fruit to customize your 'cello--I've seen limecello, orangecello, and I'm told tangelo, blood orange, and grapefruit all make zesty incarnations of this theme.

Photo credit: Shamballah

Bizarre Morning Ritual

2008-08-12T13:02:00.002-04:00

In another installment of “Mozzadrella’s Midwestern Manners” I have to note and lament a certain behavior I’ve noticed since venturing Eastward. I find it counterintuitive and gratuitous, bordering on the excessively meticulous.

I am talking about the ritual of carrying to-go coffee in a bag.

Both self-contained and effortlessly portable, paper coffee cups elegantly mesh form and function! Why on earth would someone destabilize a vessel of hot liquid by placing it in a permeable paper sack with little material integrity?

Now the American tic of walking with a hot beverage is a practice I do appreciate—when living abroad, I found it irritating to forcefully “savor” my coffee while seated and immobile. But when asked: “Do you want a bag for that?” as I’m served deli coffee, I can’t restrain my unsightly grimace.

My hypochondriacal nature could interpret this habit as a shielding from others, or preserving the leisurely experience of drinking coffee by waiting to enjoy until arriving at your final destination. Neither rationalization satisfies. Do native New Yorkers have a sense of the reasoning behind this distinct custom?

Image credit: katerw

Fire, Ice, Camp

2008-08-07T13:32:00.012-04:00

This week has presented a flurry of baffling and particularly distressing challenges. Early Wednesday morning the fire alarms in my apartment building unleashed their sonic terror, and with my guests I proceeded down to the ground floor, surrounded my murmurs of “I hear it’s real” and “No, it’s not a drill.” In my grandpa pajamas, we waited in the rain for hours, learning in dribs and drabs that yes, the fire was the floor below my apartment, and watching the fire truck posse grow in strength. Once we received the green light to return to the apartment, we found ourselves locked out: the management had stripped out our core lockset to make way for the firemen, and replaced it with the wrong one. I finally reached my bed at 8:30am, damp and depleted.

I decided to take the afternoon off, and hit some of the Jersey City food targets I’d been meaning to visit on the weekends. Sam and I stopped at Taqueria on Grove Street, which has solid enchiladas and tortas (hard to find in New York, where bland Tex-Mex seems to satisfy most appetites) and headed to Erie Street for dessert.

Full disclosure: I prefer the savory to the sweet. I’d much rather have camembert than cannoli (heresy, I know!). To a person with this disposition, get thee to Torico’s homemade ice cream parlor. Torico’s (the name stems from a contraction of “all good,” “todo”+“rico”) has opened every spring for the past 38 years, and is known for its unconventional and innovative flavors.

From top left: Poundcake, Ube, Green Tea, Lychee, Jackfruit, Ginger. I know, I need to refine my photo-taking skills, I just butcher it.

Torico’s makes ice cream every day, all day, and gets ideas from both divine inspiration and customer requests. They were very obliging, encouraging us to taste the guava, the coconut cream, the pumpkin. Most intriguing was the Mamey fruit flavor, which had a curious blend of strawberry and nutty essences.

(Mamey fruit: a.k.a. San Domingo apricot or South American apricot)

On its face, the mamey is not an especially alluring fruit—let me assure you it’s a delicious, subtle experience. After much dithering, Sam ordered the avocado, which also possessed a delicate, understated refreshingness—an exceptional translation into the realm of confection.

(Sam being encouraged to stop vacillating between flavors and pick one already.)

As you can see from the photograph, Sam was in dire need of a haircut, so we stopped at Balance, the salon-cum-vintage clothing retailer next to the ice cream shop.

The interior of the shop features a rich, overstimulating décor—vibrant stuff, kooky stuff, in a retired-costume-designer sort of a way.
Hats, scarves and other props line the stylists’ stations, as if they just might burst into “I Feel Pretty” from overexposure to perm fumes.

We couldn’t track down a stylist that afternoon, but I plan on giving the salon a shot after my hair grows another ¼ inch.

Torico’s: 20 Erie St, Jersey City
Balance Salon: 18 Erie St, Jersey City

Mozzadrella on the Move: Bensonhurst

2008-08-03T23:37:00.008-04:00

Bensonhurst is fecund terrain for both d-list fame and hardscrabble scandal. Joey Fatone grew up here. So did Marissa Tomei. Solidly Italian for the past century, in the 80’s the area came to notoriety through a link to “the Teflon Don” John Gotti—a car bomb exploded on 86th street with Gotti as the intended mark. In the early 90s, the Reverend Al Sharpton was attacked and stabbed in the chest while he was leading a protest through the neighborhood.

Like Arthur Ave., Bensonhurst prevails as one of the last distinctly Italian regions in the city. Unlike other touristy areas, this neighborhood performs strictly for itself—rich in a sort of earnest pride, undiluted by irony, fully embracing its garishness. Flags on the sidewalks wave brazen and brash, serve as gatekeepers for record stores, pastry shops, and ravioli artisans.

SAS Italian Records makes its presence known blocks away. It sounds like a parade mixed with a tornado drill siren on a loop. SAS acts as part cultural embassy (it imports countless records and tapes, in addition to Italian shave creams and body washes) part kitchen supply resale shop, part bocce uniform outfitter. Looking over the sparkly porcelain masks and cherubic Jesus mini-statues, I instantly understood my Grandmother’s early adoption of Precious Moments figurines. There is literally no accounting for (or, perhaps, genetic resistance to) taste.

One wall of the store is completely covered in little horns—as keychains, as necklaces, as review-mirror ornaments. Yes, little horns, also known as cornicello (or corno, or cornuto) symbolize virility in Italian and Italian-American culture. Originally linked to the horns of pagan moon goddesses, and later the Virgin Mary, the cornicello is the epitome of Italian bling culture. According to lore, these horns protect against the “evil eye” which harms “nursing mothers and their babies, bearing fruit trees, milking animals, and the sperm of men -- the forces of generation.” My father, I am told, proudly donned a cornuto ‘neath, or entwined with, his tufts of chest hair in the open-collared 70s.

On closer appraisal:

Elena identified with the wooden soldiers (we think?) featured in the window.

At Queen Anne’s Ravioli Shop, I finally uncovered the mystery of the home-ripened fetus-looking cheese!

“Scamozza” is a dried mozzarella, with a more robust flavor, and a slightly harder tooth. After drying for about 24 hours, the cheese resembles the low-moisture part-skim mozz we might find in the grocery store, thereafter, the cheese comes closer to percorino or parmesan in texture.

Off for sweets. Villabate Alba Bakery has marzipan down to an art form: the craftsmanship looked more like model planes than sugar and ground almonds.

We acquired a neopolitan crème, cannolli, pignolli and fennel-seed “S” biscuits, and hunkered down with cappuccino at Bensonhurst’s old man social club. There we overhead resigned husbands trade horror stories about their wives, challenge each other to pugnacious rounds of bocce later in the afternoon.

Bensonhurst is roughly bordered by 13th-20th avenues, 63rd-86th streets in South Brooklyn near Coney Island.

Dumbo-style Scary

2008-07-30T09:00:00.002-04:00

Yes, those are wrapped in plastic.
14th st NW & Rhode Island Ave., Washington DC

Mozzadrella wanders South...

2008-07-29T09:00:00.000-04:00

I went to DC this past weekend to see my pal James get hitched, and thought I’d check out where the fresh mozz gets made below the Mason-Dixon. I departed from out slightly dingy hostel for the only promised land for foodies in the District: Eastern Market.

Eastern Market refers to both the expansive brick building where purveyors hock their wares and the surrounding neighborhood, a sleepy, cozy area near Capitol Hill. Built in 1873 as a city-supported market, it’s protected by the National Registry of Historic Places.

Until April 2007, when fire accosted the structure. Part of the roof caved in.

It’s currently being rebuilt, but in the meantime the city has erected a temporary structure known as the “East Hall” near the original grounds. It retains the lofty space-feel of the place, and serves as host to the same vendors. My favorite is the Bowers Fancy Dairy Products, run by Ray and Tessa Bowers, a Polish family that has been importing cheese to DC since 1964.

This family distributes samples generously and with zest. I sampled a surprisingly tangy goat’s milk gouda (decidedly different from it’s Dutch cow’s milk counterpart) and a gouda/parmesan hybrid with a woodsy flavor. If you stand there for 15 minutes you will be full. And in awe of their massive cheese plains.

In addition to the imported cheeses the Bowers’ also carry domestic, local cheese from nearby Maryland, Pennsylvania and Virginia. Cherry Glen raises award-winning goats in Boyds, Maryland, and features both fresh and aged chèvres (fresh is the more crumbly, tart of the two, aged chèvre takes on a creamier, lava-like texture with a stronger nose). They also manage a goat’s milk ricotta (a whey cheese from cows, sheep, or water buffalo) which makes use of apple cider vinegar to achieve the grainy consistency. The Glen Farm only uses microbial rennet, which is to say it’s vegetarian-safe.

My favorite part, the item that floored me, was the 5lb butter lumps in the display case. They measure 3x3x12. Woof.

Mom, what's a "Benny"?

2008-07-28T14:36:00.003-04:00

Benny (n.) Bennies, pl.
1.) One who does not pay proper respect to the indigenous peoples of the Jersey shore. A colonizer.
2.) Groups of individuals who visit the Jersey shore in the summer who a.) clog the streets with beach traffic b.) rock socks with sandals c.) wear white tank undershirts displaying outgrowths of chest hair and/or track suits.
3.) A slang term for tourists of Italian-American descent who vacation in the shore towns of Belmar, Spring Lake, Point Pleasant and Manasquan.

The term derives from Bayonne, Elizabeth, Newark, and New York, though I understand the New York part specifically targets Staten Island.

Take a look at some recent controversy surrounding the uprising.

Taylor-Made

2008-07-23T13:50:00.005-04:00

I don’t know that I have a lot to learn from New Jersey, but she sure wants to teach me.

I’ve been down the shore, weathered the inanity of the jughandle, been called a “Benny,” parsed out the different accents, been thwarted by the blue laws on Sunday, tasted the coffee at Wawa, and toured countless vinyl-coated diners.

I first came to New Jersey three years ago this week. I’m back. She is awful persistent.

And yet (resignedness) I can admire a place with an “indigenous” food culture, completely contained within New Jersey borders. I’m talking about Taylor Ham: It’s not a secret, but New Jersey keeps it.

Taylor Ham is a sausage-like porcine product, with a texture at the midpoint between Canadian Bacon and Spam. The salient element in the very popular “Taylor ham and cheese” sandwich, it anchors NJ’s pork roll culture. It’s worth noting that this is strange to a Midwesterner—until only recently, the breakfast sandwich, or generally consuming breakfast with your hands, was relatively foreign. Plates. Bowls. There are reasons why this is accurate.

In the summer of 2005, my green ignorance of both Taylor ham and beach culture was met with astonishment, and quickly I was ushered to the deli.

Now, Taylor ham is usually prepared by slicing the sides so that the middle doesn’t bubble up, then placed on the griddle until it’s crispy.

Its sodium-nitrate-infused succulence might be sandwiched, or lay atop an omelet. As I mentioned, Taylor ham rarely leaves New Jersey (I guess the rest of the country can make do?) but it is worth sampling should you find yourself, sandy and terrified, on the boardwalk this summer.

Naturally, in New Jersey, all paths lead back to politics: John Taylor of the Taylor Provisions Company (1837-1909), was a New Jersey State Senator who punted street vendors in NJ and presided over the Inter-State Fair. To this day, Taylor ham is made not far from Taylor Street in Trenton.

Photo sources: No Frills Marilyn, Buba69

Under Brooklyn Bridge, July 2008

2008-07-22T22:08:00.000-04:00

I haven't seen the waterfalls yet.

Mozzadrella Moved ‘Crost the Hudson!!!

2008-07-19T14:28:00.011-04:00

In the fervid riptide of the last three months, I said goodbye to my cat, packed up the apartment in Brooklyn & swept it broom clean, and moved across BOTH rivers to land in Jersey City, NJ. I miss Brooklyn a great deal, and hope to be back soon, but in the meantime I am luxuriating in my central air, my laundry in the unit, my dishwasher, and my unreal view. Once the shock wore off a little, I’ve gotten back to exploring and eating my way around downtown Jersey City.

By and large, three ethnic flavors comprise and color Old Chicago: Italian, Irish and Polish. And since my mother is joining an extensive Polish fam in January when she marries a Rezack, I thought I’d familiarize myself with the native flavors before I face the meat, meat and more meat buffet at her wedding.

On my first tour of Grove Street, I was instantly attracted to the wooden and slightly fey mannequin in the window of Sava’s Polish Diner. His makeup looks a little color-by-number, and he knows how to accessorize—he features a tuft of fake hair where a pocket square might go. I had to eat there.

A boisterous Polish woman greeted me at the counter, and gave me a brief overview of the fare: Hungarian goulash (meat stew), stuffed fried cutlets of chicken and pork, mixed vegetables, and I ordered stuffed cabbage, pierogies, and kielbasa.

First off: this cuisine is not for texture warriors. Poles apparently like their food quite soft, salty, and a little flat in flavor profile. You must avail yourself of the horseradish mustard available on the side—I appreciate that burning, urgent moment when mustard hits your sinuses and you almost go blind with heat. It hurts so good.

The stuffed cabbage is prepared with onion, rice and “trap meat” (pork, I assume?), and bathed in a tomato gravy—think of a limper stuffed grape leaf. While I wasn’t so hot on that, the kielbasa was deliciously tender, and well-complemented by the tart and slightly bitter sauerkraut.

But the pierogies—ah, the pierogies. Pierogies are a Polish dumpling, made of potato, cheese, or fruit, namely cherries, and served either boiled or fried. If you had the sorry experience of dining hall pierogies at Grinnell, you might dismiss the species as akin to a rubber bath mat. Not so! And while Sava’s do smell like hair sizzling on a curling iron, they taste like a savory pillow of divinity, boiled for three minutes and covered in sour cream. I ate three. I could have stomached ten.

The atmosphere of the restaurant feels like a kitschy convenience store, with overhead lighting and stark tables. Oil paintings that feature buxom & nubile Eastern European women in traditional frocks line the walls, their smiles ready-made for beer bottle labels, their cleavage deep and mysterious like deep sea trenches.

Sava’s also sells traditional Polish condiments and hard-to-find imported goods, including pickled sorrel leaves, creamed horseradish, and powdered cherry pudding mix. It turns out that the mannequin is nameless, and picked up nearly 20 years ago when the restaurant was across from the Hudson County Court House. I kind of want to call him “Jamie.”

I thought Charlie would like the items near the register:

Commuter Chronicles V

2008-04-17T09:00:00.000-04:00

Blinds to Go, Fort Lee, New Jersey

Self Help(tred)

2008-04-15T14:37:00.001-04:00

My mother collects self-help literature. Or she did, right up until her third marriage, the spare bedroom in the basement an extensive catalogue of empowerment philosophies. Deepak Chopra’s earlier works. The annotated Reviving Ophelia. Gift book editions of The Art of War. I don’t remember her buying them, the books simply appeared, redoubled, the space allotted to them lengthened.

She wrote extensive notes in response to thsee books on yellow legal pads. The approach of the “healing” varied, but the tenor of her bullet points didn’t: “I am a person—with NEEDS” “I have a RIGHT to what I want” “I can VISUALIZE a successful relationship” all in her loopy hand. The organization of her notes, I remember, always resembled her grocery lists: milk, chicken, broccoli, respect, earning power, self-esteem.

When she got married for the third time, she gave the books away—in what seemed to me a brazen gesture, she bestowed them upon her fellow realtors in her office. I asked her: “Did you connect the subject of the book to the giftee? Isn’t that a little…presumptuous?” She found it funny, I think, or maybe she had reached that apex of success—she was finally getting married, and she was imparting her method of stability upon the have-nots, the still-single realtors in neon and coral suits.

I don’t think my younger sister ever saw those notepads, but I can’t be sure. She is an adult herself now, and when I visited her apartment in Minneapolis I was poking around her very adult kitchen. (She has cupcake tins. I don’t have cupcake tins. I don’t even have spare towels, or a grocery store savings card, or air freshner.) I opened her spice cabinet and threw up in my mouth—there, taped to the inside of the cabinet was a list of goals with a depressingly familiar manner: “I will quit x. I will weigh y. I will cook for myself more. I will reign in my pb intake.”

What is PB, you may ask? It turns out she was downing close to a case of peanut butter a month.

She owns more than one version of “Chicken Soup for the Gullible,” and I am beginning to fear that this trait has a genetic component, especially this week as I have been considering where to live next. The Princeton Review’s Career Quiz targeted my gmail account this morning and the mouse moved magnetically, almost automatically, I clicked on it.

I LOVE THE WORD: Hazmat
I DETEST: Crestfallen

Off to Philadelphia!

Commuter Chronicles III

2008-04-15T09:00:00.003-04:00

-Exclamatory SOFABED!, near Ramsey, NJ

Commuter Chronicles II

2008-04-14T09:00:00.000-04:00

-Lonely Bed King parking lot, near Ramsey, New Jersey

Commuter Chronicles

2008-04-13T16:41:00.004-04:00

The view from the bus, near Paramus, NJ

Persona Non Grata

2008-03-29T18:31:00.007-04:00

I returned to my apartment the other night to the following note taped to my door, flanked by a petite container of lubricant.

The note reads:
"Here: Use this lubricator on your door, so it stops sounding like Dracula's grave. And, please, show/have good manners and stop slamming your door, there people living here, [sic] not everybody is an animal."

Ok, our door is a tad on the creaky side, point taken. Since this transgression Tuesday evening, I have been evaluating our neighbors as potential culprits. Charlie also greased the hinges.

NEIGHBOR ONE: The lesbian Fonz, Meescha. Some heartbroken lass showed up to our building and would not stop buzzing the door. I assumed it was a delivery person (mea culpa mea culpa) and buzzed this sore chick in. She proceeded to wail at Meescha's door FOR A SOLID HOUR, beseeching Casanova to let her in. MEEEESHA! MEEEEEESCHA! The urban equivalent of wolves howling at the moon. Terrifying.
NEIGHBOR TWO: Sweet next door neighbor who is a grad student. She listens to electronic music at 5:45am. Doubtful.
NEIGHBOR THREE: Angry court jester dude. This guy has metal-bottomed boots, wears a crushed velvet hat that looks like a colostomy bag, and lives above us. It always sounds like they are moving furniture, but it must just be him walking. He has made attempts to be "neighborly" but I draw the line at "Hello" and "How are you?" and tensely move past him. Once he caught me unlocking my door after work, and took the opportunity to vent some hot rage about how cold I am. I smiled, nodded, said "Good to see you too" then sealed myself in my apartment, waiting for the confirmation of his footsteps walking away. He now pretends he doesn't see me. Which is fine.

I don't know the rest of my neighbors because I live in a grown-up dorm but it least it doesn't smell like urine so that's something.

BEST WORD er, PHRASE HEARD THIS WEEK: brickpunk classic (I want the car or toaster this refers to)
WORST WORD HEARD THIS WEEK: trenchant (this word makes me twitch)

Woppalicious Easter

2008-03-22T18:16:00.006-04:00

Pork is the superlative meat, and I am a sucker for butter molded in the shape of farm animals. Easter's not a wretched time of year.

My pal Chaz and I wandered up to Arthur Avenue in the Bronx today, rumored by some to be the "Real Little Italy", as opposed to Mulberry street's parody of itself, and the day before Easter the markets and bakeries were abuzz with activity. We tasted fresh ricotta (a little soupy) posed a statue of a mob icon, and I consumed my first bitters appertif that I didn't entirely hate. Charlie noticed the popularity of slaughtered lambs split down the middle:

What rattled us both: the lambs still had their teeth.

I was particularly taken with the unfamiliar varieties of baked good: sfogliatelle came in longer shapes and were called "lobstertails," "pescas" are biscuits with peach sugar and peach flavor, but the inside features a shot of espresso and peach liqueur,

and a few of the items featured rum, a surprise to me. Most foreign, however, was the festive pastry that looked as if it was gestating, generating some alien, gluten-based species:

In a nod to spring's assumed fertility, "Easter Bread" is an anise-infused sweetbread which incorporates at least one hard-boiled egg. The eggs' sharp presence unnerves the eater, reminds one a little too much of bone, and I found myself avoiding the white mass as I consumed the pastry.

The Arthur Avenue Retail Market features hard-to-find Italian kitchen instruments (I finally found the deep-dish pizza pan I'd been searching for), an extensive meat market, the zingiest, crispest thin crust pizza I have ever had (I know, sacrilege), a library of hard-to-find coffee products and liqueurs, and novel fresh pasta shapes.

And a little bit of Brooklyn, for good measure: marzipan lambs!

Midwest versus East Coast: Naming Conventions.

2008-02-15T22:59:00.006-05:00

Those who know me bemoan my frequent outbursts of culture shock. I’m not talking about inane pop v. soda dithering, but the cold smack of stark realization—the East Coast is Different. The Thai restaurant on the corner is open on Thanksgiving. Where I am from, it’s impolite to ask how much you pay for housing. Manicures are really cheap. I digress…

In the Midwest, our “cutesy” names cluster around two areas of commerce: dairy and gas. In Iowa, we might frequent the “Dari Barn” for milkshakes, or the “Kum and Go” for unleaded. It’s true, branding can be hokey in general, but Central time seems to relish “olde” “cheez” and “lite” a degree further than either coast.

The East Coast has its own versions, and those are bagels and futons. Here chewy carbs and spoiled posture translate to vile iterations of the English tongue.

On my way to my first Brooklyn apartment from LaGuardia, I noticed a particularly dreary “World of Futons” next to the BQE, shortly thereafter purchased my own futon from “Futonland” and on my new commute to New Jersey I pass the “Futon Express.” In the Midwest we don’t compromise on relaxation—hence the ‘luxe’ l-shaped couches. Who knew the East Coast clamored so for discomfort? It’s hard to imagine demand being so high, especially with the cheery name that mocks the product. Something about the “pep” doesn’t compute.

Bizarrely, a similar strain runs through bagel retail.

When I was working on a campaign in New Jersey, we recommended that the candidates—I kid you not—do meet and greets on the bagel circuit. I begrudgingly suggested the following route:
• Bagelword
• The Bagelry
• Once Upon a Bagel
• Hole Lot of Bagels (grimace)
• Bagelicious
• Bagels and Cream
• Bagel Talk
Linguistically, bagels have the flexibility of Nickelodeon Gak. Is it because they are the edible version of a toy? Do bagels need to corner the market with their respective “personalities”?

Yes the wordplay is irritating, but I also find the items they modify an odd selection. I’ll be on the lookout for industries that make too much precious, and examining what they have in common. At least these avoid the stomach-churning effect of the Christian coffee shop –“Higher Grounds.”

Italian Kitchen Gadgets

2008-02-14T13:08:00.008-05:00

A teeny living space and a subdural vigilance keep me from amassing clutter, so I own very few kitchen gadgets. However, when I go on meandering walks without a fixed destination, purpose, or time limit, I admire them from afar—our neighborhood has some neat stores with fresh wares.

The mezzaluna is one such revitalized object d’cuisine, thanks to celebrity chef/pinup Nigella Lawson.

It’s Medieval appearance (and structure) reminds one more of torture than of the refined ritual of bruising herbs. Convex steel that grows into two handles, the mezzaluna resembles the half-moon it’s named after. Either single or double-bladed, the user rocks the handles back and forth to chop herbs or vegetables. I haven’t been able to locate the provenance of the tool, since I suspect it has more sinister roots than the kitchen, but I shall report my findings at a later date.

The “handspresso” makes the luxury of quality espresso portable.

To use, manually pump the machine to “16 bars” of pressure, use one of their special espresso pods, and pour water, and it’s rearin’ to go. It’s a pretty hot gadget. Then I watched the bizarrely sensuous video, and questioned the group’s branding

See the video, below.

Handpresso Video

2008-02-14T13:04:00.001-05:00

With Apologies to Terry Gross

2008-02-13T09:51:00.004-05:00

I'm not here to start some skirmish over which public radio station passes muster, especially since I'm particularly fond of WNYC's Soterios Johnson and his dulcet tones (it's pledge time, and it just breaks my heart to hear him beg). Even though it's a tad outside my geographic comfort zone, I rely on KCRW for all things popular. Underdog Wisconsin Public Radio also produces the notable program "To the Best of Our Knowledge".

All things considered, Chicago Public Radio is pretty great--it sponsored perhaps the best show ever, the intellectual collision course that was WBEZ's Odyssey hosted by the resourceful and enlightened Gretchen Helfrich. What a pleasure it was to hear her seamlessly pivot from Walter Benn Michaels to the legacy of Andrea Dworkin (swoon!). Nationally, WBEZ is known for blockbusters This American Life and Wait Wait Don't Tell Me, but it has some other shows we could call "indigenous" to Chicago (848, Worldview, and Re:Sound) that I've missed since coming to New York.

The good news-WBEZ now has podcasts available, and it was like Christmas this morning when I found them.

A Familiar Face

2008-02-11T16:17:00.002-05:00

"If you look at these chairs, they are mainly made of air, like sculpture. Space passes right through them."--Harry Bertoia

These wonky chairs take me back to sitting outside of Grinnell College’s “Forum”--a modern architectural blunder which functioned as the campus café. Students would try to pick up these chairs, too wide for the door and bafflingly bottom heavy, to take them outside to read or eat.

Spindly and surprisingly comfortable, these iconic chairs originated in the Midwest via San Lorenzo, Italy. Harry Bertoia (1915-1978) immigrated to Michigan from Italy, where he attended Cranbrook Academy of Art, befriending Chicago design icon Charles Eames and furniture visionary Florence Knoll. Trained in jewelry construction and design, he actually cobbled together the ideas for the Eames’ wedding rings.

Bertoia followed Eames (and his wife, Ray) to California in 1943 to work in their studio where they molded plywood to make spectacular and seemingly impossible furniture. WWII rationing made precious metals hard to come by, so Bertoia transitioned from jewelry-making to helping Eames fashion parts for airplanes—Eames was Director of Research and Development for Evans Products Co. at the time.

After departing from the Eames’ studio in 1946, he shifted from wood back to metal, working with Florence Knoll on furniture design at her factory in Pennsylvania. Bertoia began to bend and stretch metal, using a sculptural approach for functional objects. The diamond chair uses meshed metal to form the back support, which then eases into an armrest shape. Unlike the wooden Eames chairs of the period (slim but still opaque wood) the ‘Diamond’ has a different space-sensibility, there and not there, both a dimension and a silhouette.

The creation of the “Diamond Chair” in 1952 raised so much revenue in royalties, Bertoia left furniture for sculpture, shifting the focus of his work from tactile to sonic—he created a series of "sound sculptures," or sculptures that would react to wind movement, including the sculpture in front of the Standard Oil building in Chicago where my Dad worked when I was a kid.

Source: Entobox

Curious, Grinnellians, as to how much these cost? A mere $2,100 each.

Appeals to my inner Débutante

2008-02-06T12:45:00.003-05:00

I dig the translation of haute consumption using disposable production values.

Artist: Ed Vince

Cheese Worship

2008-02-04T12:29:00.003-05:00

This is a Parmesan cheese holder, designed by sensuous Italian powerhouse Alessi. It costs $78, and it's made of pale gold and crystal, bestowing upon the jewel of Parma the sort of adulation it demands.

I think it's both an interesting object and a fascinating symbol. What would provoke the design of such a highbrow, deity-protecting item? Is Reggiano that special? Does the print on the rind intentionally resemble a luxury logo? Why does set you back $15 dollars a pound? These are signs of the cheese's cult of personality, its branded identity, its generated myth.

Reggiano is special--it's bespoke, boutique, in high demand. After the semi-hard cheese is inscribed with the signature stamp, aged 12 months, it is inspected by the Consorzio Parmigiano Reggiano (the sort of fromagie-equivalent of an MC) then exported and peddled. But Parmesan, as much as it might like to, does not hold the patent on the grana (or grainy) nutty cheese flavor.

All of the authenticity "hype" would lead you to believe there is no other cheese in this market, that cheap imitators of Parmigiano are akin to off-brand Coke.

Not so! Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you: grana padano.

Grana padano's tradition reaches back even further than Reggiano--'twas made by Cistercian monks in 1135 AD around the marshes of the Po river. Contrary to American belief, it is actually the most-produced cheese in Italy, with factories in Emilia-Romagna, Lombardy, Piedmont, Trentino, and Veneto (as opposed to just the tiny region of Parma ). Additionally, it's more affordable than it's plus chic cousin, and has almost the exact same crystallized texture and salty flavor. Of course, it is still protected by the Denominazione di Origine Controllata e Garantita (DOCG) which inspects and regulates Italian identity-related food items like, ie Basalmic vineagar, olive oil, and Chianti, so it's still special, but not the high-ticket item that is Reggiano.

Henry Hoffman watches Caseificio Europa make Grana Padano

Getting to Know my Neighborhood

2008-02-01T12:15:00.001-05:00

My new favorite site, and it's evaluation of where I ate last night.

A useful tool for the hypochondriac.

Monday Linkitude

2008-01-27T22:00:00.001-05:00

Disease risk to mozzarella output! Oh NO! Serious Eats paints an even graver picture. (Don't water buffaloes look like the bad guys from The Fifth Element?)

A touch of Italian modernity to anchor one in place.

Slice, the Pizza blog, has posted a thorough and mostly unobjectionable Taxonomy of Regional Pizza styles.

What Is Italian Roast, and Why is it so Oily?

2008-01-27T19:37:00.001-05:00

Ever been transfixed at the market by open containers of gleaming coffee beans? Reflecting light like something measured in carats not ounces, Italian roast coffee shines dark among all the other types of bean. But what is Italian roast? And why does it emit such lustre?

A young Mozzadrella wondered if the Italian roast was named so because of its greasy texture…was “Italian Roast” a plainclothes ethnic slur?

Well, coffee grows closer to the equator than Italy—the name has nothing to do with the source of the beans, but how long they are roasted for (12-13 minutes between 370 and 540 degrees). At times these beans are referred to as “espresso beans,” although really the fine grind of the bean defines “espresso,” not the bean’s color (I am told both light and dark beans do just fine in the large steaming machine).

Italian roast is the penultimate stage in the roasting spectrum, beat to the punch by the French, which, I suppose, invalidates the ethnic slur theory:

(The Italian roast is second from right)

As it turns out, the roasting process itself brings these oils to the surface of the bean. The gloss is sometimes called cafeoil, though my findings to support this are paltry. I’m told that the oils impart much of the coffee’s flavor and “body” (I sort of hate the subjective concept of body to describe a liquid’s heft. It’s confusing and synesthesic, but alas).

However, greasy glossy coffee in your market is bad bad bad (however, I love Sahadi’s so I will continue to grace them with my revenue). When exposed to oxygen, the oil from the coffee bean causes it to self-destruct, so open vats of dazzling coffee translate to wilting flavor in your cup. Buy your coffee vacuum packed, or at a place that roasts on site, for the least amount of damaging grease.

“Cultural change occurs when a new meme is introduced and catches on.”

2008-01-27T14:59:00.000-05:00

Mozzarella is more than a state of mind.

She is the leader of the Moofia.

Source of image: http://www.pixie.com.tw/blog/?p=146
(Apologies to Michael Pollan.)

Why Do Italians Drink Wine In Stumpy Cups??

2008-01-26T15:24:00.000-05:00

Few things are more woptastic than Chianti nestled in its wovenbasket shell, served aside squat juice glasses. This “rural” approach to wine consumption circumvents common drinking hazards—glass breakage—while at the same time leaves your hands free to gesture. A superb evolution for certain, but stemless glassware must exist for reasons other than saving the accident-prone from embarrassment. Why do “authentically” branded Italian restaurants forgo traditional stemware in favor of the thickset alternative, the tumbler? And, never having seen proper stemware in my house, why do Italians drink wine in stumpy cups?

The selection appears counterintuitive if you believe what the wine experts tell us: stems exist for the greater wine good. Handling a wine glass by the stem regulates its temperature, heat transferred from your hand will corrupt the taste. Stems prevent unsightly smudges on the glass, allowing a clear view of the wine’s color and opacity. Those with more disposable income contend that the shape of the glass alters the experience—Amy Cortese drinks the boozy Kool-Aid at the Reidel Institute.

Do Italians wittingly betray the wine? Stemless glassware sure does require less storage space, easily fits into the dishwasher, and, of course, breaks less.

Perhaps the result “stems” from the Roman urge to conquer and pillage: Glass artisans traveled with legionnaires to the ends of the Roman empire between the 1st and 4th centuries AD, bringing the trade of the Roman glass tradition with them. These smiths would remain in the Roman states or share their knowledge with the locals who clamored for training, creating a network of provincial glass artisans.

So the rustic glass artisan, out of utility or working with recycled materials, may have stuck with a more basic glass, as the delicate connection between the bowl and the foot of the glass is vulnerable and requires more material. So tumblers won out in the economy game there, as provinces were a far cry from the spiffy Venetian action closer to the center of the Empire.

Source Info: Stern, Marianne E. Roman Glassblowing in a Cultural Context American Journal of Archaeology, Vol. 103, No. 3. (Jul., 1999), pp. 441-484.

Photo Credit: “Yarrg” by Ingorrr. http://www.flickr.com/photos/ingorrr/1195324831/

What's Up, Sis?

2008-01-05T22:28:00.000-05:00

Pleasant greetings from the Giant Land Crab.

The invertebrate exhibit at the National Zoo is pretty damn cool.

Holiday Travel

2007-12-29T00:01:00.000-05:00

I really detest those who can sleep whilst traveling, those whose
metabolisms crawl so leisurely that they can sleep upright, against a train handrest, on the shifty head supports of commuter buses.

I hate those who sleep through turbulence the most.

Part of the uniquely terrifying circumstance of plane turbulence is
observing the terror with a slice of humanity, one looks around and
shares a moment with fellow humans for, potentially, the last time. This might be the last time I see elasticated pants, Christmas sweaters that resemble cotton igloos, the last time I witness the hideous, Chicago-particular pairing of high-heeled boots, pricey denim with the contours of leggings, and floppy north face jacket. The last Asian! The last football enthusiast! The last In the last moments of our waking life. . .

EVERYONE should be awake for it.

How dare they miss out on the collective fear! This is betrayal of the highest order! On my last two flights to Chicago I've sat next to two separate families all of whom slept through prayer-inducing turbulence, the kind that makes you eat spinach for lunch for a week and call your parents so frequently they get suspicious.

This is not about suffering together, maybe a little bit about suffering together, but more about how fiercely I oppose a populus whose internal systems are so lazy that they can CEASE ACTIVITY 30,000 feet in loose air!

In reaction to the above statements, you may be saying to yourself
"that's so mean." People who use this phrase tend to be from New
England, and I like this about New England, I like its straightforwardness about how mean it is. I find this to be one of its few redeeming qualities.

Chicago Pizza and its accompanying Pride

2007-11-23T15:27:00.000-05:00

Second City Comedy Theater. Third Coast International Audio Festival. Even in its own naming conventions, Chicago appropriates and recoins its second-class status in pop culture and the American zeitgeist. I write today in praise of my home, Chicago (more accurately, Chicagoland) and its native cuisine, the deep dish pizza.

Snobbish East-coast foodies malign it, Grinnell-alum and New York Eater Ed Levine disparages it as merely a “casserole” and apart from the garish “Pizzaria Uno” on Sixth Avenue, pizza with substance, pizza that puts up a fight, is conspicuously absent from such a haughtily self-described “diverse” food scene. Indeed, the cornmeal-bottomed wet cracker New York passes off as pizza can make one desperate: searching for a proper substitute in a time of need, I was once swindled by La Villa Pizzaria in Park Slope, which peddles a dry calzone in a pan for thirty-five dollars.

What is a native Chicagoan to do for pizza in prissy NYC? I went back home this past weekend to first, consume the savory ambrosia in a pan, and second, to unlock its secrets so that I might expose native New Yorkers to true deepdish nirvana, therefore elevating its public profile.

Like asking New Englanders what makes a “good” lobster roll, posing the question “Who makes the best deep dish” to a native Chicago crew is certain conversation TNT. I will always be partial to Ferentino’s, where I waitressed as a teenager, and of course, “stuffed” advocates will champion Giordano’s as the pizza of record. However, city-wide, many if not most will cite Lou Malnati’s as the commonly-agreed upon favorite. I have ordered it from afar and had it delivered packed in dry ice, I have sent doubters there who came back converted. It is my favorite, the taste I pine for when I am homesick, and where I headed to find out what makes it so gosh darn addictive.

Malnati’s is a family venture, handed down through members since it was first created in 1943. When I spoke to local manager Shaun, he relayed that to this day, Malnati family members are involved in all aspects of the business, from the marketing materials inside the store to (and this is from the web site) meeting with the tomato farmers in California each year.

Shaun was kind enough to let me watch the pizza assembly process in the remarkably squeaky-clean kitchen. First the dough, which rises and gathers flavor for 24 hours, is patted out into the deepdish pan:

Second comes the toppings, and of course that means cheese and Italian sausage. It helps foreigners to think of deepdish assembly like a layer cake or a parfait: at the base level is mozzarella (Lou’s) or provolone (Ferentino’s). Then toppings cover the cheese level—here sausage is applied to the pan with surgical precision: little military formations of meat surround and then invade the center:

Spun around slowly, the edges of the crust are pulled up towards the top of the pan three times. Then the delicious plum tomato sauce floods the top, and a dusting of parmesan cheese completes the prep process.

The result: an extremely excited Mozzadrella, poised to stuff her face with the final product.

I returned home, determined to replicate the delicious buttery crust in my galley kitchen in Brooklyn. After some detective work on food blogs, I found a recipe supposedly divulged by a Malnati member on the Food Network years ago:

16 ounces water
1/8-ounce yeast
1/2-ounce salt
2 pounds bread flour
1/4 cup olive oil
1/4 cup cornmeal

I tried it, and the attempt got me 80% there—the crust is flaky, the sauce close to form. However, I do recommend a touch more butter, both to line the pan and to coat the crust before sauce and topping application. Also, the crust thinning process requires some elbow grease—it should be thinner than 1/2 and inch in pan before it goes into the oven.

Mozzadrella ventures homeward!

2007-11-19T09:59:00.000-05:00

Cheese is still cheese is still cheese.

Any way you slice it. Above: state spirit! Below: Cheese in the shape of Wisconsin.

And for local color:

More Italian Food You've Never Heard Of

2007-11-11T17:04:00.001-05:00

Italian pastries get no love in the US—our palate caters more to the nauseatingly sweet (cupcakes, doughnuts, butter cookies, etc.) than the subtle. Dessert is a fix, not a conversation. And while France garners all the haute pastry prestige, Italy has its own robust baking culture. Unlike its cream and custard counterparts, Italian pastries are more likely to include cheese fats (mascarpone, ricotta) and are often infused with anise or almond flavors.

My grandmother usually served pizzelles that she made herself, which look roughly like a dough doily and had a licoricey undercurrent. Amaretti, or stone-like amaretto macaroons, were usually present in their distinctive red tin. When the holidays rolled around, we would usually have a panettone, which resembles a bundt cake and tastes like wonderbread with raisins. My father is quite partial to sfogliatelle, which is sort of like a mille feuille with an orange-ricotta filling. Mostly unavailable in the states until recently, sfogliatelle once gave him food poisoning when he packed it in his suitcase in Florence, and ate it when he returned to the states.

Those are the more common desserts, but today we will look at more distinctive incarnations of Italian sweets, and a couple Italian-American bastardizations as well. A couple of bake shops in my neighborhood have freaks in their windows. It’s ‘bout time I found out the constitution of these vaguely modernist items.

Our first, Ossa dei Morti, the “Bones of the Dead” cookie.

Made with sugar and water in celebration of All Soul’s Day, this Venetian cookie smells faintly of anise and is chalky to the touch. Imagine stale corn flakes compressed into a brick. These are perilous pucks; my jaw hates me. The cookie’s chemistry reveals itself when dipped in coffee—it self-destructs.

The second is pretty unimaginative: the “S-shaped cookie.”

It’s indigenous to Brooklyn but inspired by Italian pastry treatment—the almond paste is very present. Still a little hard for me, even after the coffee immersion.

The third and last pastry is perplexingly named a “St. Martin’s Biscuit.” (If my memory serves me, St. Martin was militaristic Hungarian.)

A little like biscotti in texture, I appreciated the whole anise seeds in the batter. ‘Twas rather difficult to bite, though, since it has a concrete texture and a larger round shape. I can’t seem to locate provenance, so perhaps it was a house special.

Other Italian Specialty Sweets:
Rainbow Cookies
Torta Caprese
Pignoli

Fresh Mozz w/ Cheese

2007-10-13T17:53:00.000-04:00

Years ago in college, due to trickery and nefarious tactics, I was backed in to doing a radio show on my college campus. Rachel and I decided to have a "how-to" program, where we would showcase one talent or area of knowledge each week.

Rachel knows how to do a lot of things, including percussing and dressing a crustacean. Comparatively, my abilities appeared paltry, but I drew from my background in cosmetics (rally!), and brought the ingredients to make oatmeal facial masks to the studio.

Did chunks slip off our cheeks as we were at the switchboard? Yes. Did it encrust to our faces like orange pulp? Absolutely. Stalking her flickr account this morning, I came across this photo:

I think I also forced Rachel to play a roleplaying game on the air--I believe I made her make up stories about a goth family on the spot.

Divine retribution for her deceit!

The Mystery of Stanley S. Lamm--Solved!

2007-10-09T18:24:00.000-04:00

Weeks ago, this building caught my eye, and I sought and enlisted the help of the Brooklyn Historical Society to find out about the Dudley Memorial building at 110 Amity, and it’s namesake, Stanley S. Lamm. I was hoping to uncover that Lamm was the Blackwater of pediatric psychiatry, that the empty building was creepy for a reason other than the real estate vultures circling above.

The building’s provenance is a yawn: ‘twas built 1903 by Henry W. Maxwell, a member of the Long Island College’s Board of Regents, as a memorial to Dr. William H. Dudley. Dudley had organized the German Central Dispensary, which soon became the Long Island College Hospital. All four floors of the Dudley Memorial originally housed nurses.

When did the building morph into the Stanley S. Lamm Center? Answer: 1951, when Stanley S. Lamm established it in his name. The Center for Developmental Disabilities, which now resides in Long Island College Hospital proper, has been rechristened the “Institute for Child Neurology and Development Medicine”—perhaps in light of the etymological bitch-slap that is “the opposite of to make fit.”

Here is where it gets interesting: Lamm also served as the medical director for classes for neurologically impaired youth in Brooklyn. Through the Center, he also ran a school for students with disabilities. The guiding torch of Lamm’s theory? Pediatric medicine must detect and treat pediatric neuroses, since they “account for more than half of the chronic illnesses in childhood” and can be identified and read early in childhood behavior.

Lamm favored examining and teaching students on an individual basis: “A major problem, according to Dr. Lamm, is that children with minimal brain dysfunction are generally grouped together, even though ways of teaching them have to be vastly different” (New York Times, Jul 20, 1970).

While I am not in favor of exclusionary classroom methods, (i.e. “special ed”) Dr. Lamm surely noticed a phenomenon only articulated in the mid-to-late 60s, as Congress initially discussed the “Children with Learning Disabilities Act” of 1969: suburbanites embraced special ed in droves, its existence absolved parents of responsibility and shame. Urban communities, in contrast, couldn’t squeeze out the tax dollars to support the programs--educators at New York Teachers College discovered that students diagnosed with learning disabilities came from predominantly middle- and upper-middle class backgrounds. Once Congress recognized learning disabilities as legit and eligible for federal funds, urban communities could better support developmental programs.

Though I can’t find any evidence that Lamm testified, lobbied or submitted reports to the Congressional Sub-Committee on Education, I’d like to think that the individual evaluation he supported in Brooklyn helped secure funding for our area.

cold blooded murder of the english tongue.

2007-10-08T21:24:00.000-04:00

grapple. n. grape flavor infused fuji apple.

grapple. n. mechinzed "hand" used as a logging tool.

Campari Party, General Disappointment

2007-10-04T22:55:00.000-04:00

Having honed my taste for Campari in preparation for an event this evening, my research swelled my expectations out of proportion. Campari's recent saucy marketing campaign led me to believe that certain items would be present.

BAMBOOZLED: There were no Italian flygirls in red body paint.

HOODWINKED: I couldn't find any representatives to speak with me about the apertif's place in American culture, only waitresses in bad 40s-era replica hats passing out gift boxes. They weren't a far cry from mechanized mannequins: useless for information.

SURPRISED: A burlesque dancer, wearing only what I believed to be a fishing net, carried a massive translucent beachball into the crowd. She referred to herself as the "Female Atlas."

I did sample a host of Campari's permutations, and isolated bitterness as the variable that elicits the most dismay from my tastebuds. With fresh orange juice, it no longer tastes like decomposing swamp puss. I highly recommend this incarnation for anyone who finds themselves in in the face of a poorly-stocked liquor cabinet.

Wes Anderson's God Complex

2007-10-01T11:07:00.001-04:00

la donna e mobile: campari

2007-09-30T09:02:00.005-04:00

I’ve always felt taunted and challenged by “acquired tastes”— the level of maturity required to appreciate the item, the implied elitism of the expression—I would learn to love artichokes, fish sauce and Catherine MacKinnon, just for spite. Campari remains a target to overcome. My aversion to Campari is a point of cultural shame, particularly in light of my enthusiasm for appertivo, or happy hour. I resolved: in October, as I approach 25th birthday, I would make a concerted effort to appreciate the liquor, and then bask in my enlightened standing.

It’s bitter, barky flavor has put my off for years, but I keep coming back for the alluring, vibrant red. Campari’s signature flame, I am told, comes from the natural pigment carmines, which are the dried remains of the cactus-dwelling insect, cochineals. The recipe for Campari is CocaCola-level secret (only one man in at Campari’s factory in Novi Ligure knows the details), but officials do confirm that wormwood and 59 other aromatics and herbs comprise the aperitif.

Campari is almost a fable, a continental version of Camelot—culturally it symbolizes the achievement of success, of a self-made man, but also tradition, of easing into mealtime after the workday. Gaspare Campari was born in Castelnuovo, Italy in 1828, and became “apprentice maitre licoriste” (barman extraordinaire) in Turin at the green age of 14. After futzing with the recipe for his bitter concoction over 20-some years, he officially founded the Gruppo Campari in Milan in 1860. Campari would only sell his product to outlets that displayed “Campari Bitters” posters, quickly establishing a brand identity outside Milan. The business plan was both sturdy and stellar: today, Campari grosses 33 million bottles in annual sales, about the same world-wide as Jack Daniels.

The iconography of Campari is as unique and recognizable as its color. Davide Campari, Gaspare’s son, commissioned ideas for the Campari posters from European artists with the following instructions: “Artists must clearly display the brand name; use uncomplicated color; and the brand should be incorporated naturally in the picture.” French poster art luminary Leonetto Cappiello responded with one of the most noteworthy works of the period: a clown dancing in an orange peel holding a bottle of Campari. Also patrons of progressive design, the Camparis contacted Futurist art superhero Fortunato Depero to create the bottle for CampariSoda, the premixed cocktail. The beaker-like final product combines forceful and urbane features, and appears just as modern as when Campari released it in 1932.

As glamorous and distinctive as its image came to be, the house of Campari contracted trenchfoot in the culture wars of the 1980s. In 1983, the Reverend Jerry Falwell brought a case against Hustler magazine for producing an ad which featured Falwell and his mother in a “drunken incestuous encounter in an outhouse.” The ad parodied a contemporary Campari advertising campaign in which celebrities described “their first time” drinking Campari, with obvious sexual innuendo. The Court ruled 8-0 in favor of Hustler, finding that public figures “must tolerate occasional false statements, lest there be an intolerable chilling effect on speech that does have constitutional value.”

Over the next week, I will sample Campari in various incarnations, I will sweet-talk and swindle my taste buds into submission, I will take down this feeble-minded aversion of mine!

I shall try each of the following drinks, report back on their flavors and my level of satisfaction with the cocktail, hopefully garnering some level of affection for the drink as the week goes on:

• Campari neat
• Campari and soda
• Negronis
• Campari and orange juice
• Americano

Mozzadrella on Mozzarella

2007-09-24T20:34:00.001-04:00

My grandparents regularly outfoxed the U.S.D.A. when re-entering the States: they smuggled their native cheese from Umbrian mountain country. Upon arrival, they would move the precious cheese, with its fetid bouquet, to their cool basement for ripening. To get Christmas lights or more Sprite, I would descend into the cheese crypt, the rinds hanging like fragrant contortionists.

My appreciation for cheese, then, is spurred by a sense of adventure and informed by the death drive. Today an ode to the cheese I love, and my namesake: mozzarella.

Mozzarella is the diminutive form of “mozza” or the general term for “cheese,” but it derives from the verb “mozzare” which loosely translates to “to cut off” or “to dock.” In Italy mozzarella is made only from buffalo milk—if made from cow’s milk the cheese is “fior di latte” or “flower of the milk.” While it is often found as a large lump floating in salt water, one can also purchase bocconcini (small mouthfuls) or ciliegini (little cherries).

A short historical sketch: while some attribute the provenance of water buffaloes in Italy to the Visigoths, others believe Marc Anthony brought the animal from Egypt and sent it, with a recipe for bufala mozzarella, to Caesar as a gift. Much much later, when Hitler’s armies retreated, they destroyed Italy’s entire water buffalo population. Italy was forced to grovel and order more from India.

To see first hand how the cheese is made, I consulted the Italian specialty store Pasdeli, which agreed to let me join the mozzarella creation ritual. On the weekends, John, the owner, makes 5lbs of fresh mozzarella a day. He starts with bricks of whole cow’s milk curd, a large silver bowl, two colanders, and a custom-design water heating system.

When I come in, he has already begun the “pasta filata” process: the bricks are soaking in a large silver bowl. The initial bath of warm, unsalted water breaks up the logs of curd and loosens the milk proteins. With a custom-designed water heating system, he rinses the bricks in warm, then hot water over a colander, returning the cracked curd bits to the larger bowl.

After heating it twice, John’s hands begin to mold the curd into something more solid and smooth, ironing out the curd’s pocketed surface. He then begins to twist the cheese, bringing air into it, and breaking chunks from the mothership that remains in the bowl. With the portion he broke off, he tucks the chunk into a sphere, or “makes a face” with it, and dips it back into the water to smooth it and form a skin on the surface.

The newly-formed globes rest in cold water to stop the cooking process, then soak in salt water for flavor—salt is added last and not first because it renders the curd too sticky to work with. After their salt bath, John wraps the balls in plastic, and seals snuggly to get the air out. Air will make fresh mozzarella turn slightly yellow, says John, and it looks better when it’s wrapped in plastic. If you buy mozzarella that is a little yellowed at the edges, it may mean that it’s made fresh, not necessarily that it’s past its prime.

He is right that mozzarella is attractive—the final result is a tray of glossy, malleable pearls.

As satisfying as it is, however, cow’s milk mozzarella does not feature the soft, spongy, rustic disposition of the water buffalo. The next objective: how to procure the best bufala “mozzarel” in New York.

The WOP's Guide to Kosher

2007-09-19T17:18:00.000-04:00

“I have a friend who is half Italian, half Jewish. When he can’t get something wholesale, he steals it.” -clerk, Kosher liquor store, Borough Park

What is “Kosher,” and how can the average Dago be sensitive to the needs of our Semitic friends? Most people know about the restrictions of milk/meat and shellfish, but why do Orthodox observers keep turning down my dinner invitations? I went to Borough Park, Brooklyn to find out about Kosher and Italian cuisine’s place in it.

First off, Kosher (or Kashrut) food requirements derive for the stringent and severe book of Leviticus, and apply to almost all foods, both the by-product and the process of making it. The regulations—there are too many to name here—are upheld by certification, or by routine rabbinical inspection by a local Rabbi:

It’s immediately apparent that Italian food is popular in Borough Park—Amnon’s Kosher Pizza is bumping with modestly dressed women pushing strollers and visibly warm young men with peyos. I spoke to a couple of people behind the counter, and gathered the following about Italian cuisine through the lens of Kosher:
• Cheese: they use Haolam cheese, and it comes from sheep and cows only. I followed up, and the cheese also has to be made with rennet from a Kosherly-slaughtered cow, or grown bacterially (without coming into contact with animal).
• Vegetables: these are routinely inspected by a Rabbi. Why? Because vegetables may contain insects. Insects are not (not not not) Kosher.
• Bread: when it’s time for unleavened bread (i.e. Passover) the Italian restaurants have come up with a solution—no yeast whole wheat pizza and calzones! They look as if they have passed through the tunnels of the human system already, but I was assured that they are quite popular year-round.

I went into a Kosher liquor store on 13th Avenue, and talked to the clerk about Kosher wine. If invited to a Kosher household, what should I look for on a wine bottle or know about the wine before purchase?
• Certification: this is paramount in all Kosher foods, especially for those who observe Kosher and are eating outside the home. The most familiar and popular is OU, or Orthodox Union Kosher, which has 600 rabbinic field representatives world wide, and its “New York headquarters staff consists of over 50 Rabbinic Coordinators who serve as account executives for OU certified companies, supplemented by a roster of ingredient specialists, flavor analysts and other support staff.” OU is symbolized by the following sign:

• Process: I was told it had to be pasteurized, or “cooked” so to speak, but Baron Herzog wines indicate that wine only needs to be handled by Kosher methods, and use yeasts that are also Kosher.

Fellow goyim might wonder: what’s the deal with Kosher salt? In addition to being Kosher itself, Kosher salt is used in the process of Koshering meat (ritual slaughter and preparation). Since Torah dictates that one cannot consume blood, the large crystals cure and remove the residual blood within the meat.

All of you Catholic eye-talians out there, don’t try to Kosher at home! In addition to individual items and processes, Kosher also refers to a system: kitchens that have separate milk and meat plates and silverware, dishwashers, and even stoves. This is often the reason why Orthodox or Conservative Jews may decline invitations at your home, or as I heard it, will not “eat by you.” Do not be insulted my brethren—Kosher Pizzerias make the only passable Chicago-style pizza in New York!

Mystery! The Phantom Clothes Leaver.

2007-09-16T20:57:00.001-04:00

On a very busy street in Brooklyn, adjacent to a Catholic church and a purveyor of fish, I began to find discrete items of women’s luxury clothing abandoned, left to the elements of urine and brine.

Sometimes in piles atop garbage bins, sometimes strung up on the fence that surrounds the church, at times cast atop fire hydrants—the trail felt maniacally deliberate or slapdash. As a hand-to-mouth youngin’ starting out in New York, the discards would taunt me with their extravagance, and I would pass by their display two or three times before finally discouraging myself from taking it.

After six or eight instances of finding this quality apparel, I began to keep track of the articles: 3/14/2007, a translucent Louis Vuitton knapsack. 5/2/2007, solidly-made Merino wool trousers. 7/26/2007, oversized cowl-neck sweater. 8/16/2007, jersey skirt, sparkly purple top, constructed white button-down.

The bizarre behavior of the Phantom Clothes Leaver. What causes someone to violently pluck items from their closet? It’s so much easier to leave them there, unworn! I’d like to think it’s a motive more sinister than “donation,” so I began to cobble together ideas for who this person might be.

1.) Fashionista with the attention span of a subway turnstile. A cross between Anna Wintour and a werewolf. Bad or outdated clothing is a virus on her closet that drives her mad.
2.) Female superhero who must strip down to her skivvies before fighting realtor’s fees.
3.) Predatory assailant who is indiscriminant about what they will steal from victims, but becomes more discerning on the way to the train.
4.) Fervent bulimic who hates the label “Size M” on her clothes, so she purges them like microwave tacos and instant brownies.

Pictures of the remnants to come.

It's Quite Pedestrian--On the LAMM

2007-09-15T18:16:00.000-04:00

There’s an abandoned building at Henry and Amity that I feel consistently drawn to—it’s a rather large brick semi-institutional building with bars on the windows, filmy glass, and the strangest items inside: signs that still say “Please present your insurance card at the window,” bulletin boards covered with tinsel wishing no one a Happy Holiday, sinks torn from the walls in placed in the middle of the room. It’s obvious the building has gone unused for years.

The fact that it’s the former home of a child neurology clinic--The Stanley S. Lamm Institute for Developmental Disabilities—makes the items inside even creepier. According to the Long Island College Hospital website:

“The Stanley S. Lamm Institute, a part of Long Island College Hospital, treats cerebral palsy and Cooley's anemia patients. The Lamm Institute was established in the 1950's by Dr. Stanley S. Lamm for the comprehensive care of the developmentally disabled.”

I was very curious about this person, especially since everyone knows the 1950’s were flush with experimental methods for treating disabilities: Ice-pick lobotomies just began to decline in the early 50’s (who can forget Rosemary Kennedy’s sexual disqualification in 1941?), and involuntary electroconvulsive therapy continued until the Surgeon General regulated its administration in 1999.

Research on Lamm’s background and methods is scant. A visit to the Brooklyn’s Historical Society uncovered little background on the building--it was built in 1903 as a nurses’ facility.

However, I did find that the LAMM method of robbing a bank means taking a military approach: acquiring blueprints to the building, assigning a role to each associate of your gang, and doing “drills” of each possible outcome.

The Gray Hair Diaries

2007-09-15T16:37:00.000-04:00

I’ve always known that it was might fate—I would go gray young. Growing up, no one ever officially came down with the sentence, I gathered the evidence from my mother’s coloring rituals: a robe spattered with ammonium drips, the brown paste at her crown as she defrosted dinner, the basement bathroom dedicated to the activity.

My future in black in white. It came across as a decree, rather than an option, in the furtive way female family members would admit it, away from their husbands: “Once you start, you can’t go back” “I prefer to call it ‘frosting’, makes me feel like a cake!” These asides, cagey, coy, or earnest, bespeak some communal knowledge: 1.) many women do color their hair—“color” not “dye” because no one wants to be “dead,” and 2.) the trompe l’oeil is permanent. Fudging your age with color means you are “of a certain age” and you can’t go back.

But does gray mean you are “of a certain age’? Since we do not collectively gray, at say, 35, gray does not communicate that we have moved past a fixed age: gray does not betray a number. Rather, it does convey that one has started the process of aging earlier: you are the bruised peach in the bunch, you have passed ripe, you’ve begun to sour sooner.

As forecasted, the fog rolled in around my sixteenth birthday. Further defined and fuller in volume since then, others began to notice the streak around 23. I know how many of them there are (21 last count), I know how to style my hair to hide them (or did until recently). I can project when the contrast level will shift from gray to white (32).

Going gray early forces you to address aging, and then the cultural forces at work in making you feel older, far sooner than actual middle-age. As the sage (and obviously, gray) Sontag noticed, aging is “mainly an ordeal of the imagination—a moral disease, a pathology” in Western society, especially for women. Case in point: Gabrielle Union’s recent commercial trying to sell my demographic wrinkle cream. In a show of hands, most of my female friends already use some sort of anti-aging product.

Apart from the biological wear-and-tear we will all address, melanin’s cruel abandonment of hair follicles pushes you into a maelstrom of tensions: Will I be a crusader by not coloring my hair? Could I justify coloring it until others around me begin to gray? Is the anxiety from aging itself, or the unmerited quality of the graying—I am only 24. If I do color my hair, at what point would I begin?

Folks, it’s not just a sensitive subject because of the anxieties gray will signify, namely age, but also the gray-ee may not have resolved how they want to express the gray—as pride, as denial, as fashion, or as I have plainly tried to play it, as Sontag devotee-ism.

For your convenience: The Double-Standard of Aging.

That is a nasty aftertaste

2007-09-09T09:17:00.000-04:00

I know I've been mentioning this, but the event left a mark on my spotless brooklyphile record:

Apart from my new perverse relationship with the Food Network--folding cake batter, oh my, Nigella!--Sunday's real estate section in the New York Times is the basest consumption I do. I love its voyeurism, the way you suspend your own poverty and dismiss the shabby 2.2 mil brownstone on Baltic in favor of the 2.5 on the corner 8th and Union. I blame this snooty-licious behavior on my mother, a realtor to the stars for 30-odd years.

Sunday's times featured a profile of the most indulgent, revolting, arrogant display of excess income i have ever seen. A couple is building a behemoth for the luxe lifers on west 15th street. They paid 1 million dollars to buy out the former tenants alone. Please, for a moment, indulge the description of the couple's current home:

"Long before they began the current project, the couple spent five years creating the apartment next door — a place like no other in the city. It contains a two-story-high waterfall that flows into an 18-inch-deep river set into the living room floor.

The river, which is home to 10 large koi, follows the outline of the Yangtze, a feat the Raths accomplished by building a Styrofoam model (following a National Geographic map that they enlarged), setting the model onto the building’s foundation, and then pouring the concrete floor around the model. (The final step was using gasoline to dissolve the Styrofoam, Mr. Rath said.)"

This made me so sick that I wanted to turn Giada off, and may have dulled my invasively-dirty passion for real estate in New York, and at large, forever. I find it tasteless in the most gauche and frivolous way, and I am fast becoming bitter about a paper and a city that would elevate this couple as a symbol of who it is or who it wants to be.

book store, i want to like you.

2007-09-09T09:15:00.000-04:00

But probably I never will.

I like that it's there, on my street, small and haughty. I like its collaged and unorganized window displays. I like how, by the simple miracle of walking by it, I feel as if I am supporting something independent and community-sustained. I live in a neighborhood that still has an independent bookstore, after all.

I just hate everything in it.

I resent how it invites me to just "drop on in" all nonchalant and casual, but never stocks anything I want to read. This is a tease and it puts me in a bad mood.

Their history section perpetuates the myth that history is about war. This brute oversight I might allow if the bookstore featured a cultural studies section, a sociology section, an ethnic studies section, and/or current affairs section.

But it doesnt. Apparently, to this day, men and their wars made all of history.

The philosophy, oh, I should say 'philosophy/religion' area leaves me underserved--a scant volume of Foucault, a book that teaches me how to read tea leaves in my urine. Also in this section: "My Inner Goddess and Her Love for Chocolate Cake."

The very inaccurately genre'd "essays" area is half full with fiction anthologies. The poetry section is comprised of Shakespeare sonnets and the odd Ogden Nash.

I often attempt to support Bookcourt, only to storm off to the Barnes and Noble two blocks away. it has occured to me to speak to their manager--please stop buying books that suck--because i want it to pull through so badly. My inner goddess is keeping me in check for now.