Ginger's follies, foibles and fixations.
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| You Listen to Me, Mr. Kick-Ass Ginger's follies, foibles and fixations. |
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Saturday, August 03, 2002 How can you have any pudding if you don't eat your meat? First, go read this Salon article about expired domain names, because it's funny. (Thanks, Mike!) Second, Nell and I went to see the Brooklyn Cyclones last night, and we very nearly ended up in a cyclone! At the top of the 7th inning, shortly after the Cyclones scored the first run of the game, the storm clouds that had been threatening all evening let loose some some real cool and scary lightning, followed by a torrential downpour. The game was called. Okay, now, on to the business at hand. Dear readers, you have peeked into this verbose window to observe so much of my life here in the big city: my apartment-searching adventures, my medical mysteries, bands and movies I've seen. But tonight let me invite you to share with me a particularly key moment: I have just had the most totally kick-assingest steak EVER. And the best thing is I cooked it, all by myself. Some background: I was raised by vegetarians and as such had very little meat in my childhood, though my desire to fit in with my Nebraska school-mates in the 70's led me to eat meat occasionally in mixed company. Then in high school I converted completely to lacto-ovo-pesco vegetarianism, later dropping fish and seafood as well. This lasted ten years (though I added fish back in after I moved to Seattle--how could you NOT eat salmon?). I even went through a brief period of laissez-faire veganism around 1996, which means I avoided all animal products, but I wasn't about to ask for the ingredients of every damn thing I ordered in a restaurant--that shit's annoying. But when I was about to embark on my first trip to Europe I decided not to worry much about what I ate since I (correctly) assumed that some of the time I wouldn't know what I was ordering off the menu. Then at some point in my European adventure I had bacon, and well, that was pretty much it. Even this year when I decided to change to a more healthful diet, I knew I would not give up meat entirely--though in truth I have cut down quite a bit. So, having spent a great deal of my life either completely vegetarian or mostly so, I realized a few years ago that I had never had a steak in my life. My childhood meat-eating consisted mostly of the occasional pizza, fried chicken or an extremely rare (as in frequency, not done-ness) burger. Shortly after I returned from Europe, I read an article in Vogue magazine espousing the delight and wonder of a perfectly-cooked hunk of beef. This must have stirred the inner Nebraskan in me, and I decided that I must have a steak. And it must not be just any steak, but the best steak in town. I enlisted my pal Gia for help (though she is allergic to beef, a bout of hives is no deterrent to a great steak), and we decided to go to The Brooklyn, which I had heard served up some of the best steaks in the area. Looking at the menu, I was alarmed at the size of the dammned things. 20-ounce Porterhouse? 16-ounce Rib Eye? That seemed to be an extraordinary amount of meat (not to mention extraordinarily expensive). Although the Vogue article praised the Rib Eye as the ideal steak, I couldn't get past the hulking portions and prices. I decided on the less-intimidating 8-ounce Filet Mignon, medium-rare please. I discovered something important on that maiden voyage: I don't like Filet Mignon. Undeterred, I've sampled more steaks along the way and though I'm still fairly clueless about the differences in cuts (New York Strip? Sirloin?), I at least know how to order them. Later still I decided to buy a grill pan, so I could sear my own meats (and fish too, which I ate far more often) at home. My first attempts would be laughable if they weren't such a traumatic waste of decent meat, so I more or less abandoned my home-cooking attempts and only indulged in the occasional steak outside the home. Which brings us to tonight. After a lazy afternoon of lounging, I realized that I last had steak somewhere around St. Patrick's day and I was craving one desperately. Knowing that my food co-op sells hormone-free organic meats, I looked up a couple of recipes and set out for the store. Short story long, I brought the meat home, cooked it up, and it was AMAZING. So amazing that I'm dying to share with you the recipe so you can all duplicate the experience at home. So here 'tis: GARLIC-LEMON STEAK (courtesy of Niman Ranch) Serves 1 1 boneless, dry-aged New York steak, 1 1/2" thick (8-10 oz.) [I couldn't find New York so I used Rib Eye instead] 1 garlic clove, peeled and split Freshly-ground black pepper 1/2 T extra-virgin olive oil 1/2 tsp. coarse sea salt (or kosher salt) 1/4 lemon On a plate large enough to hold the steak, rub each side of the steak with the garlic. Leave the garlic on the plate. Season both sides of the steak with a generous coating of black pepper. Drizzle oil over the steak and turn to coat completely. Cover plate with plastic wrap and marinate at room temperature at least one hour and up to two hours. Preheat grill pan [or skillet] to very hot. Sprinkle steak on both sides with salt and grill 3-4 minutes per side for medium rare, according to taste. Squeeze lemon over steak and serve hot. That's it! Simple and exquisite. The key is to have a truly great cut of meat--the best that you can afford, preferably free-range, organic and hormone-free. But that's not all! Part of what made this meal so amazing was the salad I made to accompany it--it's garlic zing was the perfect compliment to the subtle seasoning and lemony bite of the meat: TURKISH SPINACH SALAD (courtesy Dr. Andrew Weil, Eating Well for Optimum Health--a great book that I cannot recommend highly enough!) Serves 4 [This doesn't keep well, so I recommend that you halve the recipe if you are only cooking for one or two] 1 pound fresh spinach, washed, stems removed 2 fresh tomatoes, sliced 6 scallions, trimmed and thinly sliced 5 T plain yogurt, nonfat or low-fat 2 T extra-virgin olive oil 2 garlic cloves, minced 1/2 tsp. dried thyme salt and black pepper to taste Dry the spinach, tear it into large pieces and combine with the tomatoes and scallions in a bowl. Combine the yogurt, olive oil, minced garlic and thyme, adding salt and pepper to taste. Add the yogurt mixture to the vegetables and mix well. Season to taste with salt and pepper. Although I sadly did not have any, I betcha a nice red wine would be a good addition. It will make me very happy if you are moved to try these dishes at home, and then let me know how it went for you. Bon appetit! posted by Ginger | 11:20 PM Friday, August 02, 2002 Aw hell... I can't go to bed now that The Friday Five is up. 1. What is your lineage? Where are your ancestors from? Mostly Czech and Ukranian. Actually there has been some uncertainty on my father's side of whether our ancestors were actually Ukranian or were instead ethnically Polish who just happened to live there. Apparently there's also some pure British-American stock from way back, on my mom's side. 2. Of those countries, which would you most like to visit? I've been to Prague and London already, so I guess it would be cool to check out The Ukraine. Or Poland, whatever. 3. Which would you least like to visit? Why? I guess the reason I'd avoid The Ukraine is that I don't know a goddamn thing about it. Which might also be the reason I'd most like to go. 4. Do you do anything during the year to celebrate or recognize your heritage? Nope, cuz I'm a red-blooded Ay-merican, dagnabbit. Although when I was in grade school I remember bringing kolaches to class a few times. And yes, I did once attend The Czech Festival. 5. Who were the first ancestors to move to your present country (parents, grandparents, etc)? I just found out some of this stuff a couple of weeks ago when I was visiting the family. My Mom's mother is from the British-American stock that goes back so far nobody really knows when the first people hopped the pond. My mom's dad came over on the boat from Bohemia with his parents (Josef and Anezka) and siblings around 1913-ish. Grandpa Jerry's real first name was Jaroslav--how cool is that? (Also, he was a professional wrestler, but that's another story). The origin of my Dad's father's Ukranian/Polish roots are obviously murky. I'm not sure if my grandfather's parents came over from there, or if it was their parents. It is similarly unclear who came over when on my Dad's mother's side, though I am pretty sure her parents (my great-grandparents, both of whom I knew before they died) were born in the US, from Czech stock. Mmm...kolaches. posted by Ginger | 3:34 AM Goth Knitting I took my first of three beginner knitting classes today. I decided to do it on a whim--a few days ago I walked by The Knitting Salon in Park Slope and saw that a new beginner class was starting soon. Wot the hell, it might be 90 degrees now, but it will be sweater-weather eventually! Maybe by then I'll know how to make something. I might have had second thoughts if I realized at the time the place wasn't air-conditioned, but it's too late now! I'm totally hooked. The instructor is "Prophet"--a robust, soft-spoken but straightforward mom with black lip-liner, a plunging neckline and several large tattoos of religious icons. She is perhaps not the world's only Goth Knitter, but certainly the first I've ever met. She's a great teacher, too; quick with praise and doesn't make you feel stupid if you screw up. "It's just knitting!" she said, after unravelling one student's meticulous (but hopelessly erroneous) work. When I was just not getting this whole "purling" thing, I showed her my mutated stitches and whined "If I only knew what I was doing wrong, I could fix it." She replied "If you knew what you were doing wrong you'd be teaching this class." Fair enough! I left the class after two hours with eight inches of knitting to do as homework over the next week. I wondered if I would manage to knit one row on my own without Prophet's wise supervision, and sure enough once I pulled out my needles at home (much to my cat's delight), I was stumped. But instead of giving up in hopes of going to the Salon for help tomorrow, I decided to just plow ahead, figuring that it couldn't matter that much if I had no idea how to start each row. And weirdly enough, I started to get it. I'm still not entirely convinced I'm doing it right, but it doesn't look completely wrong, so I guess that will have to do. The only problem is I'm not sure that knitting is the ideal hobby for someone who spends all day (and, lets face it, most nights) typing. As such I've just merged onto the carpal-tunnel syndrome expressway. But if one of you gets a scarf out of it, it will be worth the wrist splints and surgery! And two more things, then it's bedtime: 1. Check for Viruses: I identified the infectious agent in my computer as the W32.ElKern.4926 virus--a notorious worm that (naturally) sends itself out via e-mail. If you get any e-mail from me (or from anyone who might be in my address book--and that's a lot of people) with weird vague subject lines, DELETE IT IMMEDIATELY. Check the link above for more info and a fix. I'm guessing this nasty germ is what forced me to reformat my whole hard drive, so beware. Higher-evolved Mac users may, of course, ignore this warning. The smug bastards. 2. Remember Al-Qaeda?: The ever-well-read Tom Tomorrow wants to make sure we all know that there are only around 200 hardcore Al-Qaeda members left in the world, and Osama Bin Laden could already be dead. But when we've got some Iraquis yet to exterminate, that hardly matters, does it? posted by Ginger | 2:07 AM Wednesday, July 31, 2002 Data Dump (No, not the answer to "What did Tasha Yar do the morning after?" And yes, I guess the fact that I would think of that makes me a super-uber-mega geek, even though I only saw a handful of episodes of Next Generation.) Well, I did it--reformatted my beloved laptop's hard drive. Luckily, I managed to back up nearly everything, so thus far it hasn't been terribly traumatic. I did have to waste a fair amount of time at work today trying to get the digital ducks in a row. The main problem, it seems, is that I was forced to install an earlier version of MS Office, and the Outlook is different enough to make my e-mail go all screwy. I may have lost Monday's and Tuesday's mail--perhaps the weekend's as well--so if I haven't responded to you and I should have, you might want to write again. But honestly, it's worth it. I don't know what kind of virus my poor 'puter had, but it was NOT working. Soon enough these little kinks will work out and we'll be smoov... Didja all watch Mike on Letterman Monday night? I heard it was great. Haven't seen it yet myself (still sans TV), but Nell taped it for me, so I hope to watch it sometime when I am over at her place--perhaps before the Brooklyn Cyclones game Friday. I will finally get to see baseball in Brooklyn, which will make it worth sweating through a 90-degree evening. Anyway, check out Mike's Blog for a neat peek behind the scenes. Though I'm not sure where he heard that Julia Stiles was doing a good job in Twelfth Night--all the reviews I've read say she stinks. And to wrap up, some good news: today a psychic predicted I would work at my current place of employment for a long time. If that's true, then it means two things: 1. I won't fall over dead from cancer (at least not for a while!) 2. I won't get so broke and desperate that I have to quit and find a real job. Sounds good to me... posted by Ginger | 11:41 PM Tuesday, July 30, 2002 Biopsy Blues Tuesdays must be my red-letter day, I guess. I was born on a Tuesday. Two weeks ago, on Tuesday, I was in my first (and, hopefully, last) potentially life-threatening fire. And today, Tuesday, I had my first (and, hopefully, last) biopsy. ------------------------------ bi·op·sy Pronunciation: 'bI-"äp-sE Function: noun Inflected Form(s): plural -sies Etymology: International Scientific Vocabulary 2bi- + -opsy (as in autopsy) Date: 1895 : the removal and examination of tissue, cells, or fluids from the living body ------------------------------ Depending upon the circumstances, a biopsy can be anywhere from a non-event to a major concern. In my case, it was somewhere in between. The worry, as I sat in the waiting room of Planned Parenthood, that I might have to have one was more traumatic than the procedure itself. And while having one doesn't necessarily mean there's anything to be worried about, the fact that I had to have one at all was plenty enough to stress me out. It's useless stress, I know. I will not learn the results of the biopsy for a month. Until then I have absolutely no idea what is going on inside my body, which is a weird thought. Is it an infection, which will be easily cleared up? Is it something more extensive? Or will it be (horrors!) inconclusive, in which they'd have to do another biopsy? I think of all the options, that one may be the worst. If there's something going on, no matter what, I want to know what it is and get to the point of fixing it. The waiting around is what will drive me batty. So, to the point, why the biopsy? Well, if you're a regular reader here, you may remember that back in October I had a certain test at Planned Parenthood which came back "irregular." When I went back to have the test re-done, the second test was also "irregular." Unfortunately, the letter reporting my second result went to the wrong address, so it was four months later when I finally received it. The letter said I should come in "as soon as possible" to have a procedure done which would allow the doctor to diagnose the problem more accurately. Since this letter was sent to me in February, I freaked out. After all, this test is basically a pre-cancer screening, and when something like that comes back irregular you kind of want to get it taken care of right away. Because of the delay, however, whatever was wrong with me had been wrong since at least October, and here it was June. If I did happen to have cancer, well, wouldn't the tumor be the size of a grapefruit by now? Was I ready to fall over dead any minute? I made the appointment, but they couldn't get me in for a month. More waiting. Then, worse, the day before the appointment, they called to reschedule, saying the doctor doing the procedure wouldn't be in that day. Argh! So I rescheduled, and that day was today. Warning: anyone squeamish or who would rather not think about the state of my insides might want to skip the rest of this post. Finally, I thought, I'd get an answer. But in the meantime I had done some hunting on the Internet and found out that while the procedure they wanted to do was painless and fairly uninvasive, it wasn't unusual for a biopsy to be done at the same time, to further diagnose any irregularity. In more graphic terms, they'd put a scope up my Yahoo, and if my cervix looked funny, they would take a device and punch a chunk or two out of it. Yow. While most websites were assuring that such biopsies were near-painless ("it feels like a pinch," "some women report mild cramping"), just think if someone said to you "I'm going to take this hole-punch to one of your internal organs. It won't hurt." Yeah, right! During my intake, they had me sign a consent form that gave them permission to perform a "surgical" procedure if needed. I said "Whoa, are they going to have to do a biopsy?", pretending that it was the first time I ever heard of such a thing. The intake nurse reassured me that "they only do that if they find anything really irregular." Whew. Okay, so figuring that whatever problem I had--an infection, say--chances are it would have cleared up by now, right? I mean, what infection lasts nine months? They'd stick that scope up there, see that everything was hunky-dory, and that would be it. Get dressed, go to work, worries are over. No biopsy, no problem. I went to the exam room and got into the usual humiliating get-up--naked from the waist down, draped in a little gown. But this time, when I got all propped-up on the exam table, a 14-inch color TV right by my head showed everything in living color! I know it's my body, and bodies are beautiful and all that, but still...yargh. I turned my head away for a few minutes, as I preferred not to know exactly what was going on down there. Until the Dr. Ruth-type doctor piped up cheerfully "Vould you like to zee your cervix?" Truthfully no, not really no. But on the other hand, my curiosity about my medical situation was too strong and I looked. "Arrrgh! What is that," I yelped, feeling truly freaked. See, most of us don't know what our internal organs look like, even the ones that are (sort of) accessible from the outside. For you guys out there (and I must congratulate you on your courage in reading this far), I guess the best analogy I can give you is that it's sort of like looking down your throat at your tonsils. Most of the time you don't notice them there--they are inside you, but not quite all the way inside. And you can pretty much choose to go through life ignoring them if you prefer. When I was a kid, I used to get recurring bouts of tonsillitis, and one day someone told me that you can tell it's tonsillitis because the tonsils swell and have white spots on them. So, being one of those types of people who likes to watch operations on The Learning Channel, I took a flashlight and decided to have a look. It was kind of cool, if disturbing, to see these little things I never noticed before in the back of my throat, puffy and red and covered with the tell-tale white spots of infection. Knowing that there was this visible adjunct to my symptoms somehow made the sickness feel less mysterious. I feel pain, and here it is--physical, obvious. If I take some amoxicillin, the swelling will go down, the white spots will disappear and the pain will go away. Suddenly it seemed logical and simple. Some people would rather it remain a mystery--they don't care so much about the how and the why and just want to make sure it goes away as quickly as possible. But I was sure fascinated by those infected tonsils. As such, I did take the opportunity to see my cervix once before. In college, in the midst of my love-freely-and-stop-shaving hippie days, during an annual pelvic exam, I meekly asked if I could have a look. Happily, the Planned Parenthood doctor whipped out a mirror and there I was, staring up into my own body. The reverse of the tonsils, but not entirely unlike them either. A normal pinkish-looking thing. "Well, that's that," I thought. Never have to see that again. But now, in full color on the screen right next to my head was something alltogether different. Not normal or pinkish-looking at all. I will spare you the graphic detail, but let's just say it looked wrong. Which doesn't necessarily mean that the problem is serious--minor infections can look pretty hideous--but it was clear that there was a problem, and that is not at all what I was hoping to see. "Ve'll haff to do a biopsy," Dr. Ruth chirped. She seemed way too good-humored for what I was going through. "But what is it?" I demanded, feeling panicky. "Ooh, cood be a firal infection..." Dr. Ruth said soothingly. My mind was racing. What kind of fucking virus?! I had been tested for all the usual STDs back in October, so I knew it wasn't that (not that that has been an issue much lately, but I digress...). But I knew it was hopeless to demand more--I had already been told the results would not be divulged for a month. More than anything I was hating not knowing. She was a doctor, she had to know something. But then I changed gears. "Will it hurt?" I sniffed. "It might be a peench," said Dr. Ruth. I knew all this, of course, but somehow I thought if I kept talking I could delay the inevitable, or perhaps Dr. Ruth might say something I really wanted to hear. What? Like, "Just kidding! Pay no attention to the TV screen, everything looks absolutely normal and fine!" or, "The biopsy will feel like a foot-rub from Christian Bale!" This seemed unlikely. So I tried to breathe, tried to relax, and just hoped it would all be over soon. And, just like that, it was. Hardly a pinch, and not what you'd call painful. I wouldn't rush to do it again, but certainly the worry was far worse. And in some weird way, the lack of pain was almost as disconcerting as the idea of it. What I mean is, when your tonsils are red and spotty, you have a sore throat. Something is wrong with your body--you can see it and you can feel it. In this case, something is wrong with my body (perhaps not seriously wrong, but wrong certainly), and not only do I feel fine and without any pain normally, here this woman was punching a hole out of one of my organs and I barely felt it. This disconnect from the logical--infection equals pain, cutting equals pain--and the reality made me wonder...can I even trust my own body? I've gone through most of my life believing that if there is something truly wrong with me, I would know it, I would be able to feel it. And here was apparent evidence against that. I found that the one thing I've been holding on to for the last two months--it cannot be serious because I don't feel sick--might not be as simple as that. But again, it's useless stress. I won't know, and I can't know, what is going on for another month. Until then all I can do is go through my next few Tuesdays living my normal life, thinking my normal thoughts. The chances are extremely high that this "problem" will be next to nothing--a pill or a cream and it's all cleared up. I know that, yet for the moment I can't get that TV image out of my head. It is hard knowing that things aren't quite right in my own body, but it is what it is, and all I can do is wait. posted by Ginger | 11:39 PM Monday, July 29, 2002 According to both Entertainment Weekly and CBS, Mike Daisey is scheduled to be on David Letterman tonight! So stay up late! It should be a good time. posted by Ginger | 10:46 AM Sunday, July 28, 2002 True Porn! I found Ali's True Porn Clerk Stories via Angry White Girl, and it's totally addictive: I get sort of conflicted about throwing kids and teenagers out of the porn section. I really don't want them down there, not because I think sex is dirty or bad, but because I don't want them to think that that's what sex is about. The stuff on our boxes is sex in the basest, sometimes most brutal terms - naked women spreading their relevant orifices and making that Porn Face. Unless you're talking about the Max Hardcore series, which involves women with "SLUT" and "WHORE" written across their foreheads in lipstick. And besides - do we really need to raise another generation of men who can't deal with pubic hair? If you visit, please have a heart and donate a couple bucks to their PayPal account-- apparently this thing has exploded so much they're maxing their bandwidth. Just goes to show that there's always a market for anything remotely porn-related. Hot, hot, HOT On a whim I went to see Reign of Fire after work yesterday. You know, the oddly under-promoted summer dragon movie starring a supercute Christian Bale. I say under-promoted only because I haven't seen a lot of ads for it in the usual places--billboards, subways, Entertainment Weekly--unlike, say Austin Powers 3, which has so swamped the market that I was sick of it three months before it opened. Since I don't have TV I don't know--maybe they are showing Reign of Fire ads every five minutes, but I suspect not. Maybe that's a good thing. It feels sort of like a secret discovery, this vastly entertaining if utterly silly summer film. I only hope that people will still manage to discover what fun it is. It strikes a welcome balance of taking itself seriously (and not giving in to the impulse to become a nudge-nudge-wink-wink self-conscious B-movie a la Eight Legged Freaks), while understanding all the while that it's a frigging dragon movie. It certainly has its flaws, particularly a groaner of a cliche fistfight between the two male leads and a third act that neither makes sense nor provides any real satisfaction. However, this is made up for by the fact that it's a frigging dragon movie, it looks great, and Christian Bale is a total babe. One thing I would change is to add another 15 minutes of lingering exploration of the great CG dragons. The dragons-destroying-the-earth part was way too short and lacked the detailed devastation that is only implied in still shots and quick cuts. Still, I say it's well worth a night out and a handful of popcorn. And did I mention Christian Bale? That he's way hot? And Gerard Butler, as Bale's best pal, is also Hottie McCute. Must be something about those accents. Recommended. Oh yeah, and the trailer for The Two Towers was a nice surprise. For the life of me, I still can't make it through the book, but at least the trailer makes the movie look pretty good. Not to mention Orlando Bloom! (what is up with this obsession with sexy European actors, suddenly? I guess I am getting a little tired of my lengthy dating hiatus...) While we're on the movie tip, I should mention that I finally got to see Panic Room in the theater, after somehow neglecting to see it during its initial run. Being such a David Fincher fan (Fight Club, Seven, The Game), I thought I'd be first in line the day it came out, but for some reason I got shy, and I guess thought it would be too creepy to see alone (which is how I see 90% of movies). But one Friday in Lincoln, while Michael and I pondered what to do with an evening, I noticed that Panic Room was playing at the $2 theater! Michael had seen it, but ever the good sport, was up for a second viewing. Wowie zow, it was good. It didn't have the originality of Fight Club or the raw horror of Seven, but was damn entertaining, and not once predictable. Although I was disappointed that my fave Fincher alum, Holt McCallany, was nowhere to be seen, the fabulous cast and flawless pacing made every moment eminently watchable--particularly Jodie Foster's ferocious mama-bear and Dwight Yoakum's ski-masked psychopath. Fincher's gimmicky camerawork (panning through walls, a keyhole, and even through the handle of a coffee pot, for chrissakes) was a little distracting, but ultimately added a noirish, stylish feel. posted by Ginger | 1:32 AM |
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