I cook a lot and it's always some variation of a few staples, but I never remember what I cook. Although I keep promising to blog my food, mainly to keep track of what I tried, I have yet to do it consistently. Here's another attempt:
On Sunday, my friend from Gulu Abigail and I went to Eastern Market. Now I live in Eastern Market, so I expected that I’d accompany her through the stalls to which I’ve become accustomed. In fact, while I like Eastern Market, I haven’t been too impressed. I mean it’s got good meat and a few little cutesy crafts, but meh. Well, apparently Eastern Market doesn’t do winter, because when I met Abigail at the “food court” and I discovered that once it warms up the market quadruples in size. It was fun and I bought real kosher dill pickles, 1500 count Egyptian cotton sheets and some other things.
For dinner, I used some other things to make dinner. I bought fresh buccatini, which I boiled for two minutes. I mixed up a little sauce of lemon juice and garlic and my new trick that’s not new at all to cooks: cornstarch.
I’ve never been good at sauces. Even when I make what I think is a very good sauce, it never really sticks to the noodles or whatever I’m mixing it in. It always just sort of slides off. With cornstarch, it all mixes together and sticks to the food. Wow. This is the problem with being a self-taught (ok, mom taught) cook. I can miss very obvious cooking skills. CORNSTARCH. Hellowah!
I mixed the sauce with onions, fresh red pepper, shitake mushroons and chicken, along with a healthy sprinkle of my new favorite spice, thyme. Thyme is a fairly common spice, but I’ve never really isolated it’s flavor until my trip to Beirut. At an Eastern Market type place in central Beirut I bought a mix of spices that has made many dishes since taste amazing. Thyme is the lead spice in the mix, with sesame and dried lemon too. Since I bought that mix, I’ve realized that although I didn’t know it, I’ve been enjoying the taste of thyme forever (and that's a long "thyme" Eesh). Anyway, when I isolate it, it has a distinct and delicious flavor.
I stirred in the buccatini with a little pasta water and viola! Things congealed perfectly and dinner was served.
Other dishes prepared this week:
Chinese Orzo
I stir fried broccoli, red pepper, red pepper flakes, onions, garlic, fresh ginger in soy sauce and a little white wine vinegar (with cornstarch!) then added orzo and fresh cilantro. It was delicious. I really like Orzo - it's very versatile, easy to cook and I like the texture a lot.
Sweet sweet potato
I roasted a sweet potato by coating it very thinly with veg oil and popped it in the oven for an hour at 400. I did not wrap it in tin foil as was advised. I topped it with my favorite turkey sausage with feta and spinach which I took out of it's casing and fried. Instead of sour cream, I topped the sausage with curried yogurt. Awesome and simply. Jeter got the leftover sweet potato. He loved it and has been quite regular ever since.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Stewart v Rummy
Last night I watched the Rumsfeld interview on Jon Stewart. I was apprehensive to watch it, because any interview with Rumsfeld makes me boil with anger instantly and takes its toll on me. It is a visceral reaction that I don’t think I have for anyone else on the planet. Maybe Cheney I suppose, but at least Cheney has his daughter, so there’s some hope on social issues. There is something about Rumsfeld’s reflective glasses and trademark neo-con smirk. The glasses remind me of the glass panes used in the Federal building across the street from my dad’s office. It’s where the Manhattan Project was “pursued” and the glass is reflective, so no one can see inside and steal secrets. I imagine that this is also the reason why Rumsfeld has chosen this style.
I was also nervous to watch, because I know that Jon Stewart can go for the jugular. It’s not often, but I figured this would be quite a clash and it would make me pace the room while watching it. In the end, it wasn’t that bad. I kept my cool at the sight of Rummy, because I wanted to hear if Stewart could get to him. The thing is, I think Rumsfeld won. I absolutely adore Jon Stewart and, like so many others, I feel he kept me politically sane during the darkest days of politics in this country. (Oh, I’m now just realizing why he called his event the March to Restore Sanity…)
But last night, Jon Stewart attempted to point out the arrogance and deception of the Iraq war and to link it directly and rightfully to one of its chief architects. However, that very arrogance prevented it from coming close to penetrating Rumsfeld. The apology that Jon Steawrt jokingly proclaimed to have scored in the opening moments was really its only flimsy appearance.
I haven’t yet seen the full interview yet. I concede that with the 12 minutes or so that Jon Stewart has to interview his guests, he would have had to be superhuman to extract a mia coppa from this evil little man that’s never fought in a war. And he doesn’t have the luxury I have to say it exactly that way, i.e., “Mr. Rumsfeld why are you an evil little man who’s never had the guts to fight in a war and has no problem placing our military and innocent lives into the depths of the most brutal violence?” That might end the interview a little too quickly and burn a bridge or two.
Instead Jon Stewart’s tactic was a slightly jocular yet incisive quizzing that pointed out incongruous or downright inhumane passages from the book and called Rumsfeld on it. Clearly Jon Stewart had read and memorized the entire book, which is impressive and must have been difficult. However, without offering an alternative, I think his approach didn’t and couldn’t work. The reason is because Rumsfeld really, truly doesn’t believe he’s done anything wrong. I’m sure he sleeps like a wee babe at night. This man clearly doesn’t worry about a thing and is at peace with the decisions he’s made. Logical and impossibly cool questioning from Stewart was never going to be victorious or even satisfying. It couldn’t possibly infiltrate such a slick, self-aggrandizing and pervertedly guilt-free man. Perhaps the only crack at this sociopath-like veneer was when Rumsfeld pulled this Midwest schtick about gosh or golly or whatever the word was that he used to put him in tune with the “heartland.” It gave Stewart and the crowd the one opportunity to snicker and was perhaps the only upper hand moment. Jon Stewart pounced on this and got to say “gay sex” in Rumsfeld’s face several times.
I’m not sure there could really be a way to skewer this sanctioner of Abu Ghraib human rights decimation. He is soulless and stays one step removed behind the safety of his reflective Manhattan project glasses. It was a good attempt though, albeit inevitably disappointing.
I was also nervous to watch, because I know that Jon Stewart can go for the jugular. It’s not often, but I figured this would be quite a clash and it would make me pace the room while watching it. In the end, it wasn’t that bad. I kept my cool at the sight of Rummy, because I wanted to hear if Stewart could get to him. The thing is, I think Rumsfeld won. I absolutely adore Jon Stewart and, like so many others, I feel he kept me politically sane during the darkest days of politics in this country. (Oh, I’m now just realizing why he called his event the March to Restore Sanity…)
But last night, Jon Stewart attempted to point out the arrogance and deception of the Iraq war and to link it directly and rightfully to one of its chief architects. However, that very arrogance prevented it from coming close to penetrating Rumsfeld. The apology that Jon Steawrt jokingly proclaimed to have scored in the opening moments was really its only flimsy appearance.
I haven’t yet seen the full interview yet. I concede that with the 12 minutes or so that Jon Stewart has to interview his guests, he would have had to be superhuman to extract a mia coppa from this evil little man that’s never fought in a war. And he doesn’t have the luxury I have to say it exactly that way, i.e., “Mr. Rumsfeld why are you an evil little man who’s never had the guts to fight in a war and has no problem placing our military and innocent lives into the depths of the most brutal violence?” That might end the interview a little too quickly and burn a bridge or two.
Instead Jon Stewart’s tactic was a slightly jocular yet incisive quizzing that pointed out incongruous or downright inhumane passages from the book and called Rumsfeld on it. Clearly Jon Stewart had read and memorized the entire book, which is impressive and must have been difficult. However, without offering an alternative, I think his approach didn’t and couldn’t work. The reason is because Rumsfeld really, truly doesn’t believe he’s done anything wrong. I’m sure he sleeps like a wee babe at night. This man clearly doesn’t worry about a thing and is at peace with the decisions he’s made. Logical and impossibly cool questioning from Stewart was never going to be victorious or even satisfying. It couldn’t possibly infiltrate such a slick, self-aggrandizing and pervertedly guilt-free man. Perhaps the only crack at this sociopath-like veneer was when Rumsfeld pulled this Midwest schtick about gosh or golly or whatever the word was that he used to put him in tune with the “heartland.” It gave Stewart and the crowd the one opportunity to snicker and was perhaps the only upper hand moment. Jon Stewart pounced on this and got to say “gay sex” in Rumsfeld’s face several times.
I’m not sure there could really be a way to skewer this sanctioner of Abu Ghraib human rights decimation. He is soulless and stays one step removed behind the safety of his reflective Manhattan project glasses. It was a good attempt though, albeit inevitably disappointing.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
My Social Network
Just as the world was about to put the passé stamp on facebook, it starts a revolution in the Middle East. That is, of course, if the media has anything to say about it. I’m sure a ton has been written about this so I will keep my comments brief: ich don’t think so!
I have a very good friend from one of the “fragile” states in the Middle East and she said to me one time several years ago: “Jessica, the difference between Americans and Syrians is that we know our leaders are corrupt and self-serving and you are all under the delusion that your leaders are taking their responsibility to their citizens with the utmost integrity.” At the time and even now I think that her observation of Americans was spot on. I still have trouble believing anything but the fact that our elected leaders serve their constituents. Americans are hopelessly romantic about democracy. “My country ‘tis of thee,” etc.
But her observation about her own country is what’s resonating for me as I watch American media coverage of the fall of one Middle Eastern regime after another. Although this might have taken the world and particularly the West by surprise, I think most people in the Middle East (in the Arab world as Hala insists on clarifying it be called) have been biding their time and waiting for this moment their whole lives. Where there had been quiet contempt for their draconian political systems, there is now energy and commitment and revolution. This did not happen overnight. The brave risks people are taking are based on a lifetime of imagining freedom. While facebook may have been a catalyst for a few meeting points, the revolutions are really being fueled by years of patient steps and painful setbacks that built a people power so huge that it now cannot be stopped until change occurs.
So I guess while I’m a fan of facebook, I’m slightly concerned that it is overstepping its place in the history of the world. I am wondering if this just another push by movie execs for the Oscar. "Guys, the movie was ok, but the King’s Speech is going to win!"
It makes me think about all of the networking I’ve been doing lately. I’m not so obnoxious as to compare my meager job search with Middle Eastern revolution, but I’ve been wanting to capture the good old fashioned pavement pounding I’ve been doing to look for work. While the job search has yet to bear fruit, the search is fascinating.
I’m feeling a bit guilty for this sloppy segue. Can I pause for a second and get over my guilt? The attribution rests only in the observation that it takes a lot more than a facebook posting to achieve results.
Ok, while I’m very far from risking my life, I have felt that I have risked my pride on a number of occasions. I think it’s sometimes referred to as ambition, but it really feels like begging. For example, I was at a meeting that a friend from a very reputable NGO invited me to and I was introduced to someone at an organization that I’ve had my eye on. I made a point of chatting with her long enough to pitch my availability and expertise and then walked out the door. When I reached the elevator, I realized that I did not get her contact details. I went back into the room, interrupted her new conversation and asked for her contacts. She was fine with it of course and I was elated to make such a strategic connection, but it still felt a bit desperate. I’m sure it looked ambitious. Sure it did.
Do you ever have one of those days where you wish you could see the map of where you traveled? I wish I could draw the networking I’ve done. I think it would look like some sort of family tree of professional contacts. My social networking travels have taken me from the few tenuous starting points in January to a constant stream of ever-expanding contacts. Everyone, from my dad to Jazz the dog’s owner, has been so generous with who they know. I have called, emailed, coffeed, lunched and happy houred almost every day. I come home and look at the laundry pile and wonder where the time has gone. I have not only memorized the metro, but like a good New Yorker, I know exactly where to stand on the platform now to ensure the quickest, most efficient exit at the stop du jour.
Maybe one day I’ll draw that map, which so far has not once used facebook.
I have a very good friend from one of the “fragile” states in the Middle East and she said to me one time several years ago: “Jessica, the difference between Americans and Syrians is that we know our leaders are corrupt and self-serving and you are all under the delusion that your leaders are taking their responsibility to their citizens with the utmost integrity.” At the time and even now I think that her observation of Americans was spot on. I still have trouble believing anything but the fact that our elected leaders serve their constituents. Americans are hopelessly romantic about democracy. “My country ‘tis of thee,” etc.
But her observation about her own country is what’s resonating for me as I watch American media coverage of the fall of one Middle Eastern regime after another. Although this might have taken the world and particularly the West by surprise, I think most people in the Middle East (in the Arab world as Hala insists on clarifying it be called) have been biding their time and waiting for this moment their whole lives. Where there had been quiet contempt for their draconian political systems, there is now energy and commitment and revolution. This did not happen overnight. The brave risks people are taking are based on a lifetime of imagining freedom. While facebook may have been a catalyst for a few meeting points, the revolutions are really being fueled by years of patient steps and painful setbacks that built a people power so huge that it now cannot be stopped until change occurs.
So I guess while I’m a fan of facebook, I’m slightly concerned that it is overstepping its place in the history of the world. I am wondering if this just another push by movie execs for the Oscar. "Guys, the movie was ok, but the King’s Speech is going to win!"
It makes me think about all of the networking I’ve been doing lately. I’m not so obnoxious as to compare my meager job search with Middle Eastern revolution, but I’ve been wanting to capture the good old fashioned pavement pounding I’ve been doing to look for work. While the job search has yet to bear fruit, the search is fascinating.
I’m feeling a bit guilty for this sloppy segue. Can I pause for a second and get over my guilt? The attribution rests only in the observation that it takes a lot more than a facebook posting to achieve results.
Ok, while I’m very far from risking my life, I have felt that I have risked my pride on a number of occasions. I think it’s sometimes referred to as ambition, but it really feels like begging. For example, I was at a meeting that a friend from a very reputable NGO invited me to and I was introduced to someone at an organization that I’ve had my eye on. I made a point of chatting with her long enough to pitch my availability and expertise and then walked out the door. When I reached the elevator, I realized that I did not get her contact details. I went back into the room, interrupted her new conversation and asked for her contacts. She was fine with it of course and I was elated to make such a strategic connection, but it still felt a bit desperate. I’m sure it looked ambitious. Sure it did.
Do you ever have one of those days where you wish you could see the map of where you traveled? I wish I could draw the networking I’ve done. I think it would look like some sort of family tree of professional contacts. My social networking travels have taken me from the few tenuous starting points in January to a constant stream of ever-expanding contacts. Everyone, from my dad to Jazz the dog’s owner, has been so generous with who they know. I have called, emailed, coffeed, lunched and happy houred almost every day. I come home and look at the laundry pile and wonder where the time has gone. I have not only memorized the metro, but like a good New Yorker, I know exactly where to stand on the platform now to ensure the quickest, most efficient exit at the stop du jour.
Maybe one day I’ll draw that map, which so far has not once used facebook.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Jess in HD
Whenever I came home from Uganda for a visit, my friends would always ask if I was going through culture shock. The answer was yes, but not in the way people may have imaged. Sure, the hipster on the ironic pee wee herman bike wearing bumble bee sunglasses drinking a chai latte on the streets of the East Village was a bit different from stopping at the machomo stand filled with grilled 3-day old goat (or dysentery on a stick) and bottles of warm coke. On a more serious note, sure, poverty was so extreme in Uganda that acquiring food stamps would seem like winning the lottery. But actually dealing with that extreme contrast wasn’t so hard. I mean, what can you do? Well, I was working abroad to help fix it. Freaking out wasn't going to contribute much. I could imagine if I started lecturing everyone about global inequality. I think a Ugandan would smile at first and then stare at me blankly. An American would think I was like one of those militant Vegans that tries to make you feel guilty about eating eggs. Uh, don’t come between me and my food, hippie!
In actuality, the thing that always startles me when I fling myself back and forth across the planet is what I missed culturally from the US. There are constant debates about what American culture means and if there’s really any culture at all. But in some ways living outside the US has helped magnify American culture for me. I guess it’s because I have something to compare it to. American is not Ugandan. It’s not French or Russian either. So when I come home and the whole country is going on about Geiko commercials and tea baggers it seems like it is being shouted at me. “GEIKO WILL SAVE YOU MONEY!” “WE HATE EVERYBODY WHO IS DIFFERENT FROM US!”
When I came home for a visit a year ago, the whole country had gone HD. I couldn’t figure out what it meant and why it was necessary. I was the luddite who wouldn’t go from cassette tape to CD. I was struggling to figure it out and it was EVERYWHERE. Every commercial, news program, electronic equipment, water cooler conversation: HD HD HD.
When I came home again for my brother’s wedding a half a year later, HD was so entrenched in our vernacular that people were using to describe states of mind. That’s when I got it. Yes, I could imagine thoughts and feelings and observations in high def. (That’s high definition or HD, ya silly luddite) The reason I finally understood this as a concept was because when I would come home, I was experiencing American culture in HD. The things I dreamt about when I was gone (watching Friday Night Lights in real time on Kate's satellite or eating an everything bagel) and the things I stressed about (Obama being perfect, my mom) came into very sharp relief.
A friend of mine suggested today that instead of a geographic blog that I create a blog that could go with me wherever I might go. It was like she read my mind (Again! Get out of my head Jeanne!) I haven’t been a big fan of my DC blog, because I think my observations are a bit confined and boring really. I’m hoping this new blog can travel with me from the Harris Tweeter to the Middle East. I know HD as a technology may not last into the distant future, but I think the concept as a state of mind might, at least for me. I've renamed and removed my DC blog and replaced it with this one. Here it is, Jess in HD.
In actuality, the thing that always startles me when I fling myself back and forth across the planet is what I missed culturally from the US. There are constant debates about what American culture means and if there’s really any culture at all. But in some ways living outside the US has helped magnify American culture for me. I guess it’s because I have something to compare it to. American is not Ugandan. It’s not French or Russian either. So when I come home and the whole country is going on about Geiko commercials and tea baggers it seems like it is being shouted at me. “GEIKO WILL SAVE YOU MONEY!” “WE HATE EVERYBODY WHO IS DIFFERENT FROM US!”
When I came home for a visit a year ago, the whole country had gone HD. I couldn’t figure out what it meant and why it was necessary. I was the luddite who wouldn’t go from cassette tape to CD. I was struggling to figure it out and it was EVERYWHERE. Every commercial, news program, electronic equipment, water cooler conversation: HD HD HD.
When I came home again for my brother’s wedding a half a year later, HD was so entrenched in our vernacular that people were using to describe states of mind. That’s when I got it. Yes, I could imagine thoughts and feelings and observations in high def. (That’s high definition or HD, ya silly luddite) The reason I finally understood this as a concept was because when I would come home, I was experiencing American culture in HD. The things I dreamt about when I was gone (watching Friday Night Lights in real time on Kate's satellite or eating an everything bagel) and the things I stressed about (Obama being perfect, my mom) came into very sharp relief.
A friend of mine suggested today that instead of a geographic blog that I create a blog that could go with me wherever I might go. It was like she read my mind (Again! Get out of my head Jeanne!) I haven’t been a big fan of my DC blog, because I think my observations are a bit confined and boring really. I’m hoping this new blog can travel with me from the Harris Tweeter to the Middle East. I know HD as a technology may not last into the distant future, but I think the concept as a state of mind might, at least for me. I've renamed and removed my DC blog and replaced it with this one. Here it is, Jess in HD.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Cereal American
I’m almost over being back in the US. There are some telltale signs. I don’t say the Ugandan English staple phrase “ok please” that much anymore. I no longer need to wear 14 layers of down when I’m in doors. This morning, the way I knew for sure that I was re-adjusted was that I poured myself a bowl of Frosted Mini Wheats (yes, the sugar cereal for adults) and I thought, “Ugh, Frosted Mini Wheats again.” And we all know that the DNA code for American is based on cereal likes, dislikes and dreams. Cereal dreams?
Anyway, I kinda hoped I’d always say “ok please” or “thank you please.” I also thought I could get away with binge eating my favorite American foods forever, the way I used to when I was just visiting from Uganda. The fact is, I don’t really want to anymore. That desperate fantasy I used to have in Gulu about pretzels (pretzels!) disappeared after I ate 5 Rolls Gold. It only took 5 pretzels to be sick of them. Now the bag just sits there and I think, “come on, eat it, it’s pretzels!” Not so much.
The other kookypants thing that is happening is that both me and my dog are going through physical changes and to our hair in particular. Jeter, it turns out, was bleached in the sun, because he now has developed caramel colored patches on his face. I, as it turns out, am not goldeny tan year round. But I had suspected that might be true. I did not anticipate hair changes though. The good news is my hair has started growing again, albeit still very slowly. The bad news, no, the TERRIBLE news is that my hair is rapidly turning gray. What the what?! I remember when I got my first gray hair. I had just turned 32 and I thought it was funny, plucked it out and didn’t think about it again for years. In Gulu, I had one gray hair that would pop up right in the middle of my head. So I plucked it. And then it popped up again. Pluck. Pop. Pluck. Pop.
This morning I spent 20 minutes trying to pluck out my gray hairs and realized it was futile and it freakin hurt. Was it the stress of the move? Was the sun bleaching my gray hair? Were those golden Gulu highlights masking my biological betrayal? Speaking of that last point, I remember being 19 and a half and thinking that I wouldn’t dye my hair when I started going gray, because I wanted to be natural. Oh I was so principled at 19 and a half…principled and STUPID! Now my mantra hearkens back to that old jingle from the 80s “gonna wash that gray right outta my hair.” I wonder if that stuff is still available. Seriously.
But does this mean from now, from age 36 and nevermind how close I am to 37, I have to start dying my hair? I think my mom dyed her hair for the first time when she turned 50. Does being half white really close the aging distance by 14 years?! Jesus, am I only 14 years away from 50?! Now I’m depressed and gray.
I know. Maybe I’ll dye it now and then go au natural when I’m forty something. No I won’t.
Anyway, I kinda hoped I’d always say “ok please” or “thank you please.” I also thought I could get away with binge eating my favorite American foods forever, the way I used to when I was just visiting from Uganda. The fact is, I don’t really want to anymore. That desperate fantasy I used to have in Gulu about pretzels (pretzels!) disappeared after I ate 5 Rolls Gold. It only took 5 pretzels to be sick of them. Now the bag just sits there and I think, “come on, eat it, it’s pretzels!” Not so much.
The other kookypants thing that is happening is that both me and my dog are going through physical changes and to our hair in particular. Jeter, it turns out, was bleached in the sun, because he now has developed caramel colored patches on his face. I, as it turns out, am not goldeny tan year round. But I had suspected that might be true. I did not anticipate hair changes though. The good news is my hair has started growing again, albeit still very slowly. The bad news, no, the TERRIBLE news is that my hair is rapidly turning gray. What the what?! I remember when I got my first gray hair. I had just turned 32 and I thought it was funny, plucked it out and didn’t think about it again for years. In Gulu, I had one gray hair that would pop up right in the middle of my head. So I plucked it. And then it popped up again. Pluck. Pop. Pluck. Pop.
This morning I spent 20 minutes trying to pluck out my gray hairs and realized it was futile and it freakin hurt. Was it the stress of the move? Was the sun bleaching my gray hair? Were those golden Gulu highlights masking my biological betrayal? Speaking of that last point, I remember being 19 and a half and thinking that I wouldn’t dye my hair when I started going gray, because I wanted to be natural. Oh I was so principled at 19 and a half…principled and STUPID! Now my mantra hearkens back to that old jingle from the 80s “gonna wash that gray right outta my hair.” I wonder if that stuff is still available. Seriously.
But does this mean from now, from age 36 and nevermind how close I am to 37, I have to start dying my hair? I think my mom dyed her hair for the first time when she turned 50. Does being half white really close the aging distance by 14 years?! Jesus, am I only 14 years away from 50?! Now I’m depressed and gray.
I know. Maybe I’ll dye it now and then go au natural when I’m forty something. No I won’t.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Jessica's Race: Part I
The other day I came out of the Metro and was a few steps away when I heard a man shout, “hey man I like your coat.” I turned to see that this 6’ 2” rotund black man was talking to this lily, preppy white guy who had also just ascended from the Metro with his wife (or life partner). The black guy shouted this at a close range of about 10 inches and the white guy managed to eek out “thanks” and a panic-stricken smile before the couple scuffled away to the safety of the crowd on Pennsylvania Ave.
The look on the white guy’s face said it all. Black people scare the shit out of white people. Is this deliberate? Is this only in DC? Is this across America? Why did I never notice it this much in New York? I dwelt on that last question longest. I know New York has produced this multicultural harmonious veneer that can be easily scratched, say if you poll by race which neighborhood one lives in or what school one’s kid goes to. But it seems to me like people in New York skirt in and out of each others' lives more fluidly. Is it because everyone’s loud? Breaking it down very crudely by race or culture, you’ve got Italians, pretty loud; Puerto Ricans, pretty loud too; Chinese, loud; Jews, loud; Irish, loud, especially on March 17th; etc. etc. New Yorkers are a bombastic people in general so shouting really doesn’t startle anyone of any color. Or could it be that there simply aren’t very many white people left in New York? It’s harder and harder to spot a non-brown person so maybe the battle’s over and there’s no need to keep the armor. Hope the Tea Party doesn’t find out.
Or is it because I just moved back from Uganda? I seem to be experiencing America in HD since I’ve been back, so maybe it makes sense that I’m more sensitive to race relations too. More on that later.
I know there are people who have dedicated their lives to this issue and I know it’s complicated. Mine are superficial observations, but I felt it was necessary to comment for one reason. I can feel it. I can literally feel the tension in this town. It’s not just negative tension I’m feeling either. I find myself observing all interactions between black and white strangers. I saw a black UPS guy and a white government-looking guy having a hearty, friendly exchange on the Super Bowl and followed their every word for evidence of…well what exactly? Why did I stop in my tracks and stare openly at two friendly strangers exchanging on America? Perhaps it’s because I live in Capitol Hill, where white is really white and black is really not white. Perhaps it’s because people here are generally more friendly than in New York and so this tension that I feel seems incongruous to the more common friendly exchanges I’m becoming accustomed too with strangers in DC.
Perhaps I feel that in this current day and age race is supposed to be solved. Yet so many people still have questions or do stupid things with it. I want to be free to write about it and hope the answers come closer.
The look on the white guy’s face said it all. Black people scare the shit out of white people. Is this deliberate? Is this only in DC? Is this across America? Why did I never notice it this much in New York? I dwelt on that last question longest. I know New York has produced this multicultural harmonious veneer that can be easily scratched, say if you poll by race which neighborhood one lives in or what school one’s kid goes to. But it seems to me like people in New York skirt in and out of each others' lives more fluidly. Is it because everyone’s loud? Breaking it down very crudely by race or culture, you’ve got Italians, pretty loud; Puerto Ricans, pretty loud too; Chinese, loud; Jews, loud; Irish, loud, especially on March 17th; etc. etc. New Yorkers are a bombastic people in general so shouting really doesn’t startle anyone of any color. Or could it be that there simply aren’t very many white people left in New York? It’s harder and harder to spot a non-brown person so maybe the battle’s over and there’s no need to keep the armor. Hope the Tea Party doesn’t find out.
Or is it because I just moved back from Uganda? I seem to be experiencing America in HD since I’ve been back, so maybe it makes sense that I’m more sensitive to race relations too. More on that later.
I know there are people who have dedicated their lives to this issue and I know it’s complicated. Mine are superficial observations, but I felt it was necessary to comment for one reason. I can feel it. I can literally feel the tension in this town. It’s not just negative tension I’m feeling either. I find myself observing all interactions between black and white strangers. I saw a black UPS guy and a white government-looking guy having a hearty, friendly exchange on the Super Bowl and followed their every word for evidence of…well what exactly? Why did I stop in my tracks and stare openly at two friendly strangers exchanging on America? Perhaps it’s because I live in Capitol Hill, where white is really white and black is really not white. Perhaps it’s because people here are generally more friendly than in New York and so this tension that I feel seems incongruous to the more common friendly exchanges I’m becoming accustomed too with strangers in DC.
Perhaps I feel that in this current day and age race is supposed to be solved. Yet so many people still have questions or do stupid things with it. I want to be free to write about it and hope the answers come closer.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Angry Birds
I feel peer pressure to get a job. Actually it’s self-inflicted pressure. I’m embarrassed that for the first time since I entered the job market in 1996 I am unemployed. My luxurious (perhaps deluded) fantasies of taking time off to chill after some intense time in Uganda did not factor in my ego. I thought, hey, I’ve saved some money, why not take my time and find the right thing? When one imagines the unemployed, from one’s armchair, one considers the financial constraints. But no one told me how lame it would feel to hang out with my friends or worse, new people I’m meeting in DC, and not have a job to brag or complain about.
It was a good run, I guess. Northern Ireland, check. Northern Uganda, check. Iran, check…just kidding. But was it all for naught? How can 14 years of employment add up to skills that do not fit a single job description I’ve seen in the past 2 months?
The best thing I can do now is apply my newly acquired Angry Birds philosophy. For those that don’t know it, the short version is it's a video game on the iphone where you fling birds who possess different skill sets at mean old pigs and try to blow them up. The philosophy derives from my winning strategy with the video game: if you have trouble blowing up those mean old pigs, you’ve got to mix up your bird flinging strategy. Aim low instead of high with the yellow bird. Don’t drop the egg until the very last moment before impact, etc. etc. Yikes. I know. Not even a month of unemployment and I’ve fallen prey to video games. Damn you iphone!!
So I’ve started pounding the pavement (in between extended dog walks with Jeter). And I’m meeting with all types of people and organizations in the hope that mixing it up may produce a victory. Friends of friends and colleagues of colleagues are being quite generous with their time. But patience is not my virtue. Part of me wants to bust through my glazed gracious/nonchalant veneer and shout: “GIVE ME A JOB, DAMN IT. I’VE GOT A MASTER’S AND WILL WORK LIKE MAD FOR YOU.” But that’s not cool, I guess.
It was a good run, I guess. Northern Ireland, check. Northern Uganda, check. Iran, check…just kidding. But was it all for naught? How can 14 years of employment add up to skills that do not fit a single job description I’ve seen in the past 2 months?
The best thing I can do now is apply my newly acquired Angry Birds philosophy. For those that don’t know it, the short version is it's a video game on the iphone where you fling birds who possess different skill sets at mean old pigs and try to blow them up. The philosophy derives from my winning strategy with the video game: if you have trouble blowing up those mean old pigs, you’ve got to mix up your bird flinging strategy. Aim low instead of high with the yellow bird. Don’t drop the egg until the very last moment before impact, etc. etc. Yikes. I know. Not even a month of unemployment and I’ve fallen prey to video games. Damn you iphone!!
So I’ve started pounding the pavement (in between extended dog walks with Jeter). And I’m meeting with all types of people and organizations in the hope that mixing it up may produce a victory. Friends of friends and colleagues of colleagues are being quite generous with their time. But patience is not my virtue. Part of me wants to bust through my glazed gracious/nonchalant veneer and shout: “GIVE ME A JOB, DAMN IT. I’VE GOT A MASTER’S AND WILL WORK LIKE MAD FOR YOU.” But that’s not cool, I guess.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Take a chill pill and call me in the AM
In all of the years of Huber medical emergencies, I haven't written a word about it. Not my brother's head injury nor my mom's decades long battle with Lupus. The stories could take up volumes. Now that I'm blogging again, I feel compelled to write a bit.
The tightness in my chest is considering whether it will dissipate, because I've just boarded the train to DC after an unexpected extended stay in NJ. We took my mom to the emergency room on Monday night. It wasn't a major emergency, but she was definitely unwell for a while and reached critical mass after a night of vomiting.
The drive to St. Peter's Hospital in New Brunswick evoked vivid images of past dreadful journeys. I tried, as I'm sure my parents did too, to shut out the night of my brother's accident. When we entered the ER, the experience became less about flashbacks and more about the current anxiety of her illness combined with hesitance over where to go. It was packed with stony faced brave warriors who were all doing their best to endure the ER wait with whatever affliction they have no doubt tearing at their being. I maneuvered my mom through the bodies to where I thought she should check in while my dad slalomed snowbanks to find a parking spot. Kind but business like people take her basic info first from her and then from me when she stumbles with fatigue. Thirty minutes later an affable triage nurse takes my mom's vitals. BP normal! No fever! Heart rate is high, but that's no unusual for my mom. The high heart rate gets us to the top of the queue and soon enough we pass through the ominous doors to the ER proper.
As we pass through I have two thoughts. The first is that I'm shocked to see that every inch of the place is lined with ailing bodies. Pathetic bodies are strewn everywhere. Hundreds of stony faced brave warriors were waiting in silent agony to be fixed. The second thought I had was a memory of a conversation with Alexis' sister during the height of "ER the Clooney years". I thought it was my lucky day when I had a chance to ask her if a real ER was like the show. She told me it was medically fairly accurate, but the pace is highly exaggerated. I can concur this is true. Shortly after settling into an ER bed, things came to a stand still.
Frequent hospital visitors wil agree that the pace of hospital care is excruciating. At the same time, I'd like to insert a plug for St. Peter's Hospital for it's emphasis on humanity. We Hubers over the years have realized that this hospital is our first choice for an ailment du jour even though it's not the area trauma center, because of the wonderful people who work there. It may take 14 hours to get a CT scan, but everyone is super nice and super patient. Frequent visitors know that this may even be more important than the medical care itself.
There are of course also things, particularly in my mom's case, that are extremely stressful and frustrating. Number 1 is that despite the myriad visits to the hospital over the years for Lupus-related illnesses, we always have to start from scratch getting doctors on board with how the Lupus-factor is effecting whatever it is that has brought my mom in. Just because the Hubers don't have medical degrees doesn't mean we don't know Lupus. (Dial back to the Salmonella incident where my father tried to tell the ER Chief of Surgery that perhaps it was food poisoning and not an obstructed bowel. My mom had majorly invasive surgery only for them to discover that my dad was right.)
This time it wasn't nearly that bad, but the ER doc ordered a head CT scan and when my dad and I protested, he pushed back with some medical mumbo jumbo. We backed off until a few hours later when my mom's doctor came in, had the same reaction as us and called it off. This may have been the moment when my chest tension took up residence. Second guessing medical doctors is petrifying and risky, but unfortunately ofter necessary with my mom.
My mom eventually got sent up to a fantastic single room where everyone is very nice and very good at their work - the nurses (aka heroes), the nurses' aids (super heroes), the cleaners (champions), technicians (ninjas), transport people (indy drivers) and nutrionists (miracle workers.)
This morning my plan was to de-ice the car, visit with my mom and then head back to DC around lunch time. My mom called when I was on the way. She was hysterical and I couldn't tell if she was worsening. This is my biggest fear. It is not unusual for my mom to actually get sicker during hospital stays, because her immune system sucks and hospitals are cesspools.
When I arrived she burst into tears and after some panicky debriefing I figured out the problem. She wasn't sicker, she was scared shitless. A staff doctor, unfamiliar with her case, came in late last night and said he heard some crackling in her lung. He then walked out and she received no further explanation.
Imagine. You're feeling crappy, in a strange place and an expert finds a new serious problem but doesn't stick around long enough to explain it. Or even worse, he didn't bother to understand my mom's full medical picture, which includes a lengthy and frustrating bout with pneumonia last year. My mom had worked herself into a near panic attack (which was no doubt staved off by the anti-anxiety medicine she was already on). It took me two hours of sweet-talking, shouting and sleuthing to calm her down.
We called her doctor who was MIA the previous day. He immediately dismissed the crackling. We got the nurse to divulge that my mom's blood work was more or less normal. We got a cardiologist to explain why he wasn't concerned about her heart rate and to do so in the context of her specific history. We watched The View. Incidentally, Ricky Martin's new song blows.
Finally we were able to characterize this hospital stay. It would not be an extreme visit. She would not be getting worse, staying long or moving to the dreaded 5th floor (ICU). She was sick and the visit was necessary for the saline alone, but she was getting good care and was out of danger. At 2:29pm I bolted to a stand, kissed my mom and ran out the door to catch a train. In that instant I knew she'd be ok and besides I need to get back to DC before the next freaking snow storm!
The tightness in my chest is considering whether it will dissipate, because I've just boarded the train to DC after an unexpected extended stay in NJ. We took my mom to the emergency room on Monday night. It wasn't a major emergency, but she was definitely unwell for a while and reached critical mass after a night of vomiting.
The drive to St. Peter's Hospital in New Brunswick evoked vivid images of past dreadful journeys. I tried, as I'm sure my parents did too, to shut out the night of my brother's accident. When we entered the ER, the experience became less about flashbacks and more about the current anxiety of her illness combined with hesitance over where to go. It was packed with stony faced brave warriors who were all doing their best to endure the ER wait with whatever affliction they have no doubt tearing at their being. I maneuvered my mom through the bodies to where I thought she should check in while my dad slalomed snowbanks to find a parking spot. Kind but business like people take her basic info first from her and then from me when she stumbles with fatigue. Thirty minutes later an affable triage nurse takes my mom's vitals. BP normal! No fever! Heart rate is high, but that's no unusual for my mom. The high heart rate gets us to the top of the queue and soon enough we pass through the ominous doors to the ER proper.
As we pass through I have two thoughts. The first is that I'm shocked to see that every inch of the place is lined with ailing bodies. Pathetic bodies are strewn everywhere. Hundreds of stony faced brave warriors were waiting in silent agony to be fixed. The second thought I had was a memory of a conversation with Alexis' sister during the height of "ER the Clooney years". I thought it was my lucky day when I had a chance to ask her if a real ER was like the show. She told me it was medically fairly accurate, but the pace is highly exaggerated. I can concur this is true. Shortly after settling into an ER bed, things came to a stand still.
Frequent hospital visitors wil agree that the pace of hospital care is excruciating. At the same time, I'd like to insert a plug for St. Peter's Hospital for it's emphasis on humanity. We Hubers over the years have realized that this hospital is our first choice for an ailment du jour even though it's not the area trauma center, because of the wonderful people who work there. It may take 14 hours to get a CT scan, but everyone is super nice and super patient. Frequent visitors know that this may even be more important than the medical care itself.
There are of course also things, particularly in my mom's case, that are extremely stressful and frustrating. Number 1 is that despite the myriad visits to the hospital over the years for Lupus-related illnesses, we always have to start from scratch getting doctors on board with how the Lupus-factor is effecting whatever it is that has brought my mom in. Just because the Hubers don't have medical degrees doesn't mean we don't know Lupus. (Dial back to the Salmonella incident where my father tried to tell the ER Chief of Surgery that perhaps it was food poisoning and not an obstructed bowel. My mom had majorly invasive surgery only for them to discover that my dad was right.)
This time it wasn't nearly that bad, but the ER doc ordered a head CT scan and when my dad and I protested, he pushed back with some medical mumbo jumbo. We backed off until a few hours later when my mom's doctor came in, had the same reaction as us and called it off. This may have been the moment when my chest tension took up residence. Second guessing medical doctors is petrifying and risky, but unfortunately ofter necessary with my mom.
My mom eventually got sent up to a fantastic single room where everyone is very nice and very good at their work - the nurses (aka heroes), the nurses' aids (super heroes), the cleaners (champions), technicians (ninjas), transport people (indy drivers) and nutrionists (miracle workers.)
This morning my plan was to de-ice the car, visit with my mom and then head back to DC around lunch time. My mom called when I was on the way. She was hysterical and I couldn't tell if she was worsening. This is my biggest fear. It is not unusual for my mom to actually get sicker during hospital stays, because her immune system sucks and hospitals are cesspools.
When I arrived she burst into tears and after some panicky debriefing I figured out the problem. She wasn't sicker, she was scared shitless. A staff doctor, unfamiliar with her case, came in late last night and said he heard some crackling in her lung. He then walked out and she received no further explanation.
Imagine. You're feeling crappy, in a strange place and an expert finds a new serious problem but doesn't stick around long enough to explain it. Or even worse, he didn't bother to understand my mom's full medical picture, which includes a lengthy and frustrating bout with pneumonia last year. My mom had worked herself into a near panic attack (which was no doubt staved off by the anti-anxiety medicine she was already on). It took me two hours of sweet-talking, shouting and sleuthing to calm her down.
We called her doctor who was MIA the previous day. He immediately dismissed the crackling. We got the nurse to divulge that my mom's blood work was more or less normal. We got a cardiologist to explain why he wasn't concerned about her heart rate and to do so in the context of her specific history. We watched The View. Incidentally, Ricky Martin's new song blows.
Finally we were able to characterize this hospital stay. It would not be an extreme visit. She would not be getting worse, staying long or moving to the dreaded 5th floor (ICU). She was sick and the visit was necessary for the saline alone, but she was getting good care and was out of danger. At 2:29pm I bolted to a stand, kissed my mom and ran out the door to catch a train. In that instant I knew she'd be ok and besides I need to get back to DC before the next freaking snow storm!
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Embracing the Present
8 days into my New Years Resolution to reduce my personal dependency on Chinese products I got really grumpy. I just moved to DC and move in requires lots of stuff made in China: packing stuff, unpacking stuff, cleaning stuff, plastic stuff, more plastic stuff...
I therefore have decided to abandon my New Year's Resolution. Not entirely. I think the general sentiment is still plausible: less stuff.
My New Year's re-boot plan instead is to embrace the present. It's a strategy that is immediately counter-intuitive. I'm hoping my embracing of the present will quell my anxieties, which hover at a high amber level on an ordinary day, and are especially heightened given my current job searching and new city explorations and dog whispering. So much like the Department of Homeland Security, I'm going to abandon my fixation on broad stroke or general fears and instead make strategic calculations of my sanity based on specfic threats to it. As a PS, I don't expect this will dash my hopes and dreams for the future where we'll all know a planet of love and peace. It's a coping mechanism for where I am right now full stop.
Results are already coming in! Rather than enter the well-worn groove of previous "Washington is not New York" bemoaners, I have decided to make smaller observations in the positive. For example, I've stopped bitching about the incessant badgering of the DC Metro PA system and have focused instead on the timely service. Today I got to the movies in 16 minutes, even with a train switch.
Rather than developing a chip on my shoulder about the seemingly high density of mediocre Americana restaurants that no one complains about here, I spotted a new restaurant and liked it a lot. (Bo Bay - a nuovo Vietnamese Restaurant with skimpy wine pours, but great chicken wings.)
Ok, I couldn't resist getting those two swipes in, but I'm working on me too: last night I even let go of my defcon 17 fear that my dog is never going to go off leash. There have been so many reasons for this fear: because I need to take him to obedience school and what if he'll never learn and oh it's the owner's fault and what am I doing wrong and will this dog ever enjoy the open plains of the endless dog parks of Capitol Hill...yikes. After one glass of courage nie wine I just let him off the leash. And he bounced around the park with Scout and Duncan and Charlie with no problemo.
This blog entry is dedicated to my friend Cora Michael who gave me a journal for Christmas entitled: "F You and Your F-ing Blog." Thanks also to the writers of Grosse Point Blank for further underscoring this sentiment with the borrowed adapted title of this blog.
I therefore have decided to abandon my New Year's Resolution. Not entirely. I think the general sentiment is still plausible: less stuff.
My New Year's re-boot plan instead is to embrace the present. It's a strategy that is immediately counter-intuitive. I'm hoping my embracing of the present will quell my anxieties, which hover at a high amber level on an ordinary day, and are especially heightened given my current job searching and new city explorations and dog whispering. So much like the Department of Homeland Security, I'm going to abandon my fixation on broad stroke or general fears and instead make strategic calculations of my sanity based on specfic threats to it. As a PS, I don't expect this will dash my hopes and dreams for the future where we'll all know a planet of love and peace. It's a coping mechanism for where I am right now full stop.
Results are already coming in! Rather than enter the well-worn groove of previous "Washington is not New York" bemoaners, I have decided to make smaller observations in the positive. For example, I've stopped bitching about the incessant badgering of the DC Metro PA system and have focused instead on the timely service. Today I got to the movies in 16 minutes, even with a train switch.
Rather than developing a chip on my shoulder about the seemingly high density of mediocre Americana restaurants that no one complains about here, I spotted a new restaurant and liked it a lot. (Bo Bay - a nuovo Vietnamese Restaurant with skimpy wine pours, but great chicken wings.)
Ok, I couldn't resist getting those two swipes in, but I'm working on me too: last night I even let go of my defcon 17 fear that my dog is never going to go off leash. There have been so many reasons for this fear: because I need to take him to obedience school and what if he'll never learn and oh it's the owner's fault and what am I doing wrong and will this dog ever enjoy the open plains of the endless dog parks of Capitol Hill...yikes. After one glass of courage nie wine I just let him off the leash. And he bounced around the park with Scout and Duncan and Charlie with no problemo.
This blog entry is dedicated to my friend Cora Michael who gave me a journal for Christmas entitled: "F You and Your F-ing Blog." Thanks also to the writers of Grosse Point Blank for further underscoring this sentiment with the borrowed adapted title of this blog.
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