As I ascended the famous Dupont Circle metro escalator this morning for my first day on the job I was, among other things, reminded that I was not in New York or Gulu for that matter. In what I think is typical DC fashion, there was a man performing “Don’t Worry, Be Happy,” which echoed throughout the long climb to the surface. This seems fitting for the first day of the rest of my life.
The emails are starting to come in and meetings and road trips are already being planned. I’ve got a lot to think about and perhaps should make this entry quite short. However, I pause to acknowledge the inevitable moment of regretting how I spent the last three months of what I shall now refer to as “leave without any idea of when or if it might end.”
Should I have written the great American novel? (note: I say novel now instead of memoir after the Mortenson ruckus.) Could I have driven across country for the first time or at the very least gone to the Caribbean for a week? Would I have spent my time differently if I had known there would be a job at the end of the tunnel?
Well, I guess we’ll never know. What I do know is now it’s time to shift gears. I feel a bit like I’m playing work today instead of doing it. I know the work is coming, but for now I look outside my window, which overlooks Dupont sidewalk cafes filled with goat’s cheese salads and pinot grigios and I smile, because I’m not in Gulu. I’m right where I said I’d be…yeegads!
Monday, April 25, 2011
Sunday, April 24, 2011
RIP Cafe Cento Sette
In 1997 Kate and I lived in a “one bedroom” apartment on 13th street and 2nd Avenue. After almost a year of crashing on couches and apartment sitting, this was our first New York apartment (with the help of Kate’s dad who was our guarantor.) We had a deal that each stayed 6 months in the bedroom and then 6 months in the living room on the futon that was also our couch. We had no closets. I remember yelling at Kate, because her mom would send us superfluous gadgets all the time. Her heart was certainly in the right place, but it felt like one more salad spinner would send our apartment over the edge. I also remember milking my 6 months and it sliding into 7, 8, 9 months without protest from Kate.
During our trials and tribulations in the East Villages we had a blast. It was hardly the hardcore edgy hood of the 70s and 80s, but it was also quite different from the gentrified EV of today, which has a Star bucks, Subway, HSBC and Chase bank on every corner. I had my first and only New York gun story on that block: cops chasing a guy with guns drawn; no shots fired thank god. We had a crack addict that sat harmlessly on our stoop a lot of the time. We also had never-ending cool bars, restaurants and boutiques.
Shortly after arriving in the neighborhood we started going to the Italian place on the corner, Café Cento Sette. It was pretty cheap and we both found dishes from which for the next 14 years we did not stray. Kate ordered Penne della Casa, which had fresh mozzarella, eggplant and tomato sauce. I ordered Penne Ala Vodka, which had ham and shrimp in it. Every time we went we ordered that with a Caesar salad and talked incessantly, first about how awesome our dishes were, which never failed us and then about everything else under the sun.
We got to know the owner, an Italian woman whose name I never got, in typical New York friendly-but-not-too-friendliness. We even moved with them when they relocated from the corner of 13th and 3rd to the corner of 10th and 2nd. We made all of our friends and family eat there and never did we have a bad experience. We loved it for that reason alone. In a big anonymous city, the secret of New York City survival is having those few spots sprinkled throughout the city that you can always count on…constancy in the midst of chaos.
On Friday, I planned to meet my friend Hala who was in town from Syria. I hadn’t seen her in about 2 years and we had much to catch up on. Her twins who were now 3! And of course I wanted to hear all about the current situation in Syria, which even that very day was not sounding that good. As we competed with each other to cram two years of conversation into the first few minutes of our meeting, we strolled over to the East Village. As I walked down Second Avenue toward our dining destination, Cento Sette, Hala and I both paused from geopolitics to confess that we both already knew what we would order. I, of course, would get the Penne ala Vodka and Hala, who had been introduced to the place by me and had returned many times with other friends, would get the mushroom tortellini.
With what must have been prophetic irony we talked about how the restaurant fronts seemed to change with each return trip to the neighborhood. And then I saw it. Where my beloved, constant favorite restaurant should be: “STORE FOR RENT.” Amidst reunion and political consternation I was stunned into silence by the failure of MY restaurant. Even now, as I receive messages of condolence on my facebook page, I wonder what the impact will be for me. Maybe, like before, the owner will move to another location; maybe to Queens where rents are still affordable. But given the state of the economy (oh, has it finally directly impacted my life?!) I think this might be the end of Café Cento Sette.
During our trials and tribulations in the East Villages we had a blast. It was hardly the hardcore edgy hood of the 70s and 80s, but it was also quite different from the gentrified EV of today, which has a Star bucks, Subway, HSBC and Chase bank on every corner. I had my first and only New York gun story on that block: cops chasing a guy with guns drawn; no shots fired thank god. We had a crack addict that sat harmlessly on our stoop a lot of the time. We also had never-ending cool bars, restaurants and boutiques.
Shortly after arriving in the neighborhood we started going to the Italian place on the corner, Café Cento Sette. It was pretty cheap and we both found dishes from which for the next 14 years we did not stray. Kate ordered Penne della Casa, which had fresh mozzarella, eggplant and tomato sauce. I ordered Penne Ala Vodka, which had ham and shrimp in it. Every time we went we ordered that with a Caesar salad and talked incessantly, first about how awesome our dishes were, which never failed us and then about everything else under the sun.
We got to know the owner, an Italian woman whose name I never got, in typical New York friendly-but-not-too-friendliness. We even moved with them when they relocated from the corner of 13th and 3rd to the corner of 10th and 2nd. We made all of our friends and family eat there and never did we have a bad experience. We loved it for that reason alone. In a big anonymous city, the secret of New York City survival is having those few spots sprinkled throughout the city that you can always count on…constancy in the midst of chaos.
On Friday, I planned to meet my friend Hala who was in town from Syria. I hadn’t seen her in about 2 years and we had much to catch up on. Her twins who were now 3! And of course I wanted to hear all about the current situation in Syria, which even that very day was not sounding that good. As we competed with each other to cram two years of conversation into the first few minutes of our meeting, we strolled over to the East Village. As I walked down Second Avenue toward our dining destination, Cento Sette, Hala and I both paused from geopolitics to confess that we both already knew what we would order. I, of course, would get the Penne ala Vodka and Hala, who had been introduced to the place by me and had returned many times with other friends, would get the mushroom tortellini.
With what must have been prophetic irony we talked about how the restaurant fronts seemed to change with each return trip to the neighborhood. And then I saw it. Where my beloved, constant favorite restaurant should be: “STORE FOR RENT.” Amidst reunion and political consternation I was stunned into silence by the failure of MY restaurant. Even now, as I receive messages of condolence on my facebook page, I wonder what the impact will be for me. Maybe, like before, the owner will move to another location; maybe to Queens where rents are still affordable. But given the state of the economy (oh, has it finally directly impacted my life?!) I think this might be the end of Café Cento Sette.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
The Confidence Trick
In my third year living in Uganda my relationships with local people started to feel a bit like Groundhog’s day meets Falling Down. I couldn’t figure out why people that I had known for years were beginning to disappoint me and by disappoint me I mean steal from me. This sad truth of working in the developing world crystallized when I read Greg Mortenson’s interview with Outside Magazine. In his defense of recent allegations, he spoke briefly about the “confidence trick” as part of the blame for unexplained disconnects between the Central Asia Institute and some of the schools it supports. It was a true a ha moment in my never-ending attempt to understand the tricky and chaotic field of humanitarian and development work.
Greg Mortenson has been catching hell this week and perhaps deservedly so. Chartered planes and potentially fabricated Taliban abduction stories don’t play well in the media. So I thought I’d lend my two cents to this much ado, which is: I don’t really care what happened or didn’t happen in the books.
My work in Uganda was never a news story. It was never deadly enough or explosive enough or near enough oil. The closest we came to receiving attention was when the Ugandan national newspaper covered our “Chiles Pay and Keep Elephants Away” project, which was astronomically scooped internationally by that idiot who killed an elephant in Zimbabwe. The issue of gay rights in Uganda did make waves internationally for a minute, but only because it was linked to nutty and hateful right-wing churches in the US. Mortenson did something those of us in the humanitarian/development profession are equally parts envious and proud: he brought the world into a conflict zone and focused on the progress and people. As the story goes, in the midst of bombs, he found space to bring in lots and lots of books. He broadened the narrative beyond the numbingly endless stories of bombs and bloodshed and captured our attention on, of all things, the education of girls.
I sympathize with insisting on certain standards, like getting properly paid for your work and *gasp* even comfortable travel and serious security. (God knows I’d have paid for an option other than Air Burundi if I had the cash!) But he’s not completely off the hook. Chartered planes are a tad too comfortable, no matter the availability of funds. The rule of thumb is that an organization’s administration costs should not exceed 10% of the operating budget. As hard as that is, other organizations work very hard to stick to it. The Central Asia Institute, with or without celebrities, is not exempt from this.
This leads me to a larger concern that Mortenson himself acknowledges. He is not a development expert. There is a whole profession behind the headlines, based on academic studies and field research. Do-It-Yourself AID risks people’s lives. I suppose he’s learned this.
Humanitarianism and its oafish sibling development don’t have very good spokespersons. While we bomb Libya and ask why it isn’t working, no one with any real power says, “well perhaps we should try something else.” It doesn’t mean we’re not trying something else. Millions of humanitarian and development dollars are going into places where we have active military campaigns. But it rarely reaches the headlines. You won’t hear sun-burnt Ben Widdemann deliberate over introducing grafted mangoes or improved soy bean seeds like he worries on air about Western Governments supplying “the rebels” (whoever they are, btw) with RPGs.
So is it helpful to bring down a humanitarian hero by comparing him to someone as despicable as Bernie Madoff? Uh, no. Mortensen should stay involved with CAI. He should not try to de-link himself from this work for the simple reasons that it is impossible and unnecessary. Sure, he needs to learn his place, which isn’t steering a multi-million dollar development organization, but rather telling stories that keeps people interested (with or without fabrication). He should be to CAI what Angelina is to UNHCR. A little sexy attention goes a long way to elevate this otherwise unsung work.
Greg Mortenson has been catching hell this week and perhaps deservedly so. Chartered planes and potentially fabricated Taliban abduction stories don’t play well in the media. So I thought I’d lend my two cents to this much ado, which is: I don’t really care what happened or didn’t happen in the books.
My work in Uganda was never a news story. It was never deadly enough or explosive enough or near enough oil. The closest we came to receiving attention was when the Ugandan national newspaper covered our “Chiles Pay and Keep Elephants Away” project, which was astronomically scooped internationally by that idiot who killed an elephant in Zimbabwe. The issue of gay rights in Uganda did make waves internationally for a minute, but only because it was linked to nutty and hateful right-wing churches in the US. Mortenson did something those of us in the humanitarian/development profession are equally parts envious and proud: he brought the world into a conflict zone and focused on the progress and people. As the story goes, in the midst of bombs, he found space to bring in lots and lots of books. He broadened the narrative beyond the numbingly endless stories of bombs and bloodshed and captured our attention on, of all things, the education of girls.
I sympathize with insisting on certain standards, like getting properly paid for your work and *gasp* even comfortable travel and serious security. (God knows I’d have paid for an option other than Air Burundi if I had the cash!) But he’s not completely off the hook. Chartered planes are a tad too comfortable, no matter the availability of funds. The rule of thumb is that an organization’s administration costs should not exceed 10% of the operating budget. As hard as that is, other organizations work very hard to stick to it. The Central Asia Institute, with or without celebrities, is not exempt from this.
This leads me to a larger concern that Mortenson himself acknowledges. He is not a development expert. There is a whole profession behind the headlines, based on academic studies and field research. Do-It-Yourself AID risks people’s lives. I suppose he’s learned this.
Humanitarianism and its oafish sibling development don’t have very good spokespersons. While we bomb Libya and ask why it isn’t working, no one with any real power says, “well perhaps we should try something else.” It doesn’t mean we’re not trying something else. Millions of humanitarian and development dollars are going into places where we have active military campaigns. But it rarely reaches the headlines. You won’t hear sun-burnt Ben Widdemann deliberate over introducing grafted mangoes or improved soy bean seeds like he worries on air about Western Governments supplying “the rebels” (whoever they are, btw) with RPGs.
So is it helpful to bring down a humanitarian hero by comparing him to someone as despicable as Bernie Madoff? Uh, no. Mortensen should stay involved with CAI. He should not try to de-link himself from this work for the simple reasons that it is impossible and unnecessary. Sure, he needs to learn his place, which isn’t steering a multi-million dollar development organization, but rather telling stories that keeps people interested (with or without fabrication). He should be to CAI what Angelina is to UNHCR. A little sexy attention goes a long way to elevate this otherwise unsung work.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Tornadoes, Barbecue and Grandma
On Friday Hayden and I went on our first US road trip together. We went to North Carolina to visit his grandmother. As coincidence would have it, my uncle lives not far from her so we went to see him too.
We arrived way too late on Friday afternoon because mapquest delivered us to the wrong side of Chapel Hill. When we finally reached the retirement community Hayden’s grandma didn’t seem the least bit flustered by our delay. In fact she looked terrific and it was nice to finally meet her. Over the course of the weekend we were riveted by her stories. How a young woman travels on her own from Iowa to South America in the first half of the twentieth century is beyond me. Her stories of taking 7 day airplane rides or month long voyages by sea to get there unnerved me. If I had to travel that way I’m pretty sure I never would have made it out of New York. Her tales of raising kids and maintaining an American lifestyle amidst the chaos of revolution in Chile, Argentina, Brazil and elsewhere were incredible. This tiny lady told these stories matter-of-factly, without any acknowledgment of her unbelievable bravery. A true pioneer.
On Saturday, we intended to head to my uncle’s house for dinner in Raleigh but were unsure because we had heard of possible tornadoes in the area around the time we were leaving. We were just northwest of Raleigh when we noticed the clouds quite dark ahead of us. It was really weird. The sun was shining behind us and we had our windshield wipers on because the storm was just in front. It suddenly started to rain heavily and I could see many cars pulled over on the side of the road. I started to panic, because I then looked beyond the highway shoulder and saw a strip mall that had been completely leveled. Having dabbled in many life-skill areas, I realized that I had absolutely no idea what one does when driving and happens along a tornado. The last few minutes of the journey were tense. The storm, now reported to have had over 60 tornadoes, was right in front of us.
When we arrived at my uncle’s place, we did a quick tour of his new home, a quick check of the weather and then piled into his car to go to a famous barbecue joint in downtown Raleigh called “The Pit.” Getting there wasn’t easy. We attempted two or three routes that were blocked by downed trees and power lines. Raleigh was hit pretty badly but strangely The Pit was open and packed to the hilt. What I learned about North Carolina is that people are serious about their barbecue. And now I know why. We had the most incredible spare ribs of my life. The meat fell off the bone and was spiced to perfection. It was delicious and as Hayden pointed out very very naughty. My uncle, who’s been there several times, just kept saying “this is outstanding.” We left with doggy bags that seemed to be the same size as the meal that was brought to us.
As a snotty New Yorker, I was apprehensive about North Carolina. I was pleasantly surprised that despite the accent (confession: I don’t think I could ever get over that accent) the friendly people are surrounded by some of the best universities in the world and they love their food. Sounds good to me.
http://www.thepit-raleigh.com/
We arrived way too late on Friday afternoon because mapquest delivered us to the wrong side of Chapel Hill. When we finally reached the retirement community Hayden’s grandma didn’t seem the least bit flustered by our delay. In fact she looked terrific and it was nice to finally meet her. Over the course of the weekend we were riveted by her stories. How a young woman travels on her own from Iowa to South America in the first half of the twentieth century is beyond me. Her stories of taking 7 day airplane rides or month long voyages by sea to get there unnerved me. If I had to travel that way I’m pretty sure I never would have made it out of New York. Her tales of raising kids and maintaining an American lifestyle amidst the chaos of revolution in Chile, Argentina, Brazil and elsewhere were incredible. This tiny lady told these stories matter-of-factly, without any acknowledgment of her unbelievable bravery. A true pioneer.
On Saturday, we intended to head to my uncle’s house for dinner in Raleigh but were unsure because we had heard of possible tornadoes in the area around the time we were leaving. We were just northwest of Raleigh when we noticed the clouds quite dark ahead of us. It was really weird. The sun was shining behind us and we had our windshield wipers on because the storm was just in front. It suddenly started to rain heavily and I could see many cars pulled over on the side of the road. I started to panic, because I then looked beyond the highway shoulder and saw a strip mall that had been completely leveled. Having dabbled in many life-skill areas, I realized that I had absolutely no idea what one does when driving and happens along a tornado. The last few minutes of the journey were tense. The storm, now reported to have had over 60 tornadoes, was right in front of us.
When we arrived at my uncle’s place, we did a quick tour of his new home, a quick check of the weather and then piled into his car to go to a famous barbecue joint in downtown Raleigh called “The Pit.” Getting there wasn’t easy. We attempted two or three routes that were blocked by downed trees and power lines. Raleigh was hit pretty badly but strangely The Pit was open and packed to the hilt. What I learned about North Carolina is that people are serious about their barbecue. And now I know why. We had the most incredible spare ribs of my life. The meat fell off the bone and was spiced to perfection. It was delicious and as Hayden pointed out very very naughty. My uncle, who’s been there several times, just kept saying “this is outstanding.” We left with doggy bags that seemed to be the same size as the meal that was brought to us.
As a snotty New Yorker, I was apprehensive about North Carolina. I was pleasantly surprised that despite the accent (confession: I don’t think I could ever get over that accent) the friendly people are surrounded by some of the best universities in the world and they love their food. Sounds good to me.
http://www.thepit-raleigh.com/
Friday, April 15, 2011
Gulu Guacamole
Do you know that feeling from when you make a certain food and it instantly takes you somewhere? Last night I made guacamole for the first time since moving back to the States and it made me think a lot about Gulu. Guac was one of our real luxuries in Gulu. We had huge fresh avocados almost year round and they cost between 25-50cents each. We did not have tortilla chips, but some clever expat invented the baked chapatti, which was a reasonable alternative: take greasy roadside chapattis, place in oven at high temp (no need to add oil since they were completely saturated) and bake until crispy. Every party had guacamole, because it was western food that could be done well in Gulu all of the time. I even put it on the café’s menu. Scott’s was the best; his secret ingredient of Worchester sauce gave it that extra kick.
Yesterday I found out that there was violence in Gulu. In fact, I was skyping with Jeanne and could hear the gunshots in the background. My heart sank as I imagined the poor war-weary women clutching their babies who were the first born in twenty years that did not know war. From what I hear so far there was rioting over fuel costs and the Ugandan Army (still prevalent in Gulu from the war days) were called in to settle the matter.
I heard from Josh who described the fear he saw on people’s faces as he ran home from the Bomah for safety. I heard from Amanda who was pinned down because of gunfire across town from her home. And I heard from Mollie, who of course somehow managed to locate all of our Acholis and confirm they were safe. Valiant Tonny closed down Café Larem, the apparent epi-center of the gunshots and tear gas, and huddled inside protecting himself and I imagine the cappuccino machine like the dedicated barista he has become. Facebook, which I so whimsically dismissed as a catalyst for the uprisings in the Middle East, played a central role, along with skype in plugging me instantly into the situation in Gulu. Where the mobile phone failed, the internet was uninterrupted. I will never doubt the power (and importance) of social media again.
As I sat whisking up my basic guacamole, a recipe I can now do with my eyes closed, I thought how easy it was to make. I didn’t have to stress about stretching the limes and cilantro (always imported from Kampala for moy authentica guacamole) weeks beyond their due date. I would squeeze the old limes with all my might for a drop of juice and pick through the rotting bunch of salvage the still usable sprigs of cilantro. Perhaps the most exciting part, I just reached above the fridge and opened up a bag of tortilla chips and started scooping. No schlepping to the boda/chapatti stand, baking and then settling for an alternative.
But I also thought about my friends and my home. Hayden said he was glad not to be in Gulu for something like this, not because of the violence, but because of the sadness of seeing the recovery damaged. I see his point, but it’s killing me not to be there. My heart is there, but it doesn’t feel like enough.
Yesterday I found out that there was violence in Gulu. In fact, I was skyping with Jeanne and could hear the gunshots in the background. My heart sank as I imagined the poor war-weary women clutching their babies who were the first born in twenty years that did not know war. From what I hear so far there was rioting over fuel costs and the Ugandan Army (still prevalent in Gulu from the war days) were called in to settle the matter.
I heard from Josh who described the fear he saw on people’s faces as he ran home from the Bomah for safety. I heard from Amanda who was pinned down because of gunfire across town from her home. And I heard from Mollie, who of course somehow managed to locate all of our Acholis and confirm they were safe. Valiant Tonny closed down Café Larem, the apparent epi-center of the gunshots and tear gas, and huddled inside protecting himself and I imagine the cappuccino machine like the dedicated barista he has become. Facebook, which I so whimsically dismissed as a catalyst for the uprisings in the Middle East, played a central role, along with skype in plugging me instantly into the situation in Gulu. Where the mobile phone failed, the internet was uninterrupted. I will never doubt the power (and importance) of social media again.
As I sat whisking up my basic guacamole, a recipe I can now do with my eyes closed, I thought how easy it was to make. I didn’t have to stress about stretching the limes and cilantro (always imported from Kampala for moy authentica guacamole) weeks beyond their due date. I would squeeze the old limes with all my might for a drop of juice and pick through the rotting bunch of salvage the still usable sprigs of cilantro. Perhaps the most exciting part, I just reached above the fridge and opened up a bag of tortilla chips and started scooping. No schlepping to the boda/chapatti stand, baking and then settling for an alternative.
But I also thought about my friends and my home. Hayden said he was glad not to be in Gulu for something like this, not because of the violence, but because of the sadness of seeing the recovery damaged. I see his point, but it’s killing me not to be there. My heart is there, but it doesn’t feel like enough.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Political Biology
There was a study recently completed that indicated there might be a biological difference between liberals and conservatives. It appears liberals might have an extra capacity to process complex thoughts and conservatives have an added capacity for fear and anxiety. My immediate response was to giggle a bit and think that this explained a lot. I have absolutely no idea if this study is truly scientific. Given my own leanings, it might be easier for me to accept these findings. Given their own biology, I would expect conservations might reject this, just as they reject the whole idea of “science.”
With a bit more reflection, I almost feel relieved by this finding, because I’ve told myself for years that as strong as I am in my convictions so too are those with the completely opposite views. It’s been hard to get even my complex thinking mind around that. It is so clear to me that supporting the poor and taxing the rich are good things. It is so clear to me that “health care” is not a dirty phrase as it is proclaimed not only in the right leaning media, but increasingly in all media. And it’s so clear to me that the travesty of tax dodging corporations must be stopped. Really GE, no taxes at all? How do you sleep at night? Well according to this study, quite fine probably.
With that, I wish the Republicans good luck with their primaries. To get their base on board, candidates are going to have to take extremism to a new level. The paralysis politics of the tea bag seems to be dominating the discussions, which at primary level, is hilarious and at general election would be a wonderful opportunity for the Dems. I love watching Newt Gingrich squirm. Dude, you cheated on your wife when she was in the hospital with cancer. Your base is NOT going to elect you. The tea bag slant gives way too much time to comical candidates like the Donald and Sarah. Thanks to 24 hour news, these guys think they have a chance. Hilarious. (Sorry Dems, but you will not have it that easy).
Of course there are a couple of reasonable sounding candidates in the mix. But Mitt, who might be the most qualified to compete and who anyway has the most Presidential hair, ain’t gonna get elected by a right wing Christian base. They at least try to make their objections sound like they’re about his progressive health care law, but it’s really about his Mormonism. There’s Michelle and Mike too and they could probably get votes from the extreme and the less extreme voting base, but either one would be devastated in a general election. Just because you can string a few sentences together without shouting or making people cringe because of your inability to command the English language doesn’t mean you could be elected. Your aims, while delivered in measured, complete sentences, are still too extreme for America.
It’ll be interesting to see if the media portrayal of the extreme right will be reflected in the actual primary voting. I hope not. I really hope that despite fundamental, perhaps even biological differences, most people, even when they disagree are not party to the extremism being given the floor at the moment. While an extreme primary would play well for the Dems looking to secure the middle, it's too ugly to imagine a majority that has these right wing views.
It seems that reasonable America will win out as usual. I hope that’s not wishful thinking.
With a bit more reflection, I almost feel relieved by this finding, because I’ve told myself for years that as strong as I am in my convictions so too are those with the completely opposite views. It’s been hard to get even my complex thinking mind around that. It is so clear to me that supporting the poor and taxing the rich are good things. It is so clear to me that “health care” is not a dirty phrase as it is proclaimed not only in the right leaning media, but increasingly in all media. And it’s so clear to me that the travesty of tax dodging corporations must be stopped. Really GE, no taxes at all? How do you sleep at night? Well according to this study, quite fine probably.
With that, I wish the Republicans good luck with their primaries. To get their base on board, candidates are going to have to take extremism to a new level. The paralysis politics of the tea bag seems to be dominating the discussions, which at primary level, is hilarious and at general election would be a wonderful opportunity for the Dems. I love watching Newt Gingrich squirm. Dude, you cheated on your wife when she was in the hospital with cancer. Your base is NOT going to elect you. The tea bag slant gives way too much time to comical candidates like the Donald and Sarah. Thanks to 24 hour news, these guys think they have a chance. Hilarious. (Sorry Dems, but you will not have it that easy).
Of course there are a couple of reasonable sounding candidates in the mix. But Mitt, who might be the most qualified to compete and who anyway has the most Presidential hair, ain’t gonna get elected by a right wing Christian base. They at least try to make their objections sound like they’re about his progressive health care law, but it’s really about his Mormonism. There’s Michelle and Mike too and they could probably get votes from the extreme and the less extreme voting base, but either one would be devastated in a general election. Just because you can string a few sentences together without shouting or making people cringe because of your inability to command the English language doesn’t mean you could be elected. Your aims, while delivered in measured, complete sentences, are still too extreme for America.
It’ll be interesting to see if the media portrayal of the extreme right will be reflected in the actual primary voting. I hope not. I really hope that despite fundamental, perhaps even biological differences, most people, even when they disagree are not party to the extremism being given the floor at the moment. While an extreme primary would play well for the Dems looking to secure the middle, it's too ugly to imagine a majority that has these right wing views.
It seems that reasonable America will win out as usual. I hope that’s not wishful thinking.
Monday, April 11, 2011
zzzzzz
I’m really tired. So tired that I looked at the pile of unfolded laundry last night on my bed and instead of folding it, I moved it to the chair so that I could go to bed. I was so tired last night that I stared at the Yankees game for four hours without blinking, too tired to shout at their lost. The lure of the boob tube seemed more intoxicating in my tired state then even my bed did.
At first I thought it was from my fun weekend with Kate. We saw a lot of sites, shopped, ate and drank a lot too. It was tiring, but the kind of tired I’m feeling is more like the feeling of being drugged. Like back when seasonal allergy medicine used to turn you into zombie.
So why might I be unable to move this morning? I think it’s because I got a job. I’m excited about the job, but the hustle to get it was absolutely exhausting. The coffees, lunches, not interviews, interviews are over. Thank goodness. The plotting and scheming and shoe-horning my resume is over. Thank goodness.
I have two weeks before I start and for the first time in three months I feel like I have time to RELAX. I’m still in my PJs at 10am. I may go back to bed even. I dunno. What I do know is that my web browser is open to my email only, not 7 tabs of job descriptions or possible organizations to solicit my wares to. So despite this great news, I am inert this morning. Or maybe I’m just beginning to unwind.
Food notes
Since I missed Friday Food last Friday due to job negotiations, let me at least say that I came up with several great dishes last week. The winner was teriyaki salmon.
Teriyaki Salmon: It wasn’t the ingredients, which were fairly standard: salmon, soy, vinegar, ginger, garlic. But again I learned a new technique. I marinated the salmon for an hour that put it in a pan. I took the left over marinade and as instructed by the internets, boiled it down in a pan until it thickened, poured it on top of the salmon and then roasted it for 10 minutes. Delicious!!
Buffalo Tufu Portabellos: It's all in the name. I created a quick buffalo sauce consisting of about 2 tbsps of chili paste and a teaspoon of butter. I stirred in the tofu. Once coated, I poured it into a hollowed out portabello mushroom and topped with cheddar cheese. I baked it until the mushroom was cooked and voila!
Wine Log
In an effort to drink and not horde wine, I have created a wine log at the bottom of this blog. Since most of the wine I have are one off bottles from very special places, it's hard to drink them. Each has a memory and each probably cost more than it should but was carefully selected based on taste and exclusivity due to how few I could carry with me back from California, Italy, France or South Africa. I will also use this for other that maybe just deserve a special mention for future reference.
At first I thought it was from my fun weekend with Kate. We saw a lot of sites, shopped, ate and drank a lot too. It was tiring, but the kind of tired I’m feeling is more like the feeling of being drugged. Like back when seasonal allergy medicine used to turn you into zombie.
So why might I be unable to move this morning? I think it’s because I got a job. I’m excited about the job, but the hustle to get it was absolutely exhausting. The coffees, lunches, not interviews, interviews are over. Thank goodness. The plotting and scheming and shoe-horning my resume is over. Thank goodness.
I have two weeks before I start and for the first time in three months I feel like I have time to RELAX. I’m still in my PJs at 10am. I may go back to bed even. I dunno. What I do know is that my web browser is open to my email only, not 7 tabs of job descriptions or possible organizations to solicit my wares to. So despite this great news, I am inert this morning. Or maybe I’m just beginning to unwind.
Food notes
Since I missed Friday Food last Friday due to job negotiations, let me at least say that I came up with several great dishes last week. The winner was teriyaki salmon.
Teriyaki Salmon: It wasn’t the ingredients, which were fairly standard: salmon, soy, vinegar, ginger, garlic. But again I learned a new technique. I marinated the salmon for an hour that put it in a pan. I took the left over marinade and as instructed by the internets, boiled it down in a pan until it thickened, poured it on top of the salmon and then roasted it for 10 minutes. Delicious!!
Buffalo Tufu Portabellos: It's all in the name. I created a quick buffalo sauce consisting of about 2 tbsps of chili paste and a teaspoon of butter. I stirred in the tofu. Once coated, I poured it into a hollowed out portabello mushroom and topped with cheddar cheese. I baked it until the mushroom was cooked and voila!
Wine Log
In an effort to drink and not horde wine, I have created a wine log at the bottom of this blog. Since most of the wine I have are one off bottles from very special places, it's hard to drink them. Each has a memory and each probably cost more than it should but was carefully selected based on taste and exclusivity due to how few I could carry with me back from California, Italy, France or South Africa. I will also use this for other that maybe just deserve a special mention for future reference.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
La La La not listening
The other night I was out for drinks with some friends and the issue of Obama and elections came up. A clever and engaged bunch, we quickly launched into vehement agreements with each other about the state of politics, government shut downs and tea baggers. Shortly into the conversation I felt my chest constricting and my breathing become shallow and rapid. It felt like a mild panic attack. I abruptly interjected, “look, I’m just not ready to go there with politics yet.” Not accustomed to backing away from a political argument with people who all agree (my friends have perfected this at The Ear over the years), I was empathetic to the bewildered looks I received. One friend though immediately backed me on this. When I glanced over at him with relief, he seemed to be in a similar state of near panic.
As government shut down looms and as the anarchic tea bag brings the Republicans, the Government and America to its knees, I am getting real ostrich-like. Pundits bash the right for the all the reasons they should and they’re bashing Obama too. I read a great article on salon.com about how terribly Democrats treat their base and it’s true! They know they have us so they ignore us. I defend and defend moves by Obama. I’m not against compromise. I understood his move to cut a deal on the budget in December for example. While bashing Obama seems impossible, defending his moves doesn’t seem possible anymore either, so avoidance seems like the right move.
But then Guantanamo hit the airwaves and I think it’s my issue Achilles’ heel. I can’t take it that they’re going to try this guy under the cloak and dagger of military justice in a clandestine base far far away. Out of the numerous eroding promises, many so much more damaging to the US then this, the Guantanamo trial is apparently where my buck stops. Can you say it that way? Obama said he would solve Guantanamo, the most egregious, embarrassing and seeming no-brainer to fix campaign issue. I feel like banging my fists like a petulant child. I’m really really upset with the President over this.
So then I think back to this night at the bar and other moments when I diverted my attention from discussions about Obama’s shortcomings. My criticism of Guantanamo is a drop in the bucket compared to valid and serious criticisms percolating from Obama’s base. And then I realize why I’m so reticent to criticize him. It’s not just fear of letting the other side in. It’s more personal and extraordinary. It’s that I don’t think of Obama as just a politician. I look at him with L-O-V-E. He is my freaking hero, alongside Bono for goodness sake! When he became President, I got to love the US again and there was a guy I genuinely looked up to. Successful, smart, handsome, happily married, black…the perfect hero.
I suppose my bubble is bursting. He is not perfect. He is a politician. I should be able to intellectualize this from my bar stool. I’ll try I guess, for a President is not supposed to be a hero to be idolized. Bummer.
As government shut down looms and as the anarchic tea bag brings the Republicans, the Government and America to its knees, I am getting real ostrich-like. Pundits bash the right for the all the reasons they should and they’re bashing Obama too. I read a great article on salon.com about how terribly Democrats treat their base and it’s true! They know they have us so they ignore us. I defend and defend moves by Obama. I’m not against compromise. I understood his move to cut a deal on the budget in December for example. While bashing Obama seems impossible, defending his moves doesn’t seem possible anymore either, so avoidance seems like the right move.
But then Guantanamo hit the airwaves and I think it’s my issue Achilles’ heel. I can’t take it that they’re going to try this guy under the cloak and dagger of military justice in a clandestine base far far away. Out of the numerous eroding promises, many so much more damaging to the US then this, the Guantanamo trial is apparently where my buck stops. Can you say it that way? Obama said he would solve Guantanamo, the most egregious, embarrassing and seeming no-brainer to fix campaign issue. I feel like banging my fists like a petulant child. I’m really really upset with the President over this.
So then I think back to this night at the bar and other moments when I diverted my attention from discussions about Obama’s shortcomings. My criticism of Guantanamo is a drop in the bucket compared to valid and serious criticisms percolating from Obama’s base. And then I realize why I’m so reticent to criticize him. It’s not just fear of letting the other side in. It’s more personal and extraordinary. It’s that I don’t think of Obama as just a politician. I look at him with L-O-V-E. He is my freaking hero, alongside Bono for goodness sake! When he became President, I got to love the US again and there was a guy I genuinely looked up to. Successful, smart, handsome, happily married, black…the perfect hero.
I suppose my bubble is bursting. He is not perfect. He is a politician. I should be able to intellectualize this from my bar stool. I’ll try I guess, for a President is not supposed to be a hero to be idolized. Bummer.
Monday, April 4, 2011
Grandmom
My great grandmother died in 1997 and I think about her a lot. She was a powerful force; a huge family presence. Long before Tyler Perry’s portrayal of the black family with the strong sassy grandmother, Grandmom Wedders played this role for my family. She was equal parts fun and fearsome. I learned about bumping and grinding from grandmom, who tore it up in Harlem during the renaissance and then tore it up in my kitchen much to my mortification decades and decades later. My brother, who was a holy terror as a child, helped grandmom teach us about the switch. To this day I laugh and cower when a black comedian makes a joke about being forced first to find a switch and then have it administered on them. What a punishment! She was my mom’s grandmother, but everyone called her grandmom; my dad, my dad’s friends, my friends. I’m pretty sure even the mailman called her grandmom. From my child’s eyes it was hard to imagine her in any other role. She was quintessential.
I think about her, because she had a saying for absolutely everything. To try and capture it in one blog is overwhelming and would certainly not do her justice. I feel like my family should have been better about capturing her stories and sayings. I realize as I get ready to post this that I don’t even have one electronic picture of my grandmother. I’m going to dig for a hard copy and scan it in eventually.
This morning, as my neck bristled at a bubbly newscaster’s cheerful exclamation of a boost in jobs for March, there’s one saying that grandmom had that I have used for a plethora of life occasions. It is repeating over and over again in my head this morning as I scan job postings, trying to squeeze my experience into them like a chubby lady tries to squeeze into a pair of pumps.
“Child, it’s like the monkey said to the elephant, if it don’t fit, don’t force it.”
I now look at every job listing in DC. From Director to internships. From dreadful government jobs to the dreaded fund raising jobs I scan and pray that I can find something for which to send in my resume. I’ve applied for land jobs and GBV jobs; development jobs and humanitarian jobs; human rights jobs and advocacy jobs; Africa jobs and Middle East jobs. Twice today I received job postings from eager and generous friends that were for jobs not even located in DC.
So far, since January, I have re-written my resume 37 times. Each time, my understanding of what I actually did gives way a little bit more to what I think a job might want me to do. Because I’ve had a lot of experience, I can squeeze into a lot of these job descriptions. But I know I must be pushing it, because each time I press send, I say a little hail Mary (despite not being Catholic) and add a “hey you never know” NY lotto philosophy (despite knowing the lottery odds are not with me.)
This morning when I woke up I boldly declared that I would apply for 10 jobs today. I’m feeling like I need to carpet bomb the job market, smoke those jobs out of their holes. Eeesh. Thankfully, although she is no longer here, grandmom’s sayings are forever ensconced in me. Like an internal alarm, “if it don’t fit don’t force it” started repeating in my head, giving me pause. What if I’ve watered down my precious experience to little dribs and drabs of nothing really at all? What if when I’ve been interviewing, my experience doesn’t sound nearly as great as my friends and family keep telling me, but sounds instead like I’m posing as something I’m not? Bullshitting and hedging my bets must be a part of the job search, but have I gone too far?
If grandmom was here, she’d think I was nuts. Her support and love for us was uncompromising and there was no nuancing this. She’d heap a load of praise on me and have me feeling like I was the most special person in the world. Perhaps that’s the only pep talk I need.
Friday, April 1, 2011
The Half Smoke
Yesterday I went to my first ever opening day baseball game. It was awesome. The Nationals, everyone’s root-when-you’re-away-from-your-home-team team, lost. It’s not all doom and gloom. They have Jayson Werth now, who went 1 for 4 and more importantly knows what’s it’s like to win. I think this will be important for the team…to expect to win.
I digress.
As any baseball fan will tell you, going to the game is as much about the experience of the ballpark as it is about the actual game. While I missed a few Yankees traditions (Frank Sinatra, bleacher creatures, YMCA in-field cleaning, old guy banging the metal pot) there are some things that are standard, most especially the cuisine de ballpark: cold watery beer and a hotdog. Modern ballparks have lots more options of course and even have nice restaurants, but hotdogs are by far the most abundant option. I think that’s because it’s a critical part of the tradition.
Food curiosity did get the better of me and since there were no circulating hotdog vendors, I soon found myself in line for Ben’s Chili Bowl. It’s not the original, which located on U Street, but I figured I’d kill two birds with one stone. I’d get my hotdog and the ultimate food tourist experience in DC: Ben’s Chili Bowl.
Earlier in the week, at Eastern Market, I experienced the half smoke for the first time. I have absolutely no idea what the history of this premium sausage is, but I do know it’s taken pretty reverently here in DC. And for good reason; it was freaking delicious. Hayden and I shared one and then quickly shared another, fighting for each bite.
So when I FINALLY reached the top of the queue at Ben’s (2 innings later!) I went for the Chili Half Smoke “All the way,” which included chili, mustard and cheese whiz. Not to stray too far from tradition, I also ordered a regular chili dog and a Coor’s Light. The Half Smoke, when I finally reached it underneath all of the processed cheese and chili, was good. I don’t think it was as good as the one in Eastern Market, because of all of the “all the way” stuff on it. And it turns out I may just not be a fan of chili. I make chili from time to time, but I realize I make bourgeois chili: turkey or three bean, etc. To have stewed beef chili is a different story. I don’t hate it, but for all of those calories and the digestive roller coaster I could skip it.
As I settled into my more traditional hotdog and back into the game, I felt more satisfied. I think it’s because the Hebrew national dog could compete with and even break through all of the riff raff piled on top of it. In the end that’s what I wanted. I wanted the taste of a ketchupy, mustardy dog, washed down with beer while shouting “swing batter” and watching the Nats turn two.
Kitchen notes: Made fan favorite Sweet Potato topped with fresh turkey spinach and feta sausage and curried yogurt. What a week for sausage! Delicious and unlike the half smoke, turkey sausage is low fat. That combined with super food sweet potato makes this dinner a new healthy regular in the rotation.
Also on deck: broiled catfish. The simplest and best way to cook fish. Place in greased pan, top with coconut milk, lemon juice, fresh herbs (dill, cilantro), pepper and onions. Delicious!
I digress.
As any baseball fan will tell you, going to the game is as much about the experience of the ballpark as it is about the actual game. While I missed a few Yankees traditions (Frank Sinatra, bleacher creatures, YMCA in-field cleaning, old guy banging the metal pot) there are some things that are standard, most especially the cuisine de ballpark: cold watery beer and a hotdog. Modern ballparks have lots more options of course and even have nice restaurants, but hotdogs are by far the most abundant option. I think that’s because it’s a critical part of the tradition.
Food curiosity did get the better of me and since there were no circulating hotdog vendors, I soon found myself in line for Ben’s Chili Bowl. It’s not the original, which located on U Street, but I figured I’d kill two birds with one stone. I’d get my hotdog and the ultimate food tourist experience in DC: Ben’s Chili Bowl.
Earlier in the week, at Eastern Market, I experienced the half smoke for the first time. I have absolutely no idea what the history of this premium sausage is, but I do know it’s taken pretty reverently here in DC. And for good reason; it was freaking delicious. Hayden and I shared one and then quickly shared another, fighting for each bite.
So when I FINALLY reached the top of the queue at Ben’s (2 innings later!) I went for the Chili Half Smoke “All the way,” which included chili, mustard and cheese whiz. Not to stray too far from tradition, I also ordered a regular chili dog and a Coor’s Light. The Half Smoke, when I finally reached it underneath all of the processed cheese and chili, was good. I don’t think it was as good as the one in Eastern Market, because of all of the “all the way” stuff on it. And it turns out I may just not be a fan of chili. I make chili from time to time, but I realize I make bourgeois chili: turkey or three bean, etc. To have stewed beef chili is a different story. I don’t hate it, but for all of those calories and the digestive roller coaster I could skip it.
As I settled into my more traditional hotdog and back into the game, I felt more satisfied. I think it’s because the Hebrew national dog could compete with and even break through all of the riff raff piled on top of it. In the end that’s what I wanted. I wanted the taste of a ketchupy, mustardy dog, washed down with beer while shouting “swing batter” and watching the Nats turn two.
Kitchen notes: Made fan favorite Sweet Potato topped with fresh turkey spinach and feta sausage and curried yogurt. What a week for sausage! Delicious and unlike the half smoke, turkey sausage is low fat. That combined with super food sweet potato makes this dinner a new healthy regular in the rotation.
Also on deck: broiled catfish. The simplest and best way to cook fish. Place in greased pan, top with coconut milk, lemon juice, fresh herbs (dill, cilantro), pepper and onions. Delicious!
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