Oil Can

A four year sabbatical from writing news or feature style articles will make a lady pretty rusty.

Eating Greenpoint: Peter Pan Doughnuts and Pastries

It's a shame that for the last four years, anytime someone mentions Peter Pan I think of this and not this. But now, thanks to a long walk down Manhattan Ave, when someone mentions the boy in tights who won't grow up, I can think about Bavarian creme and hyperglycemia.

The window at Peter Pan Doughnuts and Pastries works hard to pull you in. Early on a Sunday morning, the racks are stacked full with donuts, twists and muffins of all varieties.



The case also happens to espouse Miss Stacia's mantra about eating, in general:



When I passed the glass this morning, the shelves were due for a refill, but there were still plenty of appealing options calling out to me. I took out my camera to capture a few shots of the fried dough, slathered in glaze, dipped in chocolate and garnished with enough toppings to appease Michael Scott on pretzel day, when a woman stopped in front of me, looking confused.

"Are you taking pictures of the donuts?" she asked.

"Why, yes I am." Is that not normal?


The donut I ended up selecting for myself was the same one I eyed the very first time I passed the bakery - a chocolate glazed number with a generous dollop of custard in the middle and half a spoonful of jelly crowning the whole affair. Put a tri-color cookie on top of this sucker and it's everything I've ever wanted out of life in a four-inch circle.


You are my destiny

I brought this baby back to my apartment and consumed it in between sips of Earl Grey tea, an attempt to balance this disc of sin with something prim and proper. Seven bites later I felt ready to explode. Seven hours later I'm ready for another.

Before the Dunkin Donuts franchise overextended itself - promising the delivery of stale, underglazed donuts at every location - I was a regular consumer, mainly of the marble frosted and Boston creme varieties. And nothing excited me more than the day I got to taste the Doughnut Plant donut that beat Bobby Flay. (Their signature tres leches cake donut is kind of worth it, but their yeast peanut butter and jelly one is better.) I even seriously considered making zeppoli after watching Giada Di Laurentis - who I usually can't stand - coat a batch of her homemade donut holes with powdered sugar on The Food Network.

The point is, I have eaten a lot of freaking donuts in my day. I am a qualified judge and can vouch for the validity of the following information regarding the Peter Pan donut I housed this afternoon:

Superlative this donut won in high school:
Best Dressed

5 Adjectives this donut would use to describe itself:
Sweeeeeet, Loaded, Airy, Decadent, (Fucking) Badass

Warning: Consumption of this donut may result in side effects including:
Heartburn. Sugar high. Sleep deprivation. Sunday Morning Pastry Addiction.

Peter Pan Doughnuts, I give you my hearty endorsement, but to the future consumers of your lightly fried, heavily iced wares I do advise: Proceed with caution.

Eating Greenpoint: An Introduction

So glad I got the Diet Coke

There's never been a time when I've doubted my devotion to potato and cheese-filled dough, eight-inch long sausages, or meat-stuffed anything, but my obsession with hearty Eastern European cooking has reached new gut-busting proportions since my move to Greenpoint two months ago. I now live on the cusp of Brooklyn's largest Polish-American community, which means I can pull up a chair in one of twenty homestyle, pierogi-slinging restaurants before you can figure out how to pronounce "Żywiec." (Zhi-vee-ets.)

It's not my fault nothing gets me hotter than a potato pancake or a big kielbasa. Most of my grandparents originally came from Poland, so the Polish Comfort Food Fever is most likely a genetic condition. Whatever the case, I seriously can't get enough of the stuff, and my buttocks are slowly becoming as round and full as stuffed cabbages.

My latest obsession is red borchst with dumplings (pronounced more like "barchst" according to a Polish acquaintance of mine), something I had only tried once before moving to the new hood. I've been sampling the RBwD in just about every Polish eatery I've wandered into, and it's a dish that has changes very little from place to place. A super thin broth, that's deep magenta in color, served piping hot with three to five meat tortellini that often soak up the color of the liquid bed in which they bobble. The purple color of the borscht, for those who don't know Polish food, comes from the beet, which is the main flavoring for this soup, though I believe other vegetables and seasonings are used in the cooking, and then strained out before serving. Either way, the resultant flavor is warm and rich with just a touch of sweet spice to it. The earthy meat of the dumpling is a perfect contrast to the sharp flavor of the broth and is a nice change from the often over-flavored ground meat of Italian cuisine. Overall, the soup is simple and tasty - a reason to look forward to cold sleety days.

As I continue to eat my way through my neighborhood I plan to report on Polish food and other neighborhood delicacies, so stay tuned. In my recent experience I've found a restaurant's decor and vibe can really intensify the enjoyment factor of the eating experience (for example, the picture above was taken at a place called King's Feast, a restaurant that has two full suits of armor guarding the front door, and a soundtrack of Polish, 90's-style dance jams playing on full blast at 3 in the afternoon), so I will try to capture images of the defining environmental details when I can. And when I get through the easy staples and move on to pig's knuckles, you better believe I'm reporting it here. If I make it back alive.

But for now I will leave you because it's starting to snow, and I have to go dream of the dark pink soup I will consume as a result.

Mixed Messages

My Hot Saturday Night

It's 8pm on a particularly mellow Saturday night when I take my book to my favorite Greenpoint polish spot - my sanctuary - and prepare to relax, uninterrupted. I order red borscht with dumplings, the kielbasa and white sausage plate and a big bottle of Lech premium brew, and proceed to eat a long, slow meal, alternately turning the pages of my book and carving my meat into bite size pieces. Forty-five minutes later my is table is clear but for a half-empty beer glass, and I recline cross-legged, engrossed in my novel.

This book of mine is my first-ever Danielle Steel novel (which I am reading for a writing project, I swear), and it has proved an unbearable assignment. I am just beginning to hit my stride when I look up to see the waitress holding a second enormous beer bottle and a fresh, tall glass. "From the gentlemen at the bar," she tells me. I know well enough to be nervous. Slowly I turn my attention to the banquette in fear, curiosity, and to reluctantly give thanks.

My benefactor is grey-haired and probably sixty years old, smiling sheepishly from his stool. "Of course," I think to myself. "Who else takes themselves out to dinner on a Saturday night? Little Miss Stacia and desperate old men." This is a harsh and probably inaccurate appraisal, but the truth is, I have been approached many times by much older men while dining alone, especially on weekend nights when twenty-five year-olds who are expected to be out doing exciting and irresponsible things with their young lives must seem like easy prey. Here I am, gorging myself on pickled cabbage, reading romance novels like I'm eighty-seven. I am probably asking for it.

The grey-haired man beckons me over. His alcoholic donation makes me feel guilty enough to oblige. He tells me his name is Kazimir, but that I should call him "Kaz." Kaz tells me he moved from Poland to the United States twenty years ago and that he hasn't been back to Poland since. He tells me his mother still lives there and won't come visit him in the States because he's without a wife and kids. His quick declaration of singlehood signals to me early on that I'm in trouble, but for a while our conversation passes without incident. He asks me what I'm reading. I show him "Passion's Promise" and tell him how shocked my grandmother was to hear I'd never read one of Steel's novels before. I'm not sure how much of this Kaz understands, as his English is a bit shoddy, but he tells me his mother reads Danielle Steel in Poland and his sister reads her in Canada. "Everyone around the world reads this," he tells me. Then he holds the book up in prayer position between his two flat palms and says, "Whatever is in this book, it is life." This man has obviously never read any Danielle Steel. I am also hoping for his own sake, he's drunk.

"What are you doing this Friday night?" he asks me. "You will be here, no? "I'm having a birthday party here, Friday night, and you will come." It is time for me to get the check.

I ask the waitress to total me up, but Kaz has insisted he will pay. I just want to go home. Kaz won't accept that I'm not coming to his birthday party on Friday. He tells the waitress, apparently a friend of his, that he has "a situation," and that she should talk to me "like girls talk," about coming to his soiree. "I think I'm the one that has the situation," I tell her.

I thank Kaz for the drink and for dinner and wish him a happy birthday. He gets up from his stool to help me into my coat. On my way out the door I shake off the shadow of unwelcome advance, tuck my romance novel into my bag, and for the first time understand why women have ever wanted to read the damn things in the first place.

Free Cal

I just looked at my G Cal (Google Calendar - the means by which I run my life), and was shocked to find blank square after blank square of unplanned days, evenings and weekends in January. In fact, my calendar is completely empty for all of 2008. As of this moment I have zero future commitments (birthdays, holidays and other recurring events aside), and I can't remember another time in my life where I felt so liberated from extra work duties, family functions, and social obligations. This year's new year's resolution: Spontaneity!

Now who wants to make some plans?

A Mother's Resolutions For Her Daughter

1. Wear your retainers/rainboots/snowboots/hat/gloves/new thing instead of the same old thing.
2. J Date/ 8 Minute J Date/Attend temple singles parties.
3. If you're going to go to Dunkin Donuts, use a coupon. Here, it's two-for-one.
4. Listen to your mother.

You're In A Musical

Perhaps it is fitting that I am sitting down after Sweeney Todd, to watch last year's musical glitzbomb Dreamgirls for the first time since it shook its spangles at me on the big screen. This will be my third musical in five days (Hairspray, Sweeney Todd, now Dreamgirls) and probably not my last as Once, an Irish movie musical I never even heard of until last week, just arrived in my mailbox between two pieces of red paper. I basically gave up on the musical when I left the middle and high school chorus days behind me in a fit of rebellion against RENT and too many years of musical theater nerddom. Since then, a musical has blipped on my radar every once in a great while- Dancer in the Dark, for example - and even then, only the involvement of someone like Bjork (and the promise of an unorthodox treatment of the musical format) has allowed me to invest myself. But these days I can't believe how much I've been looking forward to the movie musicals that seem to be popping up like dandelions. I fucking hate Abba - a holdover grudge from the bat/bar mitzvah dancing days (something about the lyrics "dancing queen, young and sweet, only 17" really rubbed me the wrong way, especially at age 17) - but damned if I'm not looking forward to a big screen version of Mamma Mia! that features a singing and dancing Meryl Streep.

Somehow I am always pleased, but never really that surprised when accomplished actors and actresses can sing. If you make a career out of manipulating your voice and tone and delivery, chances are you can belt out a decent tune. And yet the first notes out of Johnny Depp’s mouth of rotten Old Londonized teeth, about three minutes into Sweeney Todd, were nothing short of thrilling.

Quickly, Sweeney Todd is the story of a barber, Sweeney Todd (Depp), who is wrongfully imprisoned on the orders of a corrupt judge (Alan Rickman) who plans to steal Todd’s beautiful, flaxen-haired wife. Years later, Todd returns to London seeking the love of his wife and proper revenge. Instead of his lady, he finds Mrs. Lovett (Helena Bonham Carter), the owner of a rancid meat pie shop below his old barbershop. As for the revenge, I’ll let you see the movie. Heads roll, and Johnny Depp sings about it. It’s all great fun.

Depp’s voice doesn’t exactly move the earth, but it’s hearty enough to get the job done, and his menacing delivery is spiked with just enough lovelorn angst to brand Todd as a both a murderer and a romantic. Helena Bonham Carter, another longtime muse of director Tim Burton's, truly stands out for the first time in her role as Mrs. Lovett, the nurturing and desperate would-be love of the demon barber. She is ghostly yet seductive, her corseted bosom, deliberately mussed bouffant, and grandiose, gothic rag gowns making her appear both doll-like and (taking her quirkiness into account) ready for the Oscars. Her twee voice and powdered visage always reflect the appropriate zest and/or tenderness. Some of my favorite moments of the movie occur during a solo song of Mrs. Lovett’s entitled "By The Sea" in which she describes to a brooding and unreceptive Todd, her dreams for their future. The song plays over a series of fantasy shots of Todd and Lovett, dressed in their palette of grays and blacks and blues and blood reds, against bright blue picnic skies and fanciful boardwalk scenery. And all the while HBC’s piping delivery of the light little tune plays contrast to Depp’s stubborn, boyish scowl, making for irrepressible laughs.

The other real musical highlights of the film are the duets. Moments in which two known actors have the opportunity to synchronize their instruments, even briefly, are magical when captured in Burton’s magical frames. In “A Little Priest,” Todd and Lovett are squared side by side in the window of Lovett’s pie shop, pressing their hands and faces to the dirty glass, looking out upon the London's streets while singing in perfect unison of turning various Londonites into meat pie filling. In “Pretty Women,” Todd and his foe Judge Turpin wax musical about one thing they have in common – their love of beautiful girls – as the two men, one in the barber’s chair, are cast against the dark, slanted window of Todd’s barbershop-turned-slaughterhouse. Rickman’s gravely bass is so classic and useful here, the perfect backdrop for Depp’s lead vocal, though I like to imagine Michael Caine could have swapped in for the same function. (He actually took on a similarly evil role involving an infatuation over “pretty women” in the movie Quills, which I double, no, triple heart.) I wonder if Sir Caine was on the casting list. Perhaps he was Rickman’s understudy.

When it all comes down to it, the strongest vocalists of the bunch were the kid actors. This is hardly surprising, as in these roles Burton had the advantage of seeking excellent singers without worrying about casting a known face. Ed Sanders as Toby, the small boy Mrs. Lovett and Sweeney Todd take in after the mysterious disappearance of his caretaker, tackles the most famous song of the Sweeney score (with a bit of help from HBC). Three-quarters of the way through the film, I was amazed to hear Toby launch into “Not While I’m Around,” first of all because the song seems a bit sugary and sentimental buried in what is otherwise a comedic, horror musical, and second because I didn’t think I knew any songs from the show. And I didn’t just recognize the song; I knew every single word, yet I couldn’t figure out how or why. I was about to attribute the familiarity to my summer of chorus/theater camp (yeah, I know), when my mother enlightened me during the credits. “I didn’t know that song the little kid sang was from this show,” she said. “You know who sings that song? Barbra Streisand. That song has been played at every bat and bar mitzvah on Long Island.”

Wow. Of course it was Babs. I can hear that nasal bravado reach up for those high notes even now. She must be a friend of Sondheim’s because I don’t see how else the Funny Girl would have found her way to Fleet Street. Although she did always cover “Send In The Clowns,” another song of Sondheim’s. (And one that I don’t particularly enjoy.) The one thing that is certain is that I know way too much about this.

Barbra Streisand career does, however, provide a good example of a born singer summoning some acting chops for the big screen, which was the idea behind recruiting Jennifer Hudson to do Dreamgirls. It’s definitely an effective model for casting musical roles in a lot of cases. In Chicago, Catherine Zeta Jones nailed her song and dance routines, probably better than most could do on the stage, but when Jennifer Hudson delivered “And I Am Telling You I’m Not Going”, she laid down what will probably be remembered as one of the best recordings in the history of musicals.

I’ll tell you something about “ And I Am Telling You I’m Not Going.” That song is so close to perfect it’s scary. When those first notes landed in the theater, all of my normal bodily functions were suspended. (Well, my breathing was. Not my crying.) It is such an artfully constructed song, peaks in all the right places, a flourishing, incremental build, a funky ass breakdown complete with punctuating horns -- the perfect platform for a robust, soulful voice, with a message that resonates, simply stated. And then Hudson puts her fierce, womanly stamp on it and rockets it through you. I don't listen to musical soundtracks much anymore, but occasionally when I want to get hit with an earthquake I'll bring that song up on the iPod and let it knock me on my ass.

I say the song is nearly perfect and not absolutely motherloving capital “P” fucking Perfect because of a monster peeve I’ve developed over about four seconds towards the very end of the song. But this is really just nitpicking. Even with a few bars that grate on me, if I put that song on once, I’m listening to it twice. And as I am experiencing now, the second time around Dreamgirls entertains, but mostly it's just eye candy costumes and counting the minutes to J Hud's big moment.

Generally speaking though, musicals are kicking ass these days. I spent so long rejecting them on principle (see me kicking and screaming on my way to A Chorus Line and Hairspray on Broadway last year), that I may have to force myself to loosen up and accept that visionaries like Tim Burton can liven up tired genres, and that once I learned all the words to Cabaret and Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat because something about staged and storied song and dance moved me. (For the Joseph obsession I also blame my parents, Hebrew School and years of unchecked, unfettered dorkiness.) Every once in a while I should prepare to be embarrassed and give in, because it’s likely I’ll fall in love with John C. Reilly’s performance of “Mr. Cellophane,” an eight-year old’s cover of a Streisand cover of Sweeney Todd, or an almost motherfucking Perfect Dreamgirls song.

Pretending I Paid Attention This Year: A List

I forget about a lot of things immediately after they happen -- books read, concerts attended, albums ingested -- so in order to synopsize what I've been up to this year, I went back through tattered notebooks, iPod playlists and a hefty box of tickets stubs to jog my memory of where I've been and what I've been doing for the last twelve months. Below is a rundown of some of this year's best/worst/most influential/most fun and random, albums/songs/books/movies/places/etceteras.

Feel free to pluck and sample at your discretion.

Best Albums 2007
1. Nina Nastasia & Jim White - You Follow Me
(Listened to approximately 3xs a day, 7 days a week for a month, and pretty consistently after that. Still making appearances. The voice. The drums. Mmmmmm.)
2. Bird and the Bee - Self-Titled (Female lead vocals in my range. Song that uses the words "public relations.")
3. Band of Horses - Cease to Begin (Gauzy and beautiful. Male lead vocalist sounds more than slightly like a female.)

4. St. Vincent - Marry Me (Title references Arrested Development. Catchiest tunes in the universe.)
5. Radiohead - In Rainbows (Thank God.)

Runnerz Ups
Prodigy - Return of the Mac (for iron pumping)
The Long Blondes - Someone to Drive Me Home (for treadmill running)

Late to the Party For
Mos Def - Black On Both Sides (for Brooklyn living)
Joanna Newsom - Y's (for spelunking)
Camera Obscura - Let's Get Out of This Country (for belting on solo car trips)
Jon Brion - Meaningless (for brooding)
John Legend - Once Again (for reminding you that you used to love Babyface)

Albums I Listened to Exactly 1 1/2 Times
Kanye West - Graduation (I don't get it?)
Bjork - Volta (Personally, I miss Rahzel.)

Like Crack
Rihanna - "Umbrella" (Gimme more, like Britney.)

Fucking Overdose
Natasha Beddingfield - "Unwritten" (The perfect "dead inside" soundtrack for The Hills.)

Almost As Good As "The Denial Twist"
The White Stripes - "Conquest" (Or as a friend once lovingly spelled it: "Cah-ah-han -que-est!")

A Sad Year In Live Music When Your Concert Highlight Was On
January 9 (Emily Haines and the Soft Skeleton @ Hiro Ballroom)

Also Pretty Fun
Band of Horses @ Terminal 5 on 11/4 (So many beards.)
Bird and the Bee @ Blender Theater on 11/18 (Blender has a theater? 60's-inspired stage outfits!)
Fiona Apple @ The Brooklyn Lyceum on 10/6 (Crazy - and brilliant - as I hoped she'd be.)
Nina Nastastia & Jim White @ The Mercury Lounge on 10/3 (So much buildup. Jay Dubbya was worth it.)

Rip Off Tickets Of The Year
Bjork @ Radio City on 5/2 (For 70 bucks I want "Isobel" AND "All Is Full Of Love." AND "Possibly Maybe." AND "Oceania." How about you just play for more than an hour and fifteen minutes and cover your catalogue? I say this with love...)
The Museum Of Natural History's Mythic Creatures Exhibit on 9/15 (Advertised a 50-foot dragon it didn't deliver and failed to present dioramas of mermaids under water. Do-over?)

Holy Christ, So Freaking Underrated!
Grindhouse: Planet Terror/Deathproof (Machine gun leg for Halloween next year?)

Don't Remember Seeing You At All
Live Free or Die Hard (But I have your ticket stub...)

Would Have Died In a State of Blissful Indulgence If Delivered A Fatal Blow During
Enchanted (More songs to add to my Disney repertoire.)
Paprika (Technically '06, but still freakish, anime fun.)

First Movie of the Year
Children of Men (Unless I saw something before Jan 15th)

Oops! Actual First Movie of the Year
Dreamgirls (Jan 14th!)

"First" Movie That Made Me Cry More
Dreamgirls (It also made me want to wear sequins!)

Movies viewed in the splendiferocity of the IMAX theater
300 (aka "300 Mins of Abs")
Spiderman 3 (aka "Why Sam Raimi, why?!")

Finally Got Around To
The Watchmen - Alan Moore (Mindblowing.)
The Dark Knight Returns - Frank Miller (Quicker. Darker. Better?)

Left With A Hopeless Addiction To
Neil Gaiman (A man who owns multiple sushi pillows is a man I can get behind.)

Best Meal of the Year
Momofuku Noodle, sometime this fall. (Go now. Don't fuck around. Get the grits.)

Year-long (ish) Unconquerable Late Night Cravings
Raw cookie dough (From the roll. Pillsbury over Nestle Tollhouse if at all possible.)
Wonton Soup (No less than five dumplings.)
Pierogies (With assorted fillings.)

Favorite Saved Fortune Cookie Fortune of '07
"It is necessary; therefore, it is possible."

A WARNING

Things I lost when my hard drive died:

1. About 30 half-formed blog ideas.
2. A cheesy essay about getting my hair cut as it related to disconnecting myself from a boy.
3. A never-posted live review of Wilco.
4. A CD sleeve design for a 2003 mix entitled “Collections Are Dangerous,” comprised entirely of shrunken concert posters.
5. The lyrics to a song I believe an ex wrote about me that were promptly removed from said ex’s blog the day after they were posted.
6. A folder full of contact addresses and phone numbers.
7. The updated design templates for my professional website.
8. All drafts and Photoshopped clips from my recent work for The Hollywood Reporter.
9. PHOTOSHOP (and the accompanying serial number)
10. ILLUSTRATOR (and the accompanying serial number)
11. DREAMWEAVER (and the accompanying serial number. No seriously, I am weeping as I write this.)
12. My sanity.

Ladies and gentlemen, back up your computers. FOR RILL. Also, catalog your software and store it in a place where you can find it, WITH THE SERIAL NUMBERS ATTACHED.

My life’s work now skips from a college commencement speech to this here list. Which is pretty fracking sad. Cause this list isn’t even funny.

Jones on the Road

Overheard on the trip from Long Island to Ithaca for Miss Raquel's graduation:

(As Papa Jones swerves around some roadkill)
Papa Jones: Didn't that look like scrotum?
Mama Jones: You have an appointment with the eye doctor in two weeks. This is why.


Mama Jones: (to The College Man who has just said something incredibly stupid) You're fucking brilliant.
Papa Jones: The kid's an orangutang.
The College Man: That's Orangu-TAN.


The College Man: (talking about his hot new girlfriend) Mom, as far as I'm concerned, the girl's a virgin. To me.

Quotes, Cha cha cha!

I am sitting on a bed covered in no less than 8 memo pads, each stolen from work, each half-filled with the foundations of ideas worth fleshing out on this digital scroll. Things are going to start pouring out of me, perhaps in a less-than-sensical timeline, but I am determined to deliver my supressed brilliance to you, my faithful reader(s).

Today some random quotes that have amassed over the past four months shall decorate my frequently neglected little corner of the blogosphere. I'll do my best to allude to context if it enchances the fun. Let's dance:

"I like your tie." - Coworker 1 to Coworker 2
"Thanks, It's a Claiborne! -Coworker 2

"If you suck at blow jobs, you suck at life." - The College Man

"I'm not yet fluent in weave." - Dazrazzle, currently obsessed with lace-fronts.

"If I'm gonna cook, I'm gonna celebrate it with a costume." - Holly, from The Girls Next Door
(This is Miss Stacia's stance on homemaking boiled down to a sentence.)

"You look sexy! And younger!" - Creepy guy I see every year in Cancun, Mexico.
(Younger than 24???)

"To look around for a real girl and not fuck around with stupid skanks." - The College Man's New Year's Resolution

"I have heartingitis!" - New York, on the I Love New York Clip Show
(One of NY's many ailments that can't be cured with a cream.)

"Your sexual shakra is dead." - A psychic (to Miss Stacia)

"No shit." - Miss Stacia (to a psychic)

All is Full of Love and Ticketmaster Surcharges

Miss Stacia if she forgets to put product in her hair before blowdrying:



Miss Stacia after the breast lift:



Miss Stacia taking the extra fifteen minutes to dry at the salon:



Miss Stacia when she heard Bjork was playing three New York shows in May; first at Radio City Music Hall, then at the United Palace Theater and finally at the Apollo Theater in Harlem:



Miss Stacia after she failed to acquire tickets to any of the three upcoming New York City Bjork concerts through Bjork.com's cocktease of a presale:



Miss Stacia when she realized she had another shot on Ticketmaster two days later:



Miss Stacia recruiting troops to increase the chances of ticket acquisition:



Miss Stacia with two tickets to the Radio City show on hold:



Miss Stacia while Ticketmaster took its dear sweet time processing...



and processing...



and processing her payment:



Miss Stacia winning the Bjork fan lottery:



Bjork at Radio City AND the Apollo?!!! The Pleasure Is All Mine...




*All delicious photos from bjork.com

The College Man: A Year From Legal Boozin

Today is The College Man's birthday. I just called him. Shock of all shocks, he was sleeping.

In celebration of his almost-21st, Miss Raquel is on her way up to see the little bugger and I sent over a care package including a 72" inflatable monkey. Which gesture do you think The College Man will appreciate more? And what about his roomates? Will they be more excited by the arrival of Raquel, femme fatale, or Miss Stacia's plastic beast? Will The College Man even wake up today to give me the report?

Mama Jones Kitchen Tip #43

"If you don't cook for a long time, anything you make tastes good."

Managers Jones & Jones - Season 2

This year's fantasy baseball draft has started and my daily bonding sessions with Papa Jones have begun. By now Mama Jones has learned if her husband and daughter are on the phone during baseball season, they're most likely discussing the fate of their Yahoo team of sluggers. Last year, as my silent partner during my very first attempt at fantasy glory, dad advised me towards a team full of "reliable" geezers. The average age of our team was almost four years older than that of the winner's, but in spite of recurring injuries and the onset of osteoperosis, our old farts landed us in a respectable 6th place (out of 12). Supposedly three or four of my leaguemates threw in the towel mid-season, but I like to think they elected to quit after realizing they were getting their asses beaten by a girl.

I am no longer the only female in my league (there are two to beat this year, both Yankee fans. Grrrrrrr.), and I can't decide if I have more or less to prove. Dad has been a pretty good sport about our new girl-power teamname, The Flying Ginas (that's "Jy-nah"), mostly because I've given him no choice. He's also agreed to target some of baseball's younger talent and we have both made a pact to to avoid repeating the following sins of last year:

1. Drafting A-Rod.
2. Letting go of Francisco Liriano before the season starts.
3. Accidentally drafting Tom Jones instead of Todd Jones. (okay, that one was my fault)

We're already in the third round of the draft with Big Papi Ortiz and Jimmy Rollins taking their places at the top of Team Gina. I have confidence starting off with a Red Sox player instead of a Yankee player is good luck, and drafting a shortstop instead of Black Flag's lead singer is another step in the right direction. My turn to pick has come up once again and I put in a call to my father this morning to discuss my options. In the end, draft pick number three came down to Chone Figgins on Los Angeles and Troy Glaus on Toronto.

The process for making a draft decision over the phone can be long and taxing and usually goes something like this:

Stacia Jones: Okay, so we're down to Figgins and Glaus.

Papa Jones: Yeah, both great picks. Figgins will give you the speed you need. He's young, he's a hot shot...if you want to go young, Figgins is a great pick. But Glaus...Glaus will give you power. He's a powerhouse. He blasts the ball. Wait, check their numbers.

SJ: Figgins had 9 homeruns, 62 RBIs, 52 stolen bases...

PJ: See, I told you he was fast...

SJ: .267. And he's eligible for 2nd, 3rd and the outfield.

PJ: Okay, Glaus?

SJ: 38 homeruns...

PJ: See!

SJ: 104 RBIs, 3 stolen bases...

PJ: No speed...

SJ: and a .252 average. 3rd and shortstop.

PJ: Okay, I like it. I like them both.

SJ: But which guy do you think we need more? Do we need speed or power? We've got Ortiz's bat and Rollins is pretty fast...Wait, should we go pitching?

PJ: Naw, not yet. There are two hard, fast rules in baseball, two truisms that never fail. Fast guys always steal, and strikeout pitchers always strike out.

SJ: What does that have to do with anything?

PJ: I'm just saying.

SJ: Okay...

PJ: There are plenty of strikeout pitchers left. There hasn't been a run on them yet.

SJ: So Figgins or Glaus?

PJ: Hmmm, Figgins or Glaus... Wait, read me the top starting pitchers still available.

I search and read off the top starters to Papa Dukes...

PJ: Okay, now the closers...

Now check second base again...

And third???

SJ: Dad! Figgins or Glaus??!!

PJ: Okay, Figgins. I say, go with Figgins. Wait, wait, mom needs to talk to you.

Mama Jones, who knows little to nothing about baseball, gets on the phone.

MJ: "Make sure you get Figgins, and if you can't get Figgins, get eenie, meenie, minie, mo."

Momofuk Me? No, Momofuk-U!

I love that this Eater guest post from Momofuku Chef David Chang (and tomorrow's highly anticipated Bruni review of Momfuku Ssam Bar) came a week after my very first trip to Momofuku Noodle Bar, which, as I've mentioned quite a few times, I've been dying to try since it opened. A few things I love about Chang's musings on what it’s like to wait for a review to drop:

1. He defaults to a chapter format, based on stars earned, to log potential responses to Bruni's review. (Almost a list! I approve!)
2. He projects calling upon drugs as relief from bad review-induced depression: "I would try crack, black tar heroin and crystal meth for the first time, possibly all three at once. Anything that would take me to a happy place."
3. He pokes lightheartedly at, but never denies the influence of one man's opinion on his culinary career: "Is he going to make us or break us? Is there a bottle of bourbon around here somewhere?"
4. He understands the limits of his charming little eatery, and doesn’t take his establishment more seriously than he should: “For fuck’s sake we don’t even have silverware and we use paper napkins. Our bathroom has a hand dryer.”


I’m pretty sure Momofuku Noodle had paper towels in the John, but it’s still an unfussy spot, focused on churning out some of the tastiest offerings to pass this Asian food-junkie’s lips.

Although it wasn’t quite as hectic as I expected for 6:30 pm on a Sunday, Momofuku was still filled to capacity with spare bodies huddled together at the door and a few growling stomachs beyond the glass window, pacing in the 16-degree wind. There isn’t much space to wait inside the skinny dining area, and it’s likely frigid temperatures kept away all but the most motivated of foodies, but even on a temperate traffic day it’s clear the only quick way into this noodle house is as a party of one.

I climbed atop a high stool that thoroughly tested recurring New Year’s resolution #1, and was handed the wonderfully concise menu, contained on a single laminated sheet. The majority of diners at Momofuku sit at a long bar facing the open kitchen and stretching from the front door almost to the bathroom at the opposite end of the narrow space, but I was seated at one of two smaller benches at the fore of the restaurant, away from the exciting action. My slab of dining surface was nailed into the wall, providing me about a foot-and-a-half’s worth of breathing space in front and even less room to each side where fellow cramped diners ate with chopsticks, elbows high in the air. Good thing I was in it for the food and not the view.

I enjoy dining solo, but I generally like trying new places with a partner in tow to increase sampling options. I remember reading a lot about the affordability of the Momofuku dining experience when it was in the first round of reviews, and if you share an appetizer with a date and each tackle a bowl of noodle soup, the total per person lands around twenty-dollars, which isn’t terrible for such tasty (and hyped) cuisine. But I’ve got big eyes and an endless pit of a stomach and you best believe after daydreaming for over a year about pork buns dressed with pickles and famous egg-laced ramen, I was letting loose with the ordering. I did an app and an entrée all to myself, and the still-slight meal set me back thirty bucks sans drink. Totally worth it, but I can eat six bowls of Chinatown Ramen for three Hamiltons, and probably a few pan-fried gyoza to boot.

But I needed to try those nine-dollar pork buns.

The dough of Momofuku’s steamed pork bun is less fluffy than that of the traditional dim-sum treat. It actually lays out more like an oval-shaped pancake, folding over once to enclose its contents inside like a money clip. The pork it houses is super-salty, enhanced by crisp, marinated pickles and warm, sweet Asian barbeque sauce. Two buns come to an order and I was glad to have them both to myself. The only utensils on the bar were chopsticks, quite impractical for picking up open-ended pork pockets, so I grabbed those suckers with my hands and put them each away in four or five bites.

Momofuku’s signature ramen was also as incredible as I expected. The broth is beautiful – slightly more textured than the traditional soup component, a bit unfiltered, like miso. Two different cuts of pork lie in the soup, one that falls right off the bone, the other tighter, and like the meat in the pork buns, lobbed into thick, meaty slices. The main vehicle for pulling the soup’s flavor across your tongue is the base of noodles. The wheaty strands are slightly undercooked to hold up to the liquid and accoutrements, the most decadent of which is a poached egg that bobs up and down until you spill its delicious cholesterol into the open water. The first bite of pork and yolk is scarily sinful. A real chest-grabber.

Like much Asian cuisine, the ramen went down warm and bold (Japanese “lumberjack food” to steal a byte from Amy Sedaris), but left me starving two hours later. So now I’ve hatched the master plan. Next time, Momofuku Noodle, then movie on 2nd Ave, and then the Ssam Bar.

No matter what Frank Bruni says.

Le mot du jour

I love me the dictionary.com "Word of the Day," especially when said word derives from or is a working part of la belle langue Française.

So I was especially pleased when yesterday's mot sauntered into my inbox late this afternoon, four rosés deep and reeking of Chanel No.9:

idee fixe \ee-day-FEEKS\, noun:
An idea that dominates the mind; a fixed idea; an obsession.

(How great is the phoenetic spelling of the word "fixe," p.s.?)

It just so happens I am quite familiar with les ideés fixes, as the cultivation of such obsessions has become a trademark of my personality. Most of mes ideés are umbrellaed under the categories of la culture, mon travail (work), et les hommes (that's men) but when it comes down to it, there is potential for me to obsess about almost anything.

For now - since February has proven to strengthen my resolve on this long-standing, well-tread idee fixe of mine - I proclaim to you, the reader, and to the world, in the name of French scents and carbonated spirits, online dictionaries, silent l's and rolling r's:

I WILL WRITE.

Word.

Pollanology and Johnny Appleseed

After reading the first chapter of Michael Pollan's The Botany of Desire this summer, all I could talk about for days was Johnny Appleseed.

Pollan’s book is divided into four chapters, each mapping a singular plant's - perhaps conscious - evolution and adaptation to the desires of humans that has resulted in the plant's propagation. Pollan first takes on the apple (tagged as appealing to the human desire of "sweetness"), where he reveals the story behind a plant that was "eager to do business with humans and perhaps nowhere more so than in America." The figure that facilitated more transactions with the shiny-skinned fruit than any human in history, was Johnny Appleseed.

Although christened John Chapman by birth, Johnny Appleseed did exist. And he did traverse the wilderness of America planting trees, but they were trees yielding the most wretched, sour apples imaginable. It turns out all apples planted from seeds are wild strains, and the only way to cultivate one of the carefully engineered apple varieties we are familiar with today is through the grafting of existing trees. John Chapman's nearly inedible apples were welcomed on the frontier, however, because of their usefulness in making cider. Johnny Appleseed, myth and hero of kindergarten tall tales, was perhaps the number one unknowing proponent of alcoholism in early America.

Even more ironic/fucked up: During prohibition, apple-growers devised the slogan "an apple a day keeps the doctor away," to promote the supposed healthfulness of the source of their beloved alcohol. Thus, apples became one of the first products pushed our way through the wagon-wheel cogs of public relations.

And to think -- though I never liked you, I believed in you, apples.

I haven't yet cracked open Pollan's most recent work, The Omnivore's Dilemma, but he recently wrote an article for the New York Times Magazine about "nutritionism," which I finally got around to reading last night (it's nine pages long).

"Nutritionism" or the switch in public consciousness from eating food, to consuming nutrients has been upon the United States for the last twenty-or-so years, and Pollan is successful at unveiling the negative effects of this ideology on our health and diet. When emphasis is placed on incorporating singular nutrients instead of whole foods in our diets, we miss out on the positive effects of micronutrients that have not yet been isolated as well as the beneficial chemical reactions incurred when nutrients are ingested in concert, within the context of natural meals. Instead of eating balanced meals, we add nutritional supplements (whose benefits and drawbacks we don’t fully understand) to processed food products (whose essential nutrients have been removed in the first place). And Americans are never told to "eat less" of anything, lest we upset the balance of a prosperous food trade. As with many industries ruled by agendas of profit and policed by a government susceptible to bullying lobbyists, the food industry - and our health in turn - is plagued by its own regulations. As Pollan notes in one of my favorite lines of the piece:

"Of course it's also a lot easier to slap a health claim on a box of sugary cereal than on a potato or carrot, with the perverse result that the most healthful foods in the supermarket sit there quietly in the produce section, silent as stroke victims, while a few aisles over, the Cocoa Puffs and Lucky Charms are screaming about their newfound whole-grain goodness."

And sadly it still makes me feel better, when I breeze through two boxes of Cocoa Krispies a week, to find they're low in fat.

Pollan makes many other points about dietary over-generalization, the dangers of reductionist science and the effects of processed food on nutrition, that are worth absorbing and applying to your daily life (pending sufficient willpower). If you have the time, read the article. And eat a banana for God's sake.

New Year's Resolution #1: Finish New Year's Resolution List

Miss Stacia's recurring New Year's Resolutions:
1. improve posture
2. floss more
3. learn Spanish
4. front a band
5. avoid unmarried pregnancy

And a Brief List of Goals for '07:
1. Choreograph tap dance to Fiona Apple's "Extraordinary Machine" (to flesh out resume).
2. Master the endless uses for the Hulk Hogan Ultimate Grill. (It bakes cookies, Brother!)
3. Perfect backup vocals/dance routine for mid-year performance of "One More Chance" at Knitting Factory's Hip Hop Karaoke. (Daz will never let me be Biggie.)
4. Pose for Robert Crumb (in France).
5. Rejuvenate Bat Mitzvah Dancing Career. (And bring back sequins.)
6. Marry hyper-cultured contemporary writer (J. Lethem?) and steal secrets of success.
7. Use Netflix movies (as coasters).
8. Write dissertation on why hip hop stars wear winter coats during performances in eighty-five degree nightclubs. (Postulation: The "ice" makes them cold.)
9. Read Gravity's Rainbow (to preschoolers as a volunteer in the afterschool program).
10. Make more lists. (Word.)