Down with June.

I am officially over the month of June. The entire month. It can go fuck itself for all I care. We’re through. I’m looking out of my 5th floor window at sheets of rain falling from slate-grey clouds and for the first time in a few days I’m happy to be bed-ridden. Screw you, June.

Here I was thinking that this year’s midway point couldn’t be nearly as bad as last year—filled as it was with near mental breakdowns, near arrests, general summit pandemonium and psychotic-urinating-cat behavior. Ha. Silly me.

Just having been invited in the Chelsea advanced league and not having played an entire game in the Brooklyn summer season, I pivoted on a fast break and popped some stuff in my knee. I knew it was not good, but wasn’t really sure how bad. Two weeks later, 5 doctor’s visits, 2 sets of X-Rays, and innumerable calls to Oxford Health insurance (they, along with June, can fuck themselves), the summit begins and I still have no idea what’s wrong. “Soft tissue damage” is all anyone can tell me, and (as I knew from the first day), only an MRI would solve the mystery.

Added to this year’s nonstop summit fun was a GP team one man down (no consultant), and me on the injured list, still maintaining my glorious title of “Master of the Lists.” Yes, that’s a capital L. Oh, and did I mention that I have to find a new apartment, move into it, AND try and take a brief vacation? Yeah. Some of those things aren’t going to happen.

At times like these, as I told R, all I want to do is pack my bags, buy a one-way ticket to somewhere where nobody speaks English and leave the city behind. It’s not worth it, any of it. I know that all I’m going to get after 21 days straight of work culminating in 8 hours of sleep over three days, all I’m going to get is a Cc on a thank you email and the expectation that I’m going to show up to work on Monday. I’m not kidding when I say that the only reason why the office was graced with my presence on June 29 was fear and health insurance.

But it’s over now, and I shouldn’t be bitter. Wish me luck with that.

I have never been good at asking for help—extreme stubbornness is an unfortunate character flaw of mine. It makes being holed up in my apartment that much worse, because all I really want is someone to do my laundry, clean up my room, and tell me what I can do to keep from turning into a lump of lard on my bed. But I don’t know what to say or what to ask for.

For two weeks I’d worked on accepting the fact that my meniscus was torn, and I’d likely have to immobilize it in some way to let it heal on its own. When my first orthopedist said that it was too early to rule out the ACL, his comment didn’t really register. I was too deep in summit mode.

On Monday, a dozen cocktails and over two dozen hours of blessed sleep after last week's conference madness, when his office told me there was no way to read the results of the previous weekend’s MRI until July 15th, my second thought was rage. First, of course, was incredulity. Well, perhaps that’s a fib. I have become fairly credulous of the stupid hoops that medical practices and insurance companies make patients jump through in order to get decent care. Bypassing the system entirely, I called the radiologist and ordered a copy of my results. I was going to be seen by someone within 24 hours, dammit, and although I wasn’t sure by whom, I would settle that later.

In short (or not really at all!), the baffling labyrinth of specialists’ offices and insurance protocols distracted me from the as-yet-undetermined diagnosis of my knee. See, it distracted you, didn’t it?

Thus, when I opened the envelope in the Medical Records department of Park Avenue Radiology, I had not yet prepared myself for what I would read on the report. Below is a brief excerpt:

Anterior cruciate ligament is torn with associated findings including subchondral cancellous edema of the lamina terminalis of lateral femoral chondyle as well as extensive cancellous edema of the lateral tibial plateau…lateral meniscus anterior horn is torn and fragmented with what appears to be complete maceration evident…the lateral collateral ligament complex is reasonably intact. There is mild popliteus tendonitis however.

“what appears to be complete maceration?” NB: medical journal articles allude to “texture of crabmeat.” Delicious.

“mild tendonitis…however?!” Who gets a ‘however’ in their MRI report? Like the rest of it wasn't bad enough?

Still haven’t written a scathing letter to orthopedist #1 regarding the negligence of his office and ridiculous patient care. Who the fuck would read a fax like that and not even CALL the patient, let alone let them in the fucking office to see a doctor. That, perhaps more than anything really gets to me.

The nice ladies at Records even had tissues for me, cringing a little as I bawled. Somehow my little idealistic self hadn’t allowed for the possibility of an AND situation rather than an OR. Silly me, I thought things couldn’t possibly be worse than I’d imagined.

I was obviously wrong.

On the up-side, my complete lack of self control and massive crying fits did get me a last-minute appointment to see an actual qualified doctor at the Hospital for Special Surgery, so I guess the American health care system really does work like a well-oiled machine.

So now I sit at home in my just-shy-of-sweltering apartment as the temperatures at last climb to something resembling summer weather, watch bad television and regress to the calorie counts and body image issues of high school. I mourn the loss of life’s greatest pleasures: hiking, high heels, soccer, physical exercise, my own mobility, a vacation with an old friend, Yellowstone, and New York City Parks in the summertime. It’s fairly impressive when one June can even manage to ruin July’s planned vacation and most of August. Well done on that, commendations are in order.

Excuse me, friends, while I waste away the first few days of this seventh month wallowing in self-pity and cursing the one that’s just past.

Don't Cry for Me Argentine Parrillada

My sister came into town on Thursday. I thought it was Friday on Wednesday, and couldn’t really tell what the date was after June 3rd, the last of the GP Junior exhibitions. When you’ve been working seven days a week, it’s hard to notice the days hat start with “s.” Starting off June with a commitment to sanity and my own well-being, I took an unprecedented two whole days off from work. [gasp]. They were glorious. Some people apply a strange term to these days of rest, and call it a “weekend.” This “weekend” thing and I are of late sadly estranged.

I would like to officially declare I’ve made out of my springtime slump. The causes are multitudinous, but can be distilled to a few greatest hits:

1. The winding down of my West Wing retrospective marathon (just 2 episodes to go!)
2. Another year of GP Junior wrapped up with a much lower disaster quotient than last
3. People reaching out from my past, resulting in A. one completely unexpected romantic encounter proving that no, I am indeed not a leper and/or invisible and B. the subject of this post.

Sometimes I like people. It’s rare, I know, but it happens once in a while.

The Williamson girls went out for a real-estate reconnaissance run on a beautiful late spring eve, and A asked me what my plans were for the weekend. My goals, I replied, were simple: eat a real dinner every day (underlying overambitious subtext to actually eat three meals each day), do laundry, and get some exercise. Our crepuscular Thursday run followed by a delightful Brooklyn Public dinner was a good portent and gave me the push I needed to stick to the plan.

At some point during the week I received a quick email from the Miami girls to schedule a very long overdue get-together. I literally have no memory of when this happened, but I’m sure the email record will prove otherwise. I put it into the back of my head, tucked away from the insanity of party planning and life at Global Partners. Eventually, I realized that I’d invited people over to my place for dinner, and that I would have to feed them something. Immediately I thought of the summertime asados on the beaches of Patagonia, the slopes of the Andes, and the twinkling streets of Buenos Aires. Forgive me folks…If I can’t actually travel, I’ll have to use florid travel-language and relive past adventures. Such is life.

Friday arrived at last, and I managed to notify my guests that we’d be eating various forms of delicious grilled meat in honor of the gaucho life. Now, were does one go in New York City to find such quantities of animal flesh? The Meatpacking District, duh!

Seriously—I know you thought it was just full of sterilized condos and anorexic supermodels, but tucked in behind Chelsea Market there’s a tiny remnant of the former industrial area. Appropriately named, Western Beef is the BBQ host’s paradise where you can walk through plastic flaps into refrigerated aisles containing 20 and 30 lb. cuts of meat, and not just beef!
The Vespa “luggage” compartment was soon stocked with short ribs, chorizo, hanger steak and vidalias for the obligatory chimichurri sauce. But carnivores we are not, and I needed some non-meat supplies if I was going to faithfully recreated the most delicious multilayered diner sandwich from south of the equator: the lomito. Onwards then! Giddyup to the market! Am I confounding my cowboy cultures? Whatever.

Leafy greens, early tomatoes and eggs fresh from Ronnybrook Dairy loaded down my backpack, topped with brioche rolls and an Amy’s epi baguette looking more like a medieval torture device than the crusty wonder of deliciousness that it is.

The girls rolled in around eight with the steak marinating happily, the chorizo warming on the griddle. We popped a bottle of Malbec, plopped down on the floor around the coffee table and caught up on the past few months of each other’s lives.

I find that it’s hard to really keep in touch with people in the city. Nobody really comes over to just chill at your apartment, and most of my friends are scattered across two boroughs. I don’t know why it takes so much effort and coordination to get people in the same place, but for me it does. Fortunately, it’s completely worth it.

The dreary winter and busy schedules had kept us apart for months, so we said our hellos over a toast while the short ribs sizzled under the broiler. The courses trotted out over the next few hours: I sliced the chorizo and baguette as we heard about A’s first year of law-school; we spooned spicy chimichurri reminiscing about school in Miami and learning about M’s new school in NYC; much girly giggling was had by all as I recounted the bizarre events of last week. We finished a bottle and I re-suited up in my cooking gear for the obramaestra.

In a veritable grand finale of an evening, I sliced tomatoes, toasted brioche, layered la quercia prosciutto lettuce and provolone, fried eggs, seared steak and finally served up three perfect lomitos as we moved on to the present and future of our lives. When it’s been a while, you need at least four courses to catch up before you can get a discussion going and really talk about anything interesting. Luckily I think we had five, including a decidedly un-gaucho peach pie. Aah, Argentina, the truth is we’ve never left you. You’re far too tasty to forget. It’s good to know that I can remember Buenos Aires and my little Odyssey in the company of friends and have it truly a fond memory. I think that means todo anda bien.

Spending a whole day with food, zipping around town on a sunny day running errands, running in the park under the elms, and then making a meal into an evening of friends and debate is pretty much the best part of life. On a night like this, feeding the people you love is as far removed from the elemental necessity of ingesting nutrients as the end of the earth. It’s tragic that some people treat the process of shopping, preparing and sharing food as a chore. That kind of attitude brings hint of tears to my eyes, and there will be no crying here, that’s for sure. Life is good here as the sun warms the east coast and summer begins to stir.

Re-Boot

Following the restorative mole session, I managed to drag myself to the Botanical gardens to check out the spring blooms. I missed Sakura Matsuri this year, which didn’t make me that sad since the festival is all about having people to share the cherry blossoms with, and I knew how if felt to be alone there. Some of my spring glitches still hadn’t been worked through yet.

Instead of slogging through the crowds feeling lonely, I went to the gardens after the height of the blooms, when I knew he peonies would be in full force while the crowds wouldn’t be. Unfortunately the Saturday I chose was one of very few rain-free weekend days and it was packed.

Following the advice of the Nerd Nite lecturer, I headed to the New York native plant garden to see what I would find there. There among the mulched mounds of New York ground cover were the tri-petaled golden wildflowers that had marked the onset of spring in Dublin. The noise of Flatbush Avenue, muffled by the earthen walls that surround the garden, faded out to allow the peepings and chatterings of robins and other hungry avians to drift through the warm air mottled with sunlight. Alone with my camera I wound through the unstructured paths. The flowers are harder to find on the winding paths back there, but it’s more fun having to make the effort.

I walked out of the iron gates at Empire Boulevard with a conspiratorial glance backwards at the tangled woods. Knowing I’d found some of its hidden flecks of gold and unfurling ferns nudged the corners of my mouth up in a smile.

With my internal power supply of positive thinking running at about 50%, I hunkered down for some long hours at the office that would allow me to escape to the beach for a much-needed rest.

My two goals for the weekend were as follows: eat crabs, preferably soft-shelled and lie on beach. I checked of goal number one the first night in town, serving up a trio of crispity crunchety perfect fried softshells bathed in a fluffy aioli totally worth the flight south. The next two days filled with sleep, sand, and a bit of southern sun acted as a giant reboot for my anxious psyche. I know the summer and its carcinogenic sun want to kill my fair Nordic outer shell, but there’s something wonderful about lying in the sand with closed eyes and letting your senses absorb the essence of the beach.

As M and I drove back up the Eastern Shore on Monday night, like Wall-E, I could hear the soothing “poooong” startup sound and see an accompanying glowing light resetting all my connections and smoothing my circuitry. Let’s hope its enough to last through June.

Mole del chile verde

After spending several weeks trying to get the boy I like to pay attention to me, I finally got hard-core rejected. Sucks, yeah, but not a surprise. I also conveniently know how to deal with it, being well-versed in self pity.

Oh, woe is me, yadda yadda, get on with it.

The first thing to do, obviously, is go to the movies. Unfortunately the only movie I wanted to see last weekend was Star Trek, which my friends were all going to see with their boyfriends on cute-nerdy-dates. A solo showing of the fantabulous film did indeed provide a welcome distraction, but it wasn’t quite enough.

Step two: listen to weepy music.

There’s an old Mexican song that I learned as a teenager, ridiculously sad like most ballads, and that’s probably why I like it. The narrator, singing to a mythical tragic figure “La Llorona” (the Weeping Woman) remarks:

Yo soy como el chile verde, Llorona,
Picante pero sabroso.

I’m like the green chile, Llorona,
Spicy, but delicious.

Spicy but tasty, that’s awesome. I’ve been feeling more amarga this week than picante, so it’s time to get back in touch with my inner chile verde.

Containing, among a dozen or so other ingredients, mole with chile verde is the perfect step three to “Amarga Reduction Strategy” currently in effect for Thea. I can’t eat mole in restaurants due to a rather strong peanut allergy; it’s damned hard to find a peanut-free mole unless you make it yourself. A perfectly acceptable solution to this problem is to make it en casa. Solita.

Mole is the sort of thing that you can’t just whip up. There are a ton of ingredients to be fried, ground, toasted, blended, simmered, seared and strained over the course of many hours. It fills the entire surrounding space with a warm spiciness that is inescapable. It swaths you in layers of spice and flavor as you negotiate the perfect balance of chiles, toasty nuts and tortillas and layered spices, tasting every once in a while as the flavors mellow and change.

The best thing to do is to turn the music up loud and just get started. Two Saturdays ago that’s exactly what I did after consulting the previous three or four recipes I continue to refine for traditional mole poblano, the dark reddish-brown wonderfulness common on menus everywhere. My standard version filled a nearly summery evening with activity and left me with several quarts of deliciousness to put in the freezer for later.

But apparently the standard version of Thea isn’t working. I’m trying to break out of the one-sided cyclical non-relationships that seem to be the only thing I know how to do.

Stardate: 2009.5.09. Leave movies and swing by WholeFoods for a kitchen resupply including lots of different spicy green things necessary for a different kind of mole. Work has been so crazy lately that the supplies sat in the fridge a whole week before I had an entire afternoon to myself for mole-making.

Today, after another disappointing weekend I woke up with a mission: I will make green mole, and it will be delicious. Rick Bayless provided the structure to the recipe, and the awesome dry goods guys from Sahadi’s the toasted and roasted nuts. A chilly wind blew through the grey clouds outside, but I cared not. I was busy blending golden raisins and sesame seeds, roasting tomatillos and concentrating on spice ratios. I didn’t check email or look at my phone all day. After the sun set it was finally time to finish the process and cook the final sauce. I haven’t made this particular mole before—I love the bittersweet red sauce so much that it’s hard to force myself to try something different, but I had high hopes.

Over the hottest burner on the stove went the heavy-duty dutch oven and a little oil. I impatiently held a bowl full of mint-colored puree above the heating oil, waiting for a drop to sizzle on contact so I could dump the whole thing into the fiery pot and turn into something delicious. Then, on my second try the green droplets popped and crackled with appropriate alacrity. Well, here it goes—all in!

The textured green mole sloshed into the bottom of the pot, sizzling as it covered the bottom completely. A few moments later, as gloppy bubbles appeared all around, a new smell filled the kitchen—a fresh tangy smell with an underlying toasty subtleness. It worked! As the mole cooked down and thickened into a glossy sauce, I tested the seasoning and was pleasantly surprised with the result. It doesn’t have the fiery heat or the bitter undertones of the classic mole, but still holds layers of intriguing flavors. The core flavor of roasted poblanos shines through, and the acidic tang of the tomatillo brings out the flavor of the green chile Instead of being hidden among other stronger flavors of red mole, the poblano is the star of the green mole.

Picante, pero sabroso, exactly like I wanted. If I could just duplicate that in my real life, then everything would be perfect. In the meantime, I will close out to Lila Down’s ode to mole and leave it at that.

A mi me gusta el mole, mi Soledad me va a moler.
Mi querida Soledad me va a guisar un molito.
Por el cielo de Montealban, de noche sueño contigo.

Am I a grownup yet?

My current reading material inspired a fit of literary identification on the subway that messed me up darned good. The following paragraph leaped out of Cold Mountain and slapped my normally introspective self back to its senses.

All in all, she suspected that her performance had been glib. Or flinty and pinched. None of which she really wanted to be. True, those manners had their uses. They excelled in causing people to take half a step back and give one breathing room. But she had fallen into them out of habit, and at the wrong time, and she regretted it. She feared that without some act of atonement they would take hold and harden within her and that one day she would find herself clenched tight as a dogwood bud in January.

Shit. Flinty? Pinched? Breathing room? Somehow I've slipped closer than I'd realized to being that clichéd bitter single New Yorker never at a loss for a caustic comment about the dating scene.

I was once a petulant pigtailed girl running around the playground kicking the shins of all the boys (including the one she liked), and I'm trying very hard to feel like I've progressed in the past few decades. It's not at all clear if I have. I've always been good at getting people to take a half step back (usually several whole steps), but that seems like a second grader's security blanket. What's worse, when I get people to step back, its usually compensating for the fact that I'm hurt they don't want to get closer. How ridiculous is that?

This weekend I mumbled incoherent expressions of fondness into a closing subway door, allowed my friends to steal my mobile phone for an afternoon and send embarrassing text messages, and did laps at a party around an old crush hoping to impress upon him his obvious need to regret having given me the brush off. One saving grace of the past 48 hours is that said classy adult-like cocktail party was a perfectly decent opportunity to take the Magical Black Dress out for another unsuccessful spin. Then again, perhaps my belief in its magical powers is one more childish fantasy.

What frustrates me about the expectations of dating nowadays is that everything hinges upon this supposed lightning-bolt flash of attraction that's supposed to occur when meeting someone new. It's all about the catchy profile picture, the perfect headline, the eye contact at the opposite end of the bar, the sideways glance on the subway. But nobody meets anyone on the subway, that's ludicrous.

I also am at a decided disadvantage due to my painful shyness in the presence of cute guys and utter inability to flirt. As one of my oldest friends put it delicately:

Thea, you're awesome, but you really don't got game.

I don't. And that's okay--I'm not interested in the game, the chase, or the hunt. What does interest me is the intricate process of getting to know someone, feeling comfortable enough to share my quirks and dreams, making an intellectual connection and having someone express genuine interest in me. Genuine feeling is highly underrated around here--there's a lot of play, playing the field, and in the immortal words of Cogsworth, promises you don't intend to keep.

I shouldn't act so sanctimonious; I've been guilty of the "Oh definitely, we should do this again sometime" line, but I'd like to think that I've only used it sparingly when it was abundantly clear that "doing this again sometime" would be a wretched prospect for both parties.

In this perplexing and fascinating city I can most weeks manage to feed myself and my cat, battle my addiction to well-written television, get stuff done at work (and care about it), exercise a little and keep in touch with a few close friends. These seemingly trivial grown-up tasks require a surprising amount of effort.

Unlike every other fully-grown New Yorker don't work my social calendar from a BlackBerry (hell, like half the prepubescent ones too), hoard phone contacts and cold-call acquaintances on a whim. And I can't manage to find the headline that make people want to read the story on page A26. Or maybe I've just got the wrong headline, and they end up flipping through the damn paper for light subway reading only to find find a massive and meandering op-ed piece. I swear, it's a great story! Textured, witty--not flinty and pinched at all.

I wish I could just grow up and get over my stupid desire to hide and giggle behind the biggest tree on the playground when I run into someone I like, but I'm not quite sure how to do that.

In the meantime, I'm trying not to live my life in the sad, sad state of the January dogwood.

The Cruellest Month

I have long loved T.S. Eliot. As a young bookworm and self-proclaimed ailurophile I could recite passages of Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats from memory and sang along to my parents’ LP of Andrew Lloyd Weber’s spectacle of kitsch at the top of my small lungs. I even won over the judges of my middle school’s annual public speaking contest with a spirited interpretation of “Jellicle Cats.”

Thus in 9th grade, when it came to write a research paper on a British author, there was no other choice but Eliot. My innocent little heart was a bit crushed to learn that Eliot was a bitter anti-Semitic ex-pat brooding in the London gloom for most of middle age, and he did not qualify as a “British Author” for English 1.

“But what about the cats? The cats are so cute…?” Ah, dear child, so much you have to learn.

There began the litany of tortured artists I was to study as I worshipped at the altar of the Canon. I knew that I’d run into Eliot later in life, and didn’t relish the prospect of getting to know this jerk—his library section looked really long.


Years later, I vaguely glanced “The Waste Land” from my roommate’s British anthology class, but the slew of Milton references and monstrous polyphony of voice didn’t intrigue me and felt overblown. I did note the famed opening passage, as most readers will:

April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land.

In previous poetical parsings my interpretation did not reach far.

“Why, April is delightful! Everything is fresh and growing! How ever could anyone not like April? The grass is green and bulbs shoot out of the winter ground!”

Ah, dear child, so much you have to learn.

The cruelty of April comes in the lines to come:
…mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.

If only one could stay warm in forgetful snow and not confront the possibility of new growth or the memory of last year’s garden in bloom.

Last spring I effervesced about the sense of burgeoning possibility in my life—I expounded at length about the excitement of being in the gardens in chilly March and imagining what the new leaves would look like, how all those buds would eventually turn to flowers. The reality was that I walked among the cherry blossoms alone in crowds of people, missed the rose season entirely with the chaos of last June, and my free guest passes to the Botanical garden expired after a year’s worth of sitting unused on my counter.

This year, I finally got it. I ran my fingers over the tissue-thin new leaves and felt the cruel promise of April. The atmosphere conjures fluttering hope and sets me up for expectations I know will never be met. Seeing the tulips on Park Avenue and the daffodils in the park, I felt the inevitable disappointment. The pressure of work is close at hand, the possibility of finding someone to wander with me in the gardens and laze about is just about nil. There is absolutely no reason for me to be excited about spring. The full-blown rose is never as beautiful as the half-curled bud, no matter how you wish it would be. Cherry blossoms and magnolias fall off and bruise with the slightest touch—they aren’t made for vases. Sure, you can lop off the whole branch if you really wanted, but that’s just cruel to the tree.

The problem is that on a brisk sunny day with the scent of cherries on the spring breeze and baby leaves on my fingertips, it is impossible not to feel optimistic. I have decided that even with Eliot’s scorn for April’s cruelty, I will put myself at her mercy and give in to her whispered promises.

The half-furled rose will always be more beautiful than rows of thorny bushes in midsummer, but the warm air carries the scent better. If you walk with your eyes closed and brush by the petals (carefully!), I think it smells even better than the lilacs of spring. So I will sit alone on a bench at the end of the Esplanade and watch other people shake petals from the trees onto their paramours, skip the festival and take pleasure in the less crowded corners of the native plant garden. I will wait out this month of maddening renewal, let myself love the stirrings of the spring earth, and try to keep my roots safe until the weather warms up a bit.

I will always love the simple Jellicle Cats of my younger days; as I learned as an adolescent, I will have those dark moods when I feel myself trapped between the idea and the reality, stuck in the Shadow. I even hear the smoky coffee spoons of pathetic Prufrock on tedious afternoons in an office. But no matter how it mistreats me, I can’t bring myself to think of April as part of the Waste Land.

Laying Low

The return of reliable high-speed internet, among other things, has somewhat diminished my desire for socialization. The characters on Lost and Friday Night Lights are so much more interesting than non-committal and/or angry people I deal with most of the day, and certainly cooler than any nonexistent romantic prospects. Relationships with actual fictional characters are easier than relationships with imaginary people I haven't met.

It's been great playing soccer again, especially when I get to be a bit of a bad-ass ringer, scoring multiple goals a night. Go indoor. Too bad I left this week's game with a mild case of whiplash. Oops! The people are cool, but the late Monday night games doesn't exactly inspire socializing. It's okay, because I'm officially laying low.

Cervantes has to have surgery, which I can't really afford--another reason to keep things simple. Poor guy, he's had a rough winter with the exploding hind-quarters.

I'm having trouble motivating myself to pursue my career (such as it is), and have had quite the conundrum trying to figure out what the next step is. Well, that's really not it...I know what hte next step is, I just harbor an unwholesome dread of the GRE and graduate school applications. Aah, the familiar paralyzing fear of rejection. Maybe if I just keep out of sight, it will all just go away?

Sounds like a plan, at least for the time being.