July 2006 Archives

Our ghetto supermarket--that is severely lacking in all specialty brands or specific food items that I love--suddenly had Sabra brand hummus. This hummus is vastly superior to Tribe of Two Sheiks brand, and includes little nice touches like a swirl of olive oil or a sprinkling of pine nuts. The reason for such a delicacy to enter our story was evident by the handwritten note on a piece of florescent orange tag board taped up next to the display, claiming: "You asked for it!" It struck me as a rather ominous way to announce they'd begun stocking a requested item. Maybe, "By request!" or even "New!" would have been made for more invititng signage. As it was, it almost seemed like a warning.

This is all to say here; here, are my shoes.

Are you picturing them with very cushy lining and the perfect balance on the heel? I hope so!

Also, did anyone else think that the gothic zombie dance that opened last night's "So You Think You Can Dance" was the best dance routine they've ever seen on television? Like, ever?

I am in love.

Yes, the object of my affection are a pair of gorgeous, gold, open-toed heels, and yes, they were a tad expensive, BUT the material is apparently made from heaven itself, so I can hardly be blamed for for my lust. Growing up, Heather's rule for shopping was that if you walked away from an item and kept thinking about it afterwards (for hours or days), then the item is really something worth getting. I've held onto this maxim throughout my life, though there are certainly many items in my closet I could have walked away from, and several delicious very expensive items that remain forever burned into my memory as Things I Wish I'd Bought. But money's been tight lately, so when I saw these shoes in the store a couple weeks ago, I didn't even allow myself to try them on.

But then I ended up in the very same store last week, waiting for a friend to show up and trying to kill time. I had ran into Sweet Lucy on the way to the store, so she came in and encouraged me give in to my temptation and try on the shoes that were now staring at me. Yes, Lucy is the devil, but I was not really putting up a fight. The whole time I was sliding them on my feet I was thinking, "Please let them be too tight or really pinchy or somehow ugly on my feet." But...of course, fate is evil and the shoes were just as delicious on my feet as they were on the shelf. Then I cursed out Kedar, the friend I was meeting at the store, for being late and making me be bored and in love with some shoes. Finally, using all the strength of refusal I had left, I called J to talk me out of it.

But instead, he bought them for me. Let's hope I never become an alcoholic, or we might have some "Leaving Las Vegas" business on our hands.

On Sunday, Kedar invited some of us up to meet his parents and enjoy an Indian feast that his mom prepared. Before getting there, Kedar prepped us on the proper etiquette of eating Indian food. Here are the basic rules:

1. Eat with your right hand.
2. Keep your left hand away from the food, so it stays clean for drinking water or handling serving spoons.
3. Never let the serving spoon hit your plate as you're taking food.
4. Eat the entire bite in your hand at once.

J is a lefty, so Kedar told him to just switch the rules. But that was more confusing to him, so he ended up playing right-handed for the lunch. The trickiest part was tearing the naan with one hand. After that, it was pretty much just shoving it in your mouth any way you could. I'm sure we weren't graceful, but I don't think any long-term embarrassments happened. I'd never eaten Indian food that wasn't from a restaurant, so I wasn't sure what to expect, but it was all delicious. I think his mom tamed down the spices for our white palates, but I'm pretty sure I could have handled a little kick. Then we all relaxed by the television and watched the weirdest documentary ever about air guitars. We argued for a long time about whether this was a real or fake documentary, mostly because it involved scenes with a guy air guitaring on the street to raise money to attend an air guitar competition in Finland. It's apparently real.

And if IMDB is correct, there's more than one documentary on this subject.

I apologize that the posts here have been so sporadic. I have some things on my mind that aren't for here yet, and it feels weird to not disclose these things to you, but also it feels disingenuous to post about little things when big things are preoccupying my mind. But I'm trying to maintain focus here. Focus! I also have a little video of Max skateboarding that I keep forgetting to load up. I'll work on these things.

I meant to write a quick thing about this weeks ago, but completely forgot. So, I hope you can indulge me another competitive eating-related post. Huh? Plus, I promised I'd tell you about the secret art project we were working on, and this is pretty much it:

I bought a bunch of glass marbles and magnets at Michael's when I was in Denver for Christmas last year. I'd seen the project in some magazines and on some websites and thought it looked like an easy little project for when I got to feeling crafty. And then they sat there. For seven months. Around this same time, as the qualifiers for Nathan's were underway, I was thinking that it would be fun if Krista and I were able to give the eaters a little gift of some sort. I'd had this image of little monster versions of the eaters' personalities, but pictured them on little 1-inch pins (like the kind you had all over your backpack in high school). I got J in on this and we searched for a long time on the Internet for a button machine. But those things are expensive! I even held out some hope of finding one on Ebay, but they were all about the same price. Who knew so many people loved their button machines? I kinda thought it would be like a bread-maker or a food dehydrator: one of those gadgets you think you really want until you actually get it and it gathers dust for five years in the basement.

Feeling discouraged, I was about to give up on the whole thing. But then! Dun dun DUN...the magnets reentered my vision one day in the kitchen and an idea was born. Several obstacles presented themselves right away. Though I had a clear image of what I wanted these monster eaters to look like in my head, I possessed no actual skill needed to bring them into being. And since the idea of a magnet is a pretty shitty gift, I once again enlisted the help of J. He sketched out a few things, but it was slow-going. He didn't have the inspiration burning a hole in his head. I needed a way to connect my brain to his hands. Since no idea on how to do that was forthcoming, I did the next best thing and got Abby in on it. I tried explaining what I was thinking to her over IM and--before I was even done explaining--her response was: "OH MAH GAAAAAAAAAAAH. i love that. love it! are you thinking 3-d? or 2-d? i'm in!" And this from a girl who's never even gone to a competition! How's that for the love of the game?

So Abby got to work and sent over a bunch of designs, which J then reworked a little to fit into an aesthetic he established with a few early successes (Chip and Tim). The designing was tough because we decided to only do eaters who would be competing in the Nathan's finals, so we had a handful of definites and a list of people who would probably make it (they all did). Plus, the IFOCE threw us off by having a qualifier the night before the competition, which threw a wrench in the plan of including everyone. On top of that, we ran out of magnets.

You wouldn't think finding 1/2-inch round magnets in New York would be hard, but: oh. lord. I tried absolutely everywhere, and no one had them. Krista called the magnet place and tried to find distributors in the area to no avail. I was *this close* to hopping on a train and going to Long Island to get to the nearest Michael's. But on a whim, I tried one last store...and they had them! Slightly bigger and a little flatter, but they would work. I bought everything they had, which was barely enough.

July 1st and 2nd were craft days. Krista and her sister came over and we all got to work. Cutting out little 1/2-inch circles is very. tedious.

But I think the end result was worth it. We packed them up in little boxes and handed them out to the eaters on July 3rd and 4th.

They seemed to like them. In fact, Cookie Jarvis was upset that we hadn't included him. We explained that we'd just made ones for the eaters in the Nathan's competition, but he didn't like it. So later, we made one for him, too. And one for Erik, who qualified on July 3rd--too late for the initial art project.

Some monster eaters came out really well, and others we might do over. For instance, we'd only met Hall Hunt once, and he looked like this. But, now I can see he is usually more clean cut than that, so our identifying feature of a goatee wasn't so hot. Plus he was like, "Oh, I'm the one with the big square head..." Same goes for our "identifying feature" of glasses for Brian Subich and a jalapeno for Jed Donahue. Obviously, now that I've met him, Jed's monster should have had a little backpack.

Some hints if you'd like to also make some magnets:

You can order 1/2-inch magnets here for cheap.

When you buy the glass marbles (you can get them at florist supply stores), be sure they are completely clear, and not iridescent, because those won't work.

Though a fluke, we discovered that if you print your own images, it's best to do it with plain color ink. If you use photo ink, the images will reflect too much light and they'll be difficult to see under the glass.

Because I have trouble saying no to free things, and especially free things like delicious wine, I signed up for a party with Stormhoek. They're a winery out of South Africa, but they have this whole underground, grassroots marketing plan wherein they supply wine to people having gatherings. It's very Internet based, so I imagine most people having these parties are bloggers and flickr people who can't shut up about their lives (hi!) and then talk about the wine on their mediums and then next time you fine readers are in a wine store, you might go: oh yeah! The Internet wine! No, but seriously, people who give out free wine are tops in my book, and the fact that it was yummy wine just made it that much better.

I initially planned the party for July 3rd, but those plans got scrapped when us Nathan's reporters realized how busy Hot Dog Eve was going to be. So the party got moved to July 2nd and we turned it into a garden party. Abby and I had been on this idea for awhile, each of us picturing everyone in breezy white outfits, playing croquet, and laughing daintily as we ate tiny foods and sipped chilled wine. But as it turned out, the day was like 123-degrees with 95% humidity: extra New York pleasant. But we were undeterred, and rallied ourselves to bake tiny scones and tiny biscuits for tiny egg and sausage sandwiches. In case you didn't read that last sentence carefully: we TURNED ON OUR OVENS FOR HOURS. That, my friends, is love for the garden party. Anyway, the how the wine was being shipped was a little unclear, and we knew only that it should definitely be there by the 3rd. Only it wasn't. Ever the resourceful host, I (after freaking out a bit the night before), went and bought some good ol' Carlo Rossi (Willow's jug wine of choice Sophomore year of college) and made up a big batch of sangria. I don't know if you've ever made sangria before, but you can't fuck it up. It's like, jug of wine, brandy soaked chopped fruit, orange juice. Ta da! Crisis averted.

Some bloggers we've never met showed up in spirit. Like Delicious Days's asparagus tart! And the sweet Norwegian cheese Robin loves! l

But while the sangria was cheap, it was not free. Thus, another day was scheduled for the wine party. Bastille Day! Jennie jokingly suggested making crepes, but oh ho ho, we called her bluff and soon a joke email turned into Jennie hosting everyone on her rooftop deck for a crepe smorgasbord. I went to pick up the wine, not knowing exactly what to expect. I'd told them we would have maybe 15 people at the party and they said: perfect. But how many bottles of wine does that mean to you? The lovely people at Stormhoek unfortunately mistook us for a crew of dainty sippers and sent over four bottles. I'm not one to look a gift horse in the mouth; I completely appreciate how much free wine that really is. I'm just saying perhaps we are a bunch of drunkenly wine-lovers.

Anyway, the wines were really great and since we were only eight that day, four bottles was a perfectly reasonable amount. (To start with. The spirit of the French revolution made us very thirsty.) We started with the whites, a pinot grigio and a sauvignon blanc, both of which were crisp and fruity. Mmm, what's better than a frosted glass of white wine on a rooftop in the summer as the sun sets behind the skyline? The reds were good, too, though I think I preferred the Shiraz (nice and sweet) to the pinotage, which was a bit spicy. The label on the pinotage said it goes well with hearty vegetarian dishes...LIKE RATATOUILLE! It didn't say that, we just had ratatouille, so it was like all the forces in the taste world converged at our little party.

I'm sure the storming of Bastille in 1789 was a pretty good Bastille Day, too, but there probably weren't chocolate banana crepes involved.

I've been thinking about childhood wounds lately. Mostly those of the hands: the blisters and calluses you got from monkey bars, the red groove you got from clutching a pencil, splinters as an event, crushed fingers in car doors. Because these happen at a time when your mind is young, you don't think of them as isolated incidents of childhood; it doesn't occur to you that adults might not have the same hands or that you won't someday. It doesn't occur to you that you will, either. They just are; the only life and hands you have ever known.

* * *

On the subway the other day, I was sitting between two people on one of those long benches that don't carve out individual seats. The man to my right had his legs spread wide, and he had to pull them in a bit to let me sit, but there was just enough room for the three of us. Several stops later, a woman got on and walked over to where we were sitting and pointed to a bare patch of seat, about four inches wide between my leg and the guy. It took me a minute to realize she was not just pointing something out, she was indicating where her butt was about to be placed. Sure, these benches are inconvenient, and often people take up more space than they need. But in this case, we were doing pretty well with space. Four inches was not the width of this woman's butt. Undeterred by my "Are you craaaazy?" look, she plopped down, for all intents and purposes, on my lap. I stood up and walked away. I like to sit on the subway, but not that much. I was extremely irritated, but also completely fascinated by this woman's determination, and ability to ignore the fact that people existed where she wanted her body to be. What power the imagination wields.

Or maybe it's just the same self-aggrandizing narcissism that breeds in a certain type of native New Yorker. After waiting half an hour for the bus over the weekend, I had to wait an additional five minutes when it couldn't pull into the stop properly because a family in an SUV was blocking the way. They were parked in front of Dunkin' Donuts and the father was behind the wheel taking sips from his kids' drinks, waiting for his wife, and blithely ignoring the honking city bus behind him and the crowd yelling at him at the bus stop. The wife strolled out eventually, no hurry, and climbed in the car, only to sit there for an additional few minutes adjusting her seat belt and getting herself situated. By the time they rolled away, the waiting crowd was irate. A white-haired old lady next to me flipped them off and yelled, "Go to hell!"

I'm afraid if I stayed in New York my whole life, that little old lady would be me.

* * *

I've been having some serious cake cravings this week. Whose birthday is it? I'll make you a cake and we can eat it together.

UPDATE: Go get your free slurpee!

Happy July 11th to all you who need wished a happy July 11th. Steeped in tradition and dating back to some time in high school, my Denver friends have always celebrated with a giant party on July 11th. It's like a real holiday, one that doesn't get shoved to a weekend if it happens to fall on a Tuesday, one that could easily be dropped, but that is carried on by someone every year. The date was chosen at random for the first party, but it ended up corresponding with several big events in people's lives, so apocryphal tales grew about the "meaning" of the day and its origins, which serve to heighten its importance in everyone's minds. The first couple years we threw the party, 7-11 decided to do a promotion, selling small $.07 and $.11 Slurpees, so the parties were littered with sunken Slurpees and pink straws. Once my friend's car broke at the 7-11, and we had to call his dad to come rescue us and--more importantly--the 50 or so Slurpees we had in the trunk of the car. This year, festivities are happening as usual, though I won't be there for them. In fact, I can't really remember the last July 11th party I attended, which is kind of sad. Anyone want to have a July 11th happy hour? Ah, I'm old.

My alarm didn't go off this morning, which makes it twice in two weeks that it's failed to do so. The first time, I thought maybe I just slept through it or turned it off without fully waking up, but that's very unlike me. I have a more persistent notion that the planned obsolescence on the cheap clock radio kicked in and it's just sliding into it's small, mechanical grave. I would like to replace it with some sort of fancy alarm clock that makes bird sounds or gradually lightens the room or something, but I imagine my $5 will end up on another Duane Reade contraption. Hmm, I just got my $5 Rewards from Duane Reade; perhaps this is part of a bigger conspiracy.

I would really like to go on a trip. Summer is settling in around me and I think if I don't make it to a swimming pool this year, something might die inside me. Krista would like to rent a hotel room for a night just to use the pool during the day. The idea is really tempting. I would like someone to tell me they are taking me on a surprise vacation (not in a kidnapping kind of way) or pay me to go cover an eating competition in California or something. I want to stay in a hotel with clean sheets and drive a rental car and eat at some restaurant the locals love. I need a little shakeup.

My sunburn is peeling off and, people, it is le gross. I'm all slathered up with delicious-smelling lotions, so I haven't slipped into chameleon stage or anything, but if I had a choice, I wouldn't have my skin coming off my body. That's not cool.

Krista and I finished our epic novel about hot dogs, so I invite you to learn more about the Coney Island competition than you ever thought you wanted to know. Here it is. And if you need dessert afterwards, you might head over to Digest for a little chocolate cake. All the competitive eating coverage is now going to be on True Fan, the sports blog, which really makes the most sense if you think about it.

You'll notice our writeup is very long. I think I may have used up my writing reserves doing it, as you've no doubt noticed if you even stop by here any more. I promise I'm gearing up to get back on the personal blog horse very shortly. I've even been thinking up some mundane things to share with you! Like: the last time I took my laundry in to be done, it came back with two shirts and some yoga pants missing. I went back to see if perhaps the people might have put them in the wrong bag or something, but they denied knowing what I was talking about. I know for positive that these items were in the bag. The laundry people insisted that it wasn't busy when I brought in the laundry, so there was no chance of the items getting mixed in to another person's dryer or something. While this is true, it also means that if the clothes DEFINITELY didn't get mixed up and they were DEFINITELY in the bag when I brought it in and DEFINITELY not in the bag when I retrieved it, then someone is running around in my American Apparel yoga pants and H&M shirts. These are not expensive items, but they are MY items and how would you like to lose you favorite black shirt? Anyway, there is nothing to be done. But now here is the real question: do I return to this laundromat (the most convenient one) or seek out another one? Doing my own laundry like a normal person isn't an option for I am The Lazy.

Just suffering from 3rd-degree sunburns over my shoulders and chest. That's the price you pay for being a star reporter up in the stands in Coney Island for three and a half hours for a twelve-minute competition. So, I'm in a lot of pain right now, not to mention up to my eyeballs in work and reorganizing the office after all the renovations finally completed.

But let's just say that yesterday was definitely one of my favorite New York days ever. I loved every crowded, sweaty, exhausting moment of it and I can't wait to tell you everything. Krista and I are working hard on a write-up and will hopefully get everything up by the end of the week. Or the weekend. Definitely by next week. OH, and we're no longer posting competitive eating news on Digest; check in on the sports blog, True Fan for all the latest.

Until then, have a look at some pictures! I haven't labeled them yet! So you can make up your own captions for them in the meantime. Also, recognize any famous reporters in this picture? (Thanks, Mike W.!)

God, I hope you are still reading this blog after I ditched you after a shitty picture post and never even properly checked in. Hi! I love you!