Friendship

Reading Medusa's blog brought up some thoughts that I've been having over the question of what a friend is.

As time passes the concept of friendship starts to evolve and metamorphose into a more precise and concise meaning. When you are a child, a friend is someone that you've met 5 minutes ago in the playground and whom you''ll spend a whole of 30 minutes playing with. And even though you might not see him or her again, right at that moment he or she is your bestest friend.
Later on, your best friend is one you can share stories with, complain about your parents, teachers and anyone who represents the adults that cannot understand you. A person that, like you, is going through the hardships and denials of becoming that adult. As a teenager, friends are the most important people in your life: They make you or brake you, which incidentally can happen from one day to the next. In college, on the other hand, a friend is one that shares your interests and your way of life. And so on.

As you take on responsibilities you become more selective. You realize that being a friend implies subtle things. It's not a person that you hang out with, or a person that depends on you. It's a person that you know is there when you need them and you are ready to drop anything you are doing when they need you. It's a person that knows your fears and pleasures, but not necessarily your everyday problems. A friend for me is someone that knows who I am, that can feel when something is not right without me having to draw a map, and vice versa. True friends should and must respect each other, in the true sense of the word.

Throughout life we come across acquaintances,buddies, pals. But real friends are counted on the fingers of one hand, and those, are for life.

Left-overs

When there are limited edible things in your refrigerator and you don't want to go out shopping, your imagination feels free to reign and explore. Often extremely happy accidents occur, if the mind-frame is right, others it's an utter disaster.
Today the stars and the planets seem to be with me. I had a minuscule piece of pork loin left that was pasted in mexican achiote, and so the sauce was to be kept. I had an eggplant looking a little lonely, prosciutto, goat cheese, and decided to make a meal with it all.
The eggplant peeled and sliced was breaded and baked. And as I searched in the pantry I came across pancake mix... oh the imagination...it took over. I mixed the pancake mix with some herbes de provence, garlic powder and the said pork loin sauce so as to make it quite watery. The thought behind being that I didn't quite want thick, breakfast pancakes, but more of a crepe consistency.
The "crepes" are being filed with goat cheese and prosciutto, accompanied by the baked eggplant and sliced tomatoes... I guess letting your imagination take over isn't bad sometimes. Just don't do it when you are having people over, you never know what your luck-of-the-draw might be.

Changes

After a week of nothing special, comes a weekend that looks like nothing special as well. I've started classes and I'm taking them on Saturdays so that they do not interfere with work, it's a choice. Apparently the professor was told only a few days before classes started that he would be teaching it (that's Hunter for you) and so was not available today. Next weekend I'll miss class because I'll be in Spain, and the week after it's veteran's day weekend, meaning I won't being going to school until my birthday, how appropriate.
The course seems interesting enough: Child Development, encompassing psychological, biological and learning theories that, knowing me, will have my mind reeling as to the whys of whats. The professor was kind enough to e-mail us all the readings we will be doing for the semester. I don't know if it serves the purpose of making us save money or to try and convince us to drop the course. There are loads and loads of reading to do. I'm going to be up to my elbows in Freud, Piaget, and the likes. Hopefully my rantings will not become psychobabble and make you all run for cover. I do enough two-cents analysis as it is.
The trip to Spain. My grandma is not doing too well and so I'm going to see her and lend a supporting shoulder to my mom. The strangest thing is to go unto the unknown. It's not like taking a vacation, or going for a specific purpose. It's just going to be there, and I've never done that before. It will most likely be the last time I go to Spain and so it gives it a different kind of feeling.
As children (here we go, and it has just been a class!) we tend to see everything as permanent, as going on forever. Your grandparents' home will always be there, there is no reason for you to think that it might not; the trees will grow and you'll remember how tiny they were, but will always see them, no reason to think that maybe they'll become someone else's trees one day.
We have no problem thinking of ourselves as mobile, ever-changing beings, but those that represent our childhood stability are incapable, to our eyes, of doing it.
It was strange enough that my grandparents moved from the north of the country to the south, the change of scenery was welcomed but awkward at first. We all have memories of that first (for us the grandchildren) apartment we spent our summers in. The fact that when my grandmother goes there will be nothing to attach us to the country is even weirder. I, for one, feel closer to Spain than I do with France, and so it will become like being a stranger in my childhood's land.
Sort of like Mexico. After 12 years of living there I could not go back (and haven't since 1986). Nothing worse than feeling like a tourist in your own home.
It's funny how ready we are to embrace the future but have problems letting go of silly things of the past. It's a balance that should, when done properly, make us whole, but when confronted with it can become a fearful moment to conquer.

Luca

We have a neighbor named Luca. Well he's not really our neighbor, he's our neighbors' son. One month old son to be exact.

Luca is the newest addition to this what I call, the community. You know, the one we live in, the building with the strangest group of people I know. Well Luca, as a good son of his parents, does not represent part of that "strangeness". He is the cutest little shrimp I've met.

I've mentioned to Tosh and Anna (the parents for those who want to know) that I needed my Luca-fix from time to time, and they've obliged. Luca came to visit us tonight (granted in his father's arms, and most likely not from his own volition) and showed us that he is starting to learn how to smile. It was more of a smirk, with his little pout not quite knowing where to go, but it looked to the adults around him like he was making fun of us.

The best part of holding that little body in your arms is imagining what he's thinking of. I'm sure that somewhere in that little head there's a: "what are these awkward, H-U-G-E people talking about?" (and I'm being polite here, because I'm sure that he doesn't know bad words yet... I think...)

He's going to be a smart one, I can already see that, and I wish him to continue using his little pout to poke fun at the world. Even if he doesn't, he'll always hold a dear place in my heart.

September

It's the beginning of September. For many of you it just means that you're back at school, or that summer is over, or even yet that the holidays are coming (which some of you actually look forward to). For me September is the dreaded month for all of the above given reasons, and because it means the imminent approach of my birthday...

Apparently it might be a genetic thing. I share the same anxiety my great-aunt did about turning one year older, although not to the same extreme. The woman used to close the curtains, lie in bed and cry for the whole day, we could not even call her to wish her a happy birthday less we wanted to be perceived as evil people.

And so I've told myself numerous times about the whole "getting older-getting better" thing, but no, I still don't buy it. So OK, it's nature and it's all in your head, blah blah blah, well my head is still young, it's the damn years that won't stay with it! I mean the body looks different — and don't try to fool me, it doesn't look better—. It also feels different: you have the same aches and pains that your mother had (and you made fun of), wrinkles you thought you were impermeable to, the hair changes, the eyesight changes, your memory is not the same... seriously, where is the "better" in that? So you're wiser, well you better be! if you don't learn anything from time, what the hell will you learn from?

Nadir, for the past decade, braces himself when my birthday nears. His sweet, non-confrontational wife (or girlfriend at the time) goes from Dr. Jekyll to Mr. Hyde. I have no patience, everything is an affront to my well being. Even my dog died in September, Fine,eons ago, but I still remember it because it was... well, in September.

So, like I said, I hate this month. I wake up in a bad mood and go to bed in a bad mood. It's like going through PMS for 30 straight days.
Feel sorry for my poor husband, I'm going to turn 39 and this pressure cooker is about to pop (not really, but I also have a tendency to become over-dramatic).

Luxury

I decided to make rosemary chicken today. No big deal, it's a common dish. The worthiness of me mentioning it is how I got the main condiment.
Once the dish decided, I grabbed a pair of scissors and went to the garden. I proceeded to grab some fresh rosemary (for the said dish) and picked some basil for the accompanying pasta. As I was tendering to the basil, a neighbor came and said that she was also in need of basil for some fresh tomatoes a friend had given her from her garden. When she said that she also had eggplants I offered to pick some oregano, lemon thyme, sage or.. ahem.. rosemary for her. In a gesture of appreciation she, in turn, brought me an eggplant and a beef tomato from the afore mentioned friend.
So I now have a kitchen smelling of fresh herbs, since I stocked up in everything that smells good, a chicken that has been cooking in rosemary, a sliced tomato with basil to start with — which promises to taste divine—, an eggplant waiting to be baked and me feeling like a true agrarian. Doesn't take much to make me happy now does it?

The end of Summer

I've been lazy... mea culpa. I've often sat in front of the computer with the best intentions of writing but was distracted by numerous things. Once it was a fly. Ok, it might not have been just any fly, the thing was persistent, it kept landing on my arm or on the screen. It wasn't big or small, and apparently it liked our apartment so much that it survived for what seemed to be the whole summer, avoiding Nadir's magazine swats with mastery and my annoyed persecutions in a very non-chalant way.

Often when I sat ready to write, my eyes would wander and I would ultimately find something that needed my immediate attention: a plant needing water, an unwanted spec of dust, a pillow not fluffed enough. Another time it was the breeze. Yes, I sit next to a window and the summer breeze is one of those things that takes my mind to far away places. Nothing awakens my senses like a summer breeze. There was the garbage truck one evening that seemed to make more noise than usual, and I should also mention Mister Softee. Now Mister Softee is one of those NY things that brings out the best in you when you're 10 years old, and the worst when you're an adult.
Mister Softee, for all of you who don't know, is an ice-cream truck. It c-o-n-s-t-a-n-t-l-y plays this music that I always wondered why it hasn't been used in a horror movie. The first time you hear it it's almost nice, it reminds you that summer is here, that kids will be running outside to get their ice-cream and that everything is ok with the world. By August you're ready to grab a bazooka and shoot the damn thing (when there are no kids around and the driver is getting a cup of coffee mind you - no need for blood). And so Mister Softee makes me forget the summer breeze as I close the windows to keep my murderous instincts in check.

Right now, someone is listening to Andrea Bocelli in their car, loud enough for me to hear, and my first instinct is to get up and put the CD on, but no, I've decided that I would write today (saying absolutely nothing by the looks of it) and post a blog.
So here it is, an entry about flies and ice creams and my lack of concentration. It's the end of the summer, and that means, my dear friends, that I'll be moaning soon enough about weather and winter, writing about soups and hearty dishes, about classes and life. Nothing else to say but: I'm baaaack.

Back to Basics

Monday night. After a day of reaching 90F with over 80% humidity we're home enjoying a quiet evening with the AC on. We start seeing lights flickering and power getting weaker so we turn off the AC and get candles, batteries and flash-lights out. After the blackout of two years ago we recognize the signs. Power is low but it's late so we don't mind. Off to bed.
Tuesday morning. No hot water. It's hot and humid so it almost feels refreshing. The light in the bathroom has the power equivalent to that of a candle, but I don't see much in the morning anyway.
Nadir suggests that I take a pocket flash-light with me just in case and I leave early not knowing what I will find out there.
The first sign is that there is no light in the hallway, no elevator. So I start taking the stairs and thank my lucky stars that I married such a smart man as I turned on the flashlight. 6 flight of stairs later I'm lighting the way for a group of people going to work and trying to make it to the main door of the building.
Subways are running OK, no signs of anything wrong in Manhattan. My office is an ice box and the day goes by without a glitch. I get updates from my husband of the conditions back home. The temperature reaches 100F, Nadir is beyond miserable, he tries to cool off at the pool but going up and down 6 floors would make anyone cranky.
By Wednesday I was trying to make light of the situation and told Nadir to see it as an adventure. Needless to say that he looked at me like I had two heads.
It's day 5 now and I'm the one on the edge. There are things that people not going through this do not realize, little details that might not seem like much but that after a week begin to take huge proportions.
We had to throw out everything we had in the fridge. Then the problem becomes what to eat. Most would say take-out, and that would be OK except that the whole neighborhood has no power. No power=no refrigeration, no refrigeration=food spoils. I'm not about to get food poisoning. The supermarkets have no power, the restaurants have no power, we would have to go to another neighborhood to get food, and then what? keep it how? canned food is a solution, but when you have thousands of people in the same situation guess what, we all think of the same thing. Salads? hmm they don't really fare well in 100F, nor do vegetables or fruit, all rotten.
Laundry. What laundry? I'm going to have to start doing it by hand and trust me, not looking forward to it. The dishes OK, but washing clothes in the sink?
The garbage. No garbage-shoot and so we have to walk down the 6 flights, with a flash-light.
At least we have the pool you say? no, we don't. No power therefore no filters, ergo no pool. No garden either, it's pouring.
At first people would take it in stride, laughing and saying "unbelievable". Now the unbelievable is usually preceded by a curse word and the faces do not show any amusement. Everyone looks tired and beyond annoyed.
We're one of the lucky ones, we have power in half of the apartment since Thursday. We still don't understand why only half but at this point we don't care. We're locked up because there is no way we'll be going up and down the stairs and walk aimlessly in pitch-dark streets. Don't want to go into the city either because it will only serve as a reminder that this is the kind of thing that would never happen in Manhattan. I'm already mad, no need to get furious.
I have totally lost my sense of humor, I am beyond cranky, I am tired and I want this to be over.
If I hear one person telling me that it can't be that bad I'll choke them. Unless you go through something like this you can't understand the toll it takes on your psyche. We're all doing the best we can to maintain a sense of civility, but seriously, the last thing you want to do is to be nice.
After 5 days of taking cold showers, of not being able to get normal food, of not knowing when the hell we will go back to "normality", I don't want to hear one more politician telling us that they're doing the best they can. I want them to come over and take showers in our houses and deal with the crap we've been dealing with.

Rodeo

We had our exciting moment this weekend. When you have a 4 day weekend, are married and both parties like to live like recluses, exciting moments can be counted on the fingers of one hand, besides the obvious moments that is... ahem...
So maybe it shouldn't be called "exciting" more like disturbing or an adrenaline-pumping moment. We had a waterbug (or American cockroach as I learned after doing some research, like I always do when I worry about something) in the apartment. You know the ones, they are huuuuuge, have wings although don't always use them, and you can actually see the hair on their freaking legs, which are more than four. Many of you know my opinion: more than four legs, not normal.
Anyway, this waterbug or roach or whatever huge thing it is, made its appearance in our spare bedroom which is our home-office, right in front of Nadir.
He, of course, tells me this in a very nonchalant way: "I saw a huge cockroach". Now, 1) for my husband to say that it was huge it means that it was gargantuan, and 2) he wasn't able to kill it. Needless to say that I proceeded to lock the room and duck-tape the door shut, I did not want that creature crawling on me while I was sleeping.
The day after, we (we being my husband and me looking on by the sidelines) emptied the office and cleaned it thoroughly, setting "roach motels" all over the place. At least it could die of laughter at the sight of those things.
And so this evening, as I'm typing this, Nadir is in the doomed room and I can hear things moving around and flip flops being banged against the floor. There is a fight going on, and I'm staying as far as I can from it.
Let the best man, creature, win.
Conclusion: the man won. After hearing many bangs I saw him darting into the kitchen and grabbing paper-towels to retrieve the corpse while mumbling "got the damn thing". The dead beast is in the garbage. My man, feeling like a hunter that has finally gotten his prey, is proud of his accomplishment. Me? I'm sure that the thing is going to try and crawl its squished-self out of the garbage bag just to prove us wrong. Why couldn't he just drop it in the toilet?? Can't wait until Nadir dumps the garbage. I just know that the moment I grab the bag the monster will come back to life and jump on me seeking revenge...

Pics

This, ladies and gentlemen, is what football (or soccer) is all about:

And ultimately this:

Oh yeah baby!

I have to do this: Allez les Bleus!!! France won against Brazil!!!!!! yeah! And again, Zidane, one of the oldest players in the cup, proved to be amazing... what a game...

Drip, drip and more drip

To say that I am fed up with the rain is an understatement. What's up with this weather??? I mean come on! I haven't seen the sun in like months now! There is apparently a shy appearance every now and then, but of course it happens when I'm in the office and ergo do not see it. It teases, a ray here and there, and then vlam! a thunderstorm, a freak rain shower that turns every street crossing into a battle with the rapids. Yesterday I had to fold-up my pants and take off my shoes to cross an avenue so that I wouldn't go into involuntary surfing. Not pretty I'm telling you.
Needless to say that I have not done any gardening and have only gone once to the pool. This morning I went into the garden before going to work to check things out and can almost guarantee that the tomato plants have become possessed: There is a mangle of branches that have no beginning or end sprawling all over the place. No tomatoes of course...
The strawberries? never mind those, it's a horror story. Yet the grapes have decided that they do not like their new habitat and have maintained their comatose state. The weeds on the other hand are happy campers and I'm sure are stinking their tongue out to every plant that we've planted claiming their kingdom back.
This weekend is supposed to be OK and so I find myself in a quandary: Soccer or garden? for many of you it would seem like a no-brainer but I'm hooked on this World Cup. And so the dilemma becomes to either watch the matches or save whatever self-esteem the poor plants still have. Oh if I could have both. Maybe I'll run from one to the other and do the best I can. The World Cup is once every four years, the weeds? If I were ever so lucky...

Reminiscence

Do you remember when you were a kid and as the summer neared its end you felt the knot at the pit of your stomach slightly tightening? You knew that the care-free days were almost over and that soon you would have to sit in a classroom day in and day out, and do homework!
Well, as adults most of us don't have the luxury of a couple months off before starting to get that uncomfortable feeling, now it's limited to a weekend.
That's basically how I feel on Sundays during the summer. It's like I want to squeeze as much "me" time in a few hours. The fact that I feel cheated out of my weekend due to the weather might explain my sudden flash-back into childhood. I watch the clock as the day progresses and do an automatic count-down. "Yeah, I still have 6 hours." How sad.
Could it be that my week is not satisfying? maybe it's just that summer reminds me of the simple pleasure of just waking up. During the winter you have to find things to keep you busy and uplifted, whilst during the summer the mere fact of walking around your neighborhood might be enough.
I feel like I'm being robbed of that luxury. The weather is lousy and forcing me to stay indoors when I should be in the garden or the pool, or just out!
The elements, my biggest enemies...

The power of words

Most of us have stumbled at one point or another upon one of those books that we wish did not end. That is exactly what I felt while reading "The Secret Life of Bees" by Sue Monk Kidd. Although I cannot say that it is a literary marvel, it did make me smile, laugh and even sometimes cry. It is a coming-of-age story set in the early 1960s South Carolina and it is mainly written for a female audience.
The endearing relationships between the young narrator and the older women trying to empower her are written in a simple yet quite realistic way. You find yourself immersed in their world and wishing that the author did not stop, well, where it ends.
As I said, I would not recommend this book as a must in a "classic" kind of way, but it is an easy read that brings you the flavors and smells of the south, making it a very appropriate companion for the summer.
On the other hand I am now reading "Les Hirondelles de Kaboul" or "The Swallows of Kabul" by Yasmina Khadra, an Algerian writer, and I must say that I am in awe of the language. It takes place in Afghanistan during the time of the Taliban and intertwines various characters' lives.
I have not finished it yet, but I am fascinated by the fact that although the plot itself is hard to swallow (no pun intended) the way it is written has me enthralled. I almost read it aloud to feel the power of the words, the way they combine to form beautiful and yet extremely strong sentences.
I would be incapable of highlighting only one, I have read over half of the book and find the whole thing pure pleasure.
So far it is definitely not an uplifting novel, but if you ever come across it, do pick it up. I cannot vouch for the English translation, but if it's anything like the French one, it will leave you with a feeling of reading a masterpiece.

Little bits of nothing

I'm watching for the umpteenth time the Star Wars episode "The Revenge of the Sith". Yes, I'm a Star Wars fan, I belong to the generation that grew up with R2 D2, Luke Skywalker and (oh boy) Han Solo.
The more I watch it, the more I find myself analyzing those characters that were probably meant to be one-dimensional, specially if you just rely on the acting.
Let's take Darth Vader for instance, or Anakin Skywalker as he was known before he joined "the dark side". In the movie they mainly show him as a soon-to-be malevolent character that had the genetic make-up for being evil. Yet, as I watched the movie over and over again, I started thinking that he was forced into becoming the bad guy. I mean, he had all this power but yet was never trusted by the good guys. So it goes back to the nature vs nurture dilemma: if he had been shown trust, would he have turned his back on those that were meant to be good? He was let down by the people that he loved and respected. Granted he seemed to be weak, and I'm not talking about how bad he acted, although he did, but if a weak personality is not influenced and nurtured by the "right" people, what can be expected?
I know that for those that do not know the characters and/or the movie I'm making no sense, but really, as cheesy as this saga seems to be, I find that when analyzing it, it carries a lot more insight into the human psyche. And seriously, it can be eerie.

back...ahhhhh

Friday night: a nice glass of rosé and my husband's teasing. Saturday: Checking e-mails, making phone calls, emptying suitcase and going out for a beer. Sunday: yoga, swimming-pool, watching football, going out for a beer and watching basketball's finals. All this with the lingering smells of bouillabaisse as a backdrop which was a "welcome home" gift from Nadir.
A weekend that not only reminds you that being away for a week is too long, but makes you feel oh so grateful to be back.
I've spent a week away for work reasons and as much as I appreciated the having the bed made and all the cares that come from staying at a hotel for the first 2 days, I was more than ready to come to my own "turf" quite soon.
Home is home, and I love to be in it. Please remind me next time I complain about dishes not being done...

Unfortunate things

I've discovered another use for the dishwasher: dish-rack. The damn thing broke down and I've come to realize how much I rely on it. So now we wash the dishes by hand (yeah) and put them in the dishwasher to dry. Soon, very soon, we either get it repaired or get a new one, because it is one thing to stick your hand down the toilet to clean it since no one else will do it for you, another is to have the possibility of having a machine do the job and the damn thing not working—I'm sure you see the logic here.
And I've said damn twice... I hate doing dishes.
Besides the dish-washing adventures, coming back to reality has been an arduous task. We've been back for a week now and I'm still in Spain with mom and grandma. It was hard enough to go back to commuting, because let's face it, taking the subway is definitely not a joy ride, but this past Friday I had to walk across the bridge, again.
It seems that due to the torrential rain we had on Friday the tracks got inundated and so they shut down all subway service between Manhattan and Queens. Lovely. As I was almost paddling through the puddles insulting myself for wearing summery sandals, I realized that in 5 years I've had to walk from Manhattan to Queens 4 times: 9/11, the blackout, the strike and now the damn rain (there goes "damn" again). I've decided that even if I look like an 80s Wall Street secretary I'm going to start bringing sneakers to work, at least in a bag. No more blisters in case of a walkathon.
It could have been worse though, I could have been wearing plastic flip-flops that make you an instant ice-skater, like I saw a few passer-byes become.
I kept my cool as my pants were sticking to my legs (did I mention that it was raining, a lot?) and surrendered to my fate, knowing that at least this time hubby was going to pick me up at the end of the bridge (there was no way he could have driven into Manhattan.)
The weekend was a wash-out. The only positive outcome of such weather-related catastrophes is that the closets are now organized and the house immaculate.
So much for a weekend where the only task should be deciding at what time to hit the pool...

Skee Ball?

I was reading Medusa's blog and realized that many of us have our 80's guilty pleasures. I am relishing one of them right now: I am listening to Abba. My husband has sought shelter in the extra bedroom and closed the door. Granted he didn't say a thing, but the self-imprisonment talks louder than words. Meanwhile "voulez-vous" is blasting in the living-room while I make a tortilla so as to use the last of the potatoes and onions before we go away, all the while twirling around... Do I really like that group? I don't even know but it brings back memories of being young and full of energy, therefore it feels good.
Yeah the 80's!

The right stuff

I got up at 6:00 AM to finish up a paper. Yup, I like what I'm doing. Now I'm dead at 9:00 PM. It's a price to pay.

Oh my

The worst thing about getting ready to see your mother and grandmother after too many years is looking at yourself in the mirror. You realize 1) that you've aged and therefore 2) gravity has started to play tricks on your body, 3) that you haven't been careful and have some really awkward patchwork of a suntan because you've been in the garden —wearing t-shirts, tang tops and gardening gloves— and therefore dread the moment you have to get into a bathing suit. I am tanned, but in a scoop kind of shape from the neck up, the arms but just between the edge of the sleeve and the gloves, and I had the great idea of folding up my pants so my legs could get a little color... up to the knees. Not a pretty sight when you see the whole I'm telling you. If I go to the beach I'm going to look like some tan and white quilt... my grandmother will surely deny knowing me.
And then there's the eyebrows that in a fit of terror while writing a paper I plucked... never ever touch your eyebrows when you're stressed. I have bold patches above my left eye that will surely not grow before I meet those that think I'm perfect.
Instead of meeting the young perky thing they know, they'll see a middle aged woman with a bold spot on one of her eyebrows who looks half tanned, half dead. Hopefully they'll only see the happy person I've become. Maybe I'll hide their glasses so they can't see me up-close.