Perks of Being an Art History Major

Art History? What are you going to do with THAT?!
--my dental hygienist (and about 50 other people in my hometown)

I always think you people are nice to have at parties. You bring a classy air to gatherings. I think art historians are good conversationalists.
--my OB-GYN

We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire it. The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely. All art is quite useless.
--Oscar Wilde, Preface to The Picture of Dorian Gray

If I were planning on making pots of money (which I'm not), I would be in the wrong line of work. I gravitate towards jobs in institutions which tend to have small or variable budgets (libraries, museums, liberal arts), which is not conducive to saving up, or buying things. However, a friend in high school (who went to college for violin performance) used to say that we wouldn't be rich, but we would sure be interesting, and I like to pretend that is true. And although my paycheck is tiny, the perks are sometimes big. Here are some things to tell people when they quiz you about what you are doing with your life:

1. Free Stuff. With my museum ID badge I can get into any NYC museum fo' free, which is actually pretty nice. Especially for MOMA, where the ticket takers tend to be snippy, and it costs $20. Granted, I should be willing to give money to these institutions, but it makes me feel less guilty if I just stop in for an hour or so. And I can sneak in guests. I also get half-price tickets at the Brooklyn Academy of Music, and discounts in all museum stores.

2. Solitude. For an art nerd, it is REALLY nice to be alone when looking at art. I'm one of those annoying people who is taking notes or getting really close to things and getting yelled at by museum guards, so really, you probably don't want to be there with me anyway. On Mondays and Tuesdays I really like walking to my office because I have the European wing to myself, and I can examine things like a loon and not have any witnesses.

3. Openings. Art show openings are not normally my scene, because I'm a terrible networker. The exception to this was at school, because then I always had my friends to talk to and it was fun and low-pressure, but now it's slightly different. I don't know much about contemporary anything, and if I have to talk to strangers (and offer opinions, ack) I tend to smile a lot out of nervousness and play with my hair. This is one of the many reasons why I do not want to be a curator! But I put on some mascara and went to one last night, which was actually pretty fun. A few co-workers and I went to happy hour first and then returned to the show, which is called "Who Shot Rock 'n Roll" and is a collection of rock photographs. The reception had dj's and drinks and food and a performance by Blondie, which was worth it.* Debbie Harry is 60ish now, but she is still a total rocker babe. And they performed for free, which is super nice. (A bit of self-promotion for them, too...her partner, Chris Stein, is also in the band and is one of the photographers featured.) And it was cool to see the paintings in context with all the swirling lights and swirling people around them.

If you like art and art history, then all of these things are auxiliary, but they are nice. And let's be honest, I have an easier time explaining myself to people than philosophy majors do (what DO you say if you're a philosophy major and people are quizzing you about your future plans? "I'm going to think." Maybe this is why I, too, find most philosophy majors I've met kinda insufferable.) And honestly, how many economics majors end up doing exactly what they planned? None. And I think that is how it should be. For me, not much beats seeing something or learning something interesting that I didn't know about before, and that is worth it.

*"for Blondie, some Blondie." Mom, I thought I would reference your fav movie.

Hop on the Bus, Gus

I just got home (it is 12:30 am) from work and took a cab. I say this with a slight sense of personal disappointment, because now that I've finally figured out the buses, I try and take them because it feels like a distinction between a REAL NYer and a tourist. Real NYers take the bus, or in my case, two buses, home when they work late. They are tough and hardy, and I did it last night, but the cards were stacked against it tonight: it was raining (I am a baby when it comes to standing ankle deep in water, and am willing to pay more money not to do so) and the bus was half an hour late!! Which has actually never happened to me before, but my co-worker J and I waited and waited and finally gave up and she called us cabs. When my cab pulled up and I got in, J banged on the cabbies window (J is about 5 feet no inches tall, and has an impressive array of berets which she always wears over her short dreadlocks. "Don't be charging her more than $10!" she yelled at him. Then, to me, "if he charges you more than $10, you can tell him where to stick it." He charged me $10. And I was home in 10 minutes, as opposed to my usual 50.

To anyone who is parentally or grandparentally related to me and is concerned about buses in the middle of the night, all I can say is: don't be. There have been a few weekend nights when I felt not super-comfortable, so I took a cab then, too. Probably the most different thing about all of this, apart from the fact that I have no experience with public transport, is that I am usually the only white person on the bus. As someone who grew up in the vast majority, it's an interesting feeling. It makes you think about the tiny population of African-Americans where I went to college, and the 5 Asian kids in my high school. I knew I stuck out last night when waiting for my second bus with two off-duty security guards, one who was Haitian and one who was Venezuelan. (I know this because they talked the entire time we were waiting. I could tell you how many siblings they have, what kind of hair products they use, and what kind of earrings they think look dumb. I'm not even kidding.) At one point, one said, "well, you know, I'm not prejudiced at all. My sister married a guy who was as white as her." (the "her" being me.) I looked up and they were both looking at me, so I did an awkward wave (I'm a master of the awkward wave) and they laughed and then I was included in their conversation by unspoken agreement. (they also know what hair products I use.) This sense of difference was particularly striking coming back from the opera, when I went from being the only white person on the subway wearing turquoise tights to being the only white person, period. (it says something about perceived social class and certain cultural activities--the exact same thing happened when I went to the ballet--but I'm not going into that now.)

But I've gotten used to the maps and one-way streets. The downside to this is I've almost ended up missing my street because I was falling asleep, or texting and not paying attention, whereas before I'd be too hyped up and staring out the window, so I would prematurely signal a stop and get off a few blocks early. At any rate, I'm home, I'm going to bed, and I have tomorrow off. Whooo!

A Night at the Opera

And now, on with the opera. Let joy be unconfined. Let there be dancing in the streets, drinking in the saloons, and necking in the parlor.
--Groucho Marx, A Night at the Opera, 1935


(thanks to wikipedia for the Lincoln Center image)
On Thursday night I went to the Metropolitan Opera and saw Richard Strauss's Der Rosenkavalier. Every other opera I've seen has been at Chautauqua, and some have been really good (The Marriage of Figaro) and some have been quite not good (Little Women...I may have said, "if Beth doesn't die soon, I'm going to get onstage and kill her myself.") But Der Rosenkavalier was unlike anything that I've seen before.

An Opera Maven that I know recently told me about 200 rush tickets that are set aside for sale on the day of the performance. They are orchestra level tickets (which run $275-$175) which are priced for $20 instead (a donor pays the rest of the ticket.) I decided to try this, because a normal $20 ticket is up in the light green section on this map, with an "obstructed view." The $20 ticket I got, after waiting in line for 3 hours in the basement/parking garage of Lincoln Center was in the grey section on the first level, over on the left hand side, about half-way back. SO WORTH IT. If you don't mind waiting in line (which has some good people watching opportunities, incidentally), I would highly recommend doing this.

The plot of Der Rosenkavalier is minimal at best. Act 1 opens with the Princess von Werdenberg, called the Marshchallin, in bed with her 17 year old lover, Count Octavian Rofrano. The Marschallin's boorish, lecher of a cousin Baron Ochs shows up (Ochs = Ox, good one Strauss!) and Octavian quickly dresses up like a maid named Mariandel, to escape detection. The Baron asks his cousin to supply a knight to deliver a silver rose to his betrothed, Sophie Faninal, who is much younger than he is. She suggests Octavian to be the Knight of the Rose, which is what Rosenkavalier means. And then Ochs flirts with all the maids, etc, and Marshchallin starts to feel old, and she expresses to Octavian her conviction that he will end up leaving her for someone younger. The thing is, she's not bitter about being older, she's just realistic about her fate. It'd be a cool role to sing, I think. The Times describes her as a Cougar, which is a phrase I try not to use, so pretend I didn't.

In Act 2, Sophie and Octavian meet in her father's home when he presents the rose, and they fall in love. He ends up wounding Ochs in a duel, and there is a lot of running up and down stairs and singing loudly and drama. The Marshchallin isn't in Act 2 at all. In Act 3, Ochs meets "Mariandel" (Octavian in drag) at an inn, which "she" traps him into seducing her, which gives Sophie's father a bad impression, and then Sophie is released from her engagement and Ochs has to run away from the innkeeper, who he owes money to. It's nice because he gets his comeuppance. Finally, the Marshchallin shows up, wearing about 100 pounds of fabric in an insanely beautiful white dress and wig, and gives her blessing to Sophie and Octavian, and they sing a trio that is well worth the price of admission. Curtain. For a better plot summary and pictures from the Met's 2005 production, see Opera News here.

(thanks to NYTimes online for the pictures of Renee Fleming)
Some people waited in line since 10 am, because this was a powerhouse cast: Renee Fleming as the Marschallin and Susan Graham as Octavian (in comedic fashion, the young male lead is sung by a woman, in a "trouser role"). The main chatter in line and in the lobby was whether Fleming was losing her touch, and if her best days are behind her (not unlike the Marshchallin, actually). Beats me. I have zero knowledge about different singers, and she seemed very, very good to me. It wasn't even so much the singing as her expressions or gestures--I was close enough that I could see pain or amusement on her face, or in her shoulder shrugs.

As good as the singing was, I was even more impressed with the sets. Act 1 takes place in the Marschallin's bedroom, which is all gilt and pink curtains and a ceiling fresco, with little spindly tables all over. Act 2 is in Faninal's estate, which actually elicited clapping from the audience--it was rows and rows of windows and elaborate staircases and chandeliers. Act 3 was set in an inn, so it was much different: smaller, dark, with a lot of candles. And the Metropolitan Opera building itself is crazy, with long red-carpeted staircases, muted lighting, and spiraling chandeliers. Very cool.

What was also cool was that the girl who was next to me in line for tickets (I say "girl" but we were about the same age; compared to everyone else there we were whippersnappers, though) also got the seat next to me in the theater, so we became Opera buddies. We hung out during the intermissions and talked about super nerdy musical stuff and never asked each others names. So I will probably never see her again, which actually seems like a very New York-y thing to do. I like it.

For two real reviews, see here and here. Both have good audio from this performance, particularly the second one.

And for a clip from the Marx Brothers A Night at the Opera, which is a totally hilarious movie, see here (they are trying to mess up the opera for a variety of reasons). The movie also has the late (and great) Kitty Carlisle Hart in it, so you know it's legitimate.

10 Commandments of Retail

Gentle Readers,
As someone who is employed in retail, and who has many friends employed in retail, I am offering a helpful list of rules that everyone should follow. Commandments, as it were. (feel free to add your own...my dogma is pretty fluid!)
1. Thou shalt not assume that anyone working in retail is inferior to you.
What we do is harder than it looks. It's a lot of standing, a lot of emotional grunt work, a lot of smiling when you don't feel like smiling, and a LOT of politeness, papercuts, and being helpful, all for very minimal pay. And by and large, everyone at the store where I work is very good at what they do: cashiers, booksellers, and managers alike. Most of us are there because we like books, and like telling people about books. When I help someone find something, and they are excited, it actually feels pretty good. Except when people treat you like you are an idiot, which happens too often. College degrees don't equal intelligence (the more time people spend in school, the less common sense they seem to have, I find), but we are (recent) grads from Columbia, Northwestern, Arizona State, Oberlin, U Iowa, NYU, Brooklyn College, CUNY Manhattan, and, ahem, William Smith. We know about a lot of different things, we speak many languages, we have kids, we have other jobs, and we really want you to read things. Conversely,
2. Thou shalt not assume we are mind-reading geniuses.
If you come into a bookstore looking for something, it is awesome if you know most of the title, or the authors last name (or if you are AWESOME, the ISBN.) If you come in and tell me you want the new book with the guy on it (this happened today), I might have trouble helping you. (I actually found the book, by the way.) Also, I have had people give me the wrong title AND the wrong author over the phone and then yell at me when I can't find what they are looking for. This does not endear you to me.
3. Thou shalt not talk on thy cell phone when at the register.
I want to help you. I am paid to help you. I cannot help you if you are talking to someone else. I do not care if your son is failing math, I do not care about the cost of your prescription pills, and I really do not care about your sex life. Common courtesy would dictate that you have have one conversation at a time, but you might be surprised at how many people ignore common courtesy.
4. Thou shalt not discuss thy political views.
In a similar vein to the third commandment, I just do not care who you voted for. It's not something I discuss with people unless I am friends with them (ditto for religious views) and frankly, it is really annoying. You can wear a Nobama button if you really want to, but don't go on about how he is socialist to me (this also happened to me today.) And it works both ways: when I was working in a bookstore last summer I had an aging academic-type liberal say to my (one) African-American co-worker, "well, I certainly hope you'll be voting for Obama!" Because they have a similar skin tone so they automatically think the same? Again, annoying, and pretty offensive at that.
5. Thou shalt not complain about the high price of books (shirts, groceries, etc.) while buying them.
We all have to eat, wear clothes, and read, and no one is forcing you to shop where you are. I know books were significantly cheaper 50 years ago, but there's not much I can do about it. There are alternate means of purchasing things if you are worried about prices (go online, buy used, use a library, etc.)
6. Thou shalt be patient.
When I am cashiering I am going as fast as possible, but if I make a mistake, it is very bad for me, and for you in the long-run. It is your fault if you double-park, and I won't rush so that you don't get a ticket. I would rather make sure you are charged the right amount, and that your merchandise doesn't get bent, and that you get the correct change. Bear with me.
7. Thou shalt control thy offspring.
The bookstore where I work is located in a yuppie, baby-heavy area (coughcough*Park Slope*coughcough) and there are some holy terror children, particularly when with their parents and not their nannies. I know it is impossible to "control" kids, but there are ways to discipline and minimize tantrums, screaming, whining, and running. Stop making empty threats, and stop, for goddesses sake, buying them stuff to stop them from crying. Learn to say no. Then your child will be adorable, and I will be happy to help you.
8. Thou shalt not abuse gift wrap.
I really like gift wrapping, but it's kind of something we do to be nice. Asking me to wrap 20 individual books, at 5:30 when the store is packed, is a little indulgent. Fortunately our security guards are also good gift wrappers, so we split it up. But at the very least, offer to help.
9. Thou shalt wash thy hands.
I'm not asking for constant handwashing, but if people could stop giving me damp, sweaty, sticky money, I would really appreciate it. I have started to over-use the hand sanitizer, since I am sans health insurance. I actually had someone hand me their dirty kleenex last week. Please do not do that.
10. Thou shalt be remembered--for good or bad.
If your kids are cute, I will remember. If you compliment my scarf, I will remember. If you are terrible, snappy, and condescending, I will remember. If you swear at my co-worker (this happened today), I will remember. And chances are good that I will mention it to my co-workers. One thing about retail is that you commiserate about good things and bad things, because that makes the time go faster, and makes you feel better if something really bad happens.

90% of people are nice, friendly, and fine. 10% might be sociopaths. Don't be in the 10%! And thus endeth the public service announcement for the day.

Don't you love New York in the fall?

Don't you love New York in the fall? It makes me wanna buy school supplies. I would send you a bouquet of newly sharpened pencils if I knew your name and address. On the other hand, this not knowing has its charms.
--You've Got Mail, 1998

Happy Saturday morning! We just made omelets and I'm going to work in a bit (blargh.) But I would just like to say: New York in the Fall is something pretty great. True, it is certainly not as pretty as upstate (there are not as many trees, for one thing.) There is a smell in the air that I love (honestly, it's probably the mustiness of dying leaves...pleasant.) That plus the coziness of being inside and drinking tea just makes me feel like humming. I once had a professor who described Edvard Munch and his art as having a "morose Northern temperament," which is kinda ridiculous, but it could be applied to me as well. Probably in two months I will be browbeating the cold, but for now it is ok. Besides, anyone who knows me well knows that I LOVE scarves, so any opportunity to wear them, I am happy with.

And You've Got Mail is an awesome movie, and it's like a New York City valentine (well, Manhattan anyway.) Plus, Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan are just cuteness. And it's about bookstores!! Except in this scenario, I am allied with evil Fox Books, the superstore that crushes indie bookstores in its wake of cheap books and cappucino. My parents actually refer to where I work as "Fox Books." Ah well. It's a delightful movie regardless.

Nostalgia

The problem with going someplace really lovely, and having a really lovely time, is that eventually you have to leave. I guess that is a problem with vacations in general, but I've never gone on vacation and had to come back to "real life," ie job(s), chilling weather, and missing my friends like I would miss a limb if it was cut off.

To recap: I have been on hiatus since I went to Geneva last weekend for 4 days and have been not in the best mood since being back here. The fact that I have to consider Geneva (and by extension the Finger Lakes, and Western NY in general) as a vacation spot and not my home is creeping me out. I had a massive sleepover with 5 of my best friends, who I hadn't seen since May (we missed you, Jersey girl!!). I watched quality chick flicks, ate about 900 pounds of candy, talked and talked, had tea, saw a lot of people I care about, and now I am missing it terribly. I hate transitions, probably like everyone else does. So to preempt my current one-person pity party, I am going to make two lists. Enjoy.

5 Rad Things about Geneva, NY
1. Community. Yeah, yeah, I know communities are everywhere. And I really haven't been here long enough to create one. And I hated Geneva when I first moved there (I wanted to transfer my first semester of college, but I think that was probably more homesickness than any major problem with the school.) But it is that comfortable way of being that I miss the most, and I miss it about my hometown, too. It was the nicest part of the visit. I think I saw someone I knew everywhere I went (which has its bad side..at one point we were costumed for an early Hallowe'en celebration and were outside the art department, and I should really know by now not to be traipsing around in butterfly wings because someone is ALWAYS there.)
2. The Food. I really like The Coffee House, which has the best scones, outside of England, that I've ever had, and the Red Dove Tavern is just groovy (shoestring fries = major mmm), and there is a Wegmans, which I maybe went to every day I was there. Plus, APPLES.
3. Watkins Glen. Technically this is half an hour from Gtown, but it's gor-ge-ous, especially this time of year. And here we are, thanks to Karen's super awesome camera (and super awesome photog skillz!)

(lots of smiling went on this weekend..and laughing so hard that I felt sick. And does that shot of one of the Falls remind you of the Mines of Moria?!)
4. Hobart and William Smith Colleges, particularly Houghton House. For those of you not in the know, Houghton House is where the art department at WS&H resides, and let me tell you: it is a cool place to be normally, but it is SUPER nice when you don't have work to do. (I spent freakish amounts of time there my last year of college, and got kind of grumpy about it. Not anymore.) And the people there are some of my favorites anywhere, speaking of community. Besides, I just like to learn stuff, and I like places where I can do that, and where there are people willing to teach me.

5. The way Seneca Lake looks at any time of year. It's pretty in the Fall with the leaves, it's pretty in the winter (at least, I think so) when it's grey and the snow geese hang out on it, it's pretty in the spring (when my top picture was taken) when everything smells green and growing, and the lake is astonishingly blue in the summer.

5 Rad Things about Brooklyn, NY (in the past 5 days)
1. My cousin got some really, really good dark wheat bread from a bakery by her school and I just ate some with honey. (Honey, incidentally from Geneva. One of the people I housesat for last year has started beekeeping--hi Nan!)
2. En route to Brooklyn, we stopped by the relatives and got some squash, green peppers, hot peppers, onions, a pumpkin, gourds, and carrots from my aunt's garden (HI AUNT SUE!!). Not to go all Michael Pollan on everyone, but it's nice to know where your food is coming from.
3. I have gotten 3 pieces of mail in the past 2 days, which is always, always, always wonderful. Except when it's from Sallie Mae. Then it's not. But this was good mail.
4. I just found out that the chain bookstore I work for lets its' employees "rent" out any hardcover book with a dustjacket for two weeks. They keep the dustjacket and loan it out to you, so I now have Nick Hornby's newest in my possession. It's good so far. And I like that they do that.
5. Today while at the Brooklyn Museum (I am interning there...have I mentioned that on here?? More on that another time) I cut out of work early (whoops) and walked through the American Art floor, and they have a new Native American exhibit up, and that was neat.

Well, I don't feel that much better. But back to our regularly scheduled programming next post, eh?

Oh, and more importantly:
HAPPY BIRTHDAY MOM!!!!!

La La La Laaaa

I am going to GENEVA TOMORROW (well, technically I am taking the late train to Albany when I get out of work, bunking with my friend, and then roadtripping Thursday morning.)

Here is a song for the occasion:

One evening as the sun went down
And the jungle fires were burning,
Down the track came a hobo hiking,
And he said, "Boys, I'm not turning
I'm headed for a land that's far away
Besides the crystal fountains
So come with me, we'll go and see
The Big Rock Candy Mountains

In the Big Rock Candy Mountains,
There's a land that's fair and bright,
Where the handouts grow on bushes
And you sleep out every night.
Where the boxcars all are empty
And the sun shines every day
And the birds and the bees
And the cigarette trees
The lemonade springs
Where the bluebird sings
In the Big Rock Candy Mountains.

In the Big Rock Candy Mountains
All the cops have wooden legs
And the bulldogs all have rubber teeth
And the hens lay soft-boiled eggs
The farmers' trees are full of fruit
And the barns are full of hay
Oh I'm bound to go
Where there ain't no snow
Where the rain don't fall
The winds don't blow
In the Big Rock Candy Mountains.

In the Big Rock Candy Mountains
You never change your socks
And the little streams of alcohol
Come trickling down the rocks
The brakemen have to tip their hats
And the railway bulls are blind
There's a lake of stew
And of whiskey too
You can paddle all around it
In a big canoe
In the Big Rock Candy Mountains

In the Big Rock Candy Mountains,
The jails are made of tin.
And you can walk right out again,
As soon as you are in.
There ain't no short-handled shovels,
No axes, saws nor picks,
I'm bound to stay
Where you sleep all day,
Where they hung the jerk
That invented work
In the Big Rock Candy Mountains.
....
I'll see you all this coming fall
In the Big Rock Candy Mountains

c. Harry McClintock, Big Rock Candy Mountain, 1928.

Seriously, I am obnoxiously giddy about revisiting the alma mater ever dear, although I'm not sure if I'm going to be able to handle being back and NOT being a student (it might heighten my identity crisis.) However, going to Geneva involves some of my favorite things: seeing some people I very much care about, fall in the Finger Lakes, Watkins Glen, roadtripping and creating roadtrip playlists (no such thing as too much Abba or Irish pub songs, that's my motto), slumber parties in our old house, close proximity to wineries, close proximity to lakes, apples, and the joyousness of friends. Be back late Sunday. xoxo

P.S. Lizzy, I made this song reference just for youuu!

Food, Glorious Food

This is a post I wrote awhile ago, which has now been cross-posted at Cooking With Ideas, a blog authored by one of my ex-professors (she is still a professor, I mean "ex" in that I am out of school...) And besides being a genuine rockstar human being, she also has a cool blog, where she writes about food in the Finger Lakes, murder mysteries (especially food involved ones), restaurant reviews, and a lot of other good things (and yours truly is listed under the Geneva-related blogs). Check it out!!

Today I’ll be bringing you food news and reviews from the neighborhood. And that neighborhood is Crown Heights! Some qualifiers before starting: 1) I have only included stores and restaurants within 10 minutes walking distance of my apartment (there is one exception, but I’ll explain that later). 2) Each entrée costs less than $10 (because that is my budget). 3.) In the interest of full disclosure, I am not a vegetarian (as my mom says, “I would be one, if bacon didn’t count,” which about sums it up), but since I am living with a vegetarian, all the places I talk about will be vegetarian focused or have strong vegetarian options. 4.) I’ve never really written about food before, so bear with me!

Well, it ain’t Wegmans: Grocery Shopping
As a born and bred Western New Yorker, I have a freakish, life-affirming devotion to Wegmans, which also includes trying to shoehorn it into any conversation whenever possible (We all know this is true. But who can blame us??). There is a Whole Foods somewhere, and I think a Trader Joes, but that’s not my scene. Since I am sans Wegmans, the store I usually go to is walkable, and has the basics. The produce is on the iffy side—which is supplemented by going to a farmers’ market—and though there are holes in the floor, the music they play is danceable Spanish, and the cashiers have a tendency to sing along. The organic section is literally one shelf at the end of an aisle, which would be funny if it wasn’t so depressing (no social hierarchy of food, my foot). Although cereal and other staples tend to be much more expensive than I’m used to, big jars of curry powder and other “unusual” ingredients tend to be less. I’ve also started eating things like guava yogurt and plaintain chips, since this store is stocked for its predominantly Hispanic and West Indian customers. I can’t attest to the meat quality or price, since I haven’t purchased any here.

Eating Out/Taking In
Some categories to consider:
Pizza—like bagels, I think it is generally hard to have a bad pizza experience in NYC, although I’ve had slices that are certainly superior to others. The best, in my opinion, is either Slice of Brooklyn on Franklin or Ginos on Washington, both which are about 2 blocks from my apartment in opposite directions. Slice of Brooklyn has a good deal on slices (2 + a can of soda for $5) while Ginos is more economical if you’re buying a whole pizza. Interestingly, I have yet to see pineapple offered as a topping anywhere, which is my favorite (I know, it’s weird). The standard pizza is thin-crust with not-overly sweet sauce, and not too much cheese.

Mexican—There is a Mexican restaurant on my street, but the one I have been to is one street over, and is delightfully called Taquería de Los Muertos. The menu isn’t huge, and I’ve only tried their burritos, but OH are they good, as well as being roughly the size of a human head. I think my favorite filling is pollo rojo with the black beans, and I usually pay the extra 50 cents to make it a “super,” so it includes guacamole. They have good vegetarian fillings, like squash, peppers, corn, and mushrooms. They also make sure to tell you which bean choices are vegetarian, too.

Thai—If I were recommending just two restaurants in Brooklyn for someone to check out, it would be these two: Udom Thai and Wild Ginger. First, Udom Thai: it is next door to the Taquería de Los Muertos, and the ambiance is great. It’s small-ish, but cozy, and there are really neat wire figures on each table (each one is different) which all hold a different colored silk flower. And the food is just dandy. My standard so far seems to be the ginger noodles, which are soft, wide noodles in a spicy, gingery sauce, with shredded chicken, eggs, bean sprouts, scallions, sliced ginger, and lettuce, which provides a good crisp element. They also have food delivery-ready in a crazy fast time. I recently tried one of the curries, and that was also really good. The second Thai restaurant, Wild Ginger, is the exception to my geographic criteria. It’s in downtown Brooklyn, and therefore a bus ride away, although they *just* opened another Brooklyn branch on Flatbush Ave, only 5ish blocks from me. I am including this restaurant not only because it was delicious, but because it was the first time I’d been to a Vegan restaurant, and it has amazingly low-priced lunch specials. I got Mango Soy Protein (I didn’t know this, but soy protein has a consistency kind of like chicken and, just like tofu, tastes like whatever you cook it in). It was served in a sweet plum sauce with generously big mango slices, green beans, peppers, and asparagus, and came with brown rice with bulgur, plus miso soup. I got a ginger ale, which I think was just club soda with shredded ginger. As someone who really likes raw ginger, I loved the tanginess. Also, they get extra points for having a really cool bathroom.

The Art of Snacking
--Mr. Softee is the usual neighborhood ice cream truck (I have seen fancier ice cream trucks with lemongrass and green tea confections, but I’ll take my vanilla soft-serve with rainbow sprinkles over that.) The best part is that a Mr. Softee truck drives by the apartment at 11:00 nightly, and parks someplace nearby. One night I heard its obnoxious siren/jingle/ice cream truck call constantly for half an hour while I was trying to read, and it began to seem like an experiment to see how long the average citizen could hear the song without turning into a raving sociopath. It just adds to their charm.
--Further up the road from the grocery store is a mostly vegan (can something be “mostly vegan,” or is that like being “mostly pregnant?”) Jamaican restaurant called Natural Blends. They have substantial food too, and my cousin swears by their veg lasagna, but all I’ve had is a smoothie and a chocolate chip cookie. The smoothie was tasty, as smoothies often are, and the cookie was large and dense, with carrot and sweet potato in it and lots of cinnamon. They have a lot of really good looking baked goods there, which I plan to test out.
--Also very important to the consummate snacker are the small convenience stores, often called bodegas, which are on nearly every corner. I have the delight of living next door to one such store, which is usually staffed by a trio of brothers, the youngest of which is probably 15 and the oldest of which is probably my age. They are dysfunctional, and it’s always an adventure stopping there (for example: everyone will be outside and the youngest one will be working the cash register and he won’t know the price of something, so he’ll take candy bars from under the counter and throw them at the window until one of the other brothers comes in to help). Corner stores are good for getting deli meats, cheese, milk, and late-night seltzer and Doritos, which is my usual purchase. I also have no shame about going there in my pajamas, and in fact have done so today. Twice.

Some of the neighborhood places that I haven’t had time to try yet boast cuisines from the Caribbean, Senegal, Vietnam, France, China, Korea, the Middle East, and Japan, not to mention bagels, burgers, fried chicken, kosher groceries, pastries, organic specialty stores, and all manner of coffee. Come to Manhattan for the culture—although Brooklyn has plenty of that, too!—but desert the island for dinner. Brooklyn will be eagerly awaiting your arrival.

Julie and Julia and Me

It's 10 pm and I am making a big pan of baked macaroni and cheese and broccoli. My usual choice post-work (which is now) is some form of sandwich, but sometimes you just feel like cooking, and the fact that I just finished reading Julie and Julia probably influenced me in some way. And it's rainy out, which automatically means I want pasta (even if it will only be ready, oh, one hour from now.) The roux looked too soupy (as my roux's often do, probably because I dumped the milk in all at once) but now that it is mixed together it looks pretty good. I drew the line at making my own bread crumbs, so I'm deluding myself that the Italian ones from the can taste the same.

It wasn't a terrible day of work, but I forgot my fork and had to eat my lunchtime salad with chopsticks that I borrowed from a co-worker, and saw a kid bite his mother, and witnessed a marital fight on the way over, and got out late and missed my bus. Worst of all, I had to do a shipping order for a woman who was buying girlie magazines to send to her son in jail, and had to spend some time explaining her why he might not get them right away, because the guards have to search incoming packages. "He really wants them," she said, and the thought of this woman buying "Hooters" for her incarcerated child was just really sad.

Macaroni and cheese makes you feel good, though, as did Julie and Julia. It's a fun, fast read. Julie Powell is sassy and (sometimes) likeable (sometimes she is heavy on the whining, but she usually redeems herself), and you really root for her (the premise of her blog and then book was that she would cook all of the recipes in Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking in one year; and she did.) AND she lived in Brooklyn! (Bay Ridge, I think, so well south of here, and she defects to Queens early on...but I still feel some solidarity.) Some of the recipes are just craziness, like Pâté de Canard en Croûte, which is duck stuffed with pork and veal and truffles and baked in a pastry crust. I also realized how many meats I've never actually tried: brains, liver, kidneys, marrow, veal, lamb--and I think I've only had duck once (that Julia is not big on vegetables, unless they are in some manner of sauce). I'd like to see the movie, too, since I think there is more Julia in that.

Julie mentions in her afterward (which is a few years later, and Julia had just died) that what really comes through in Mastering the Art of French Cooking is a woman who has found her place and purpose in life. Julia is joyful, and that's what is so groovy about her. You can see that when you watch old clips of her tv shows (and I watched a lot of Julia Child as a kid): the woman likes what she does. And she is not perfect and she occassionaly busts an omelet, but she doesn't let that stop her. GO JULIA!

If I ever get up the courage to make anything with pastry, I'll let you all know.

Ah, to be in Delft!

I like living here, truly I do. But sometimes, I would rather live in Delft, which was the painter Johannes Vermeer's (1632-1675) hometown.

(Thanks to good ol' wikipedia for the images! Who wouldn't want to live here??)
The Metropolitan Museum of Art is having a special exhibit on Vermeer through November 29th. I went this week, which is what started my whole "why don't I live in Delft?" phase, prompted mostly by the fact that en route to the Met there were some scary yelling people on the subway. But then, you look at a Vermeer and you forget about student loans and noisy, angry people and smog. Because this is what you see:

This is The Milkmaid, c. 1657-58 (thanks to Met online for the Vermeer images!), and it is in the United States for the first time since the NY World's Fair of 1939. Holland lent the painting for the 400th Anniversary Henry Hudson celebrations for his "discovery" of NY while working for the Dutch East India Company. It's one of those paintings that you look at and it feels like time stops, and all that matters is you and her, even though French tourists are shoving you in the back. Her headbent concentration as she works is a moment which is forever frozen; a moment which passed long before I was born and will live on long after I die. Thinking about death and life and immortality kind of causes a pain in my side, but regardless: this painting is cool.

The Milkmaid is about the size of Vermeer's Young Woman with a Water Pitcher, (c. 1662) which is in the Met's permanent collection with three other Vermeer paintings. If you want a boring anecdote about me, here it is: this painting is what made me decide to major in art history. I went to the Met for the first time my sophomore year of college, when I was still figuring out what to major in. I loved the art history classes I'd had, but I was also in a particularly wonderful radical-influenced political economy class, and I kept thinking that art history was pretty irrelevant to people who didn't have a place to sleep....what was the point of studying something that wouldn't do much good, anyway? So we went to the Met and I walked by this painting, and that was that. It's small, but it made me feel like the air was being suctioned out of my lungs. I looked and looked and wanted to be there, and talk to her, and see who she was. There is a wonderful stillness, just like The Milkmaid, and you can practically see the dust motes dancing in the Delft sunlight. The wall label at the Met described her as an "idealized beauty treated like a vision," but she seems real enough to me.

Even though I'd like to go to Delft, it might be better to just stick with how I've imagined it. Vermeer eating a hunk of bread and humming while mixing his paints, and contemplating whether he has enough ochre to capture the light. The girl, whoever she was,* cleaning the windows in her crisp white headcloth, while chickens scrabble over the cobblestones outside. And anyway, what if I went and the canals were polluted and the people were surly? That would be terrible. What is NOT terrible, however, is Vermeer. See these paintings in person if you can!

*A book that tries to answer this question is Girl with a Pearl Earring (after the painting of the same name) by Tracy Chevalier. I read it awhile ago, but from what I remember it was good. The book is unsurprisingly better than the movie, although the movie does have Colin Firth as Vermeer, and I would watch Colin Firth read his grocery list. I'm not even kidding.