spring has sprung

If you are reading this from a computer at a desk in an office, you may or may not be aware of this, but your presence is needed elsewhere. Specifically: outside. Where the sun is shining, the bulbs are blooming, and the college kids are skipping class. If I may, I suggest that you proceed to the nearest soda machine and buy two of whatever they're selling. Put one in your bag and pour the other over your computer's keyboard and inner workings, rendering it useless for the rest of the afternoon. Then liberate yourself from the fluorescent lights and paper jams and TPS reports. Get thee outside post-haste.

For once, spring appears to have arrived before I had the chance to have a good meltdown over how impossibly long the winter is. Yes, Skeptics, there is still time for an April Fool's Nor'easter, but I will be safely located on the left coast when that time arrives.

fish-out-of-water syndrome

I was standing off to the side of the counter, waiting for my medium decaf coffee with steamed two-percent milk, when she approached the cashier. The coffee shop is one of those where everyone inside looks a bit alike--blessed with riches, either financial or intellectual or fashion-forward, with the same glasses and hair products and Cambridge zip codes. If they have tattoos, they are the friendly kind that bespeak peace or butterflies or anyway nothing threatening. But this woman looked nothing like everyone else there. She read the overhead menu nervously, and she spoke with a booming voice.

"CAN I HAVE STEAMED MILK IN AN ICED COFFEE?" she asked the woman behind the counter (and, by dint of her volume, everyone else in the vicinity). The cashier was friendly and explained that the hot milk would likely melt the ice, which is why most people prefer it in hot coffee. Together, they went over the options on the menu and eventually arrived on a decision.

It reminded me of situations where I was painfully aware that I was that thing that doesn't look like the others. Whether it's at a party or a bike rally or a macaroni-decoupage-scrapbooking class or whatever. Like the time we were eating in a restaurant, and the menu was all in some language we didn't speak, so we scanned for something--anything--that looked familiar. When the waiter came around, Burton pointed to the thing he'd decided on--just for the sake of an example let's say it was grilled whole trout, encrusted with tortilla chips and served with avocado, cilantro, and lime sauce, over a bed of jasmine rice, with a side of zucchini. Burton looked up at the waiter and said, "I'll have the [insert foreign word for lime sauce here], please." And I said, "I'll take the encrusted."

You'd better believe the waiter looked at us the way the $200-jean-wearing coffee patrons looked at the steamed-milk lady. But we've all been there. And I say you have to be able to laugh at yourself--and fast, too, before everyone else beats you to it.

la poire

so long, old gal

When I worked at Wellesley College, part of my job involved keeping on top of the class secretaries and their quarterly deadlines for the alumnae magazine. Most secretaries were e-mail-able, so we conducted our business electronically. But the 1928 secretary, understandably, preferred hand-written letters and telephone calls. Helen lived in Wellfleet, on Cape Cod, and over the course of our feature-film-length chats, she would estimate the height of her snow drifts and tell me about the deer, raccoons, and other creatures who came calling. "Sometime you'll have to come out here and see all this for yourself," she'd invariably say.

So one day, I took her up on the offer and drove the three hours to Wellfleet. We were to be having tea with one of her friends, a fellow nonagenarian and Wellesley grad, so I brought a box of fresh cookies and a bouquet of spring flowers. As we set the table, Helen careened about the kitchen in her wheelchair, looking quite a bit more frail in person than she had ever sounded on the phone. But she lived alone and managed just fine, she always told me. And she had the support of a big family--the kind with the sprawling group photos.

Helen told me about her career as a dancer (she worked with Martha Graham) and showed me photos from her honeymoon, not long after she graduated in 1928, when she and her beloved flew across the Atlantic to Paris in the tiniest of airplanes. I took photos of Helen and her friend and published them in the magazine--which was both exhilarating and a bit mortifying for someone as humble and unassuming as Helen. But not long afterwards, the friend passed away, and Helen told me how difficult it is to bury so many friends. And then, quite unexpectedly, her son died. Helen was wrecked. Sometimes our conversations never got past the subject, and I started taking over her class-secretary duties.

In time, her humor returned. When I turned 30, she told me that was the oldest she'd ever felt in life. When I told her I was leaving Wellesley to work on an organic farm, she was overjoyed. We talked about staying in touch, about the possibility of another visit. While I thought of her often, we never spoke again.

I was thinking about Helen the other day and asked the folks at the magazine if they'd heard from her lately. They hadn't. Today, I learned that she passed away on Sunday, at the age of 98, surrounded by family and a legacy of stories and friendships and memories. That's the way to do it, old gal.

getting sauced

One of the things that Burton and I have shared, since as early as our second date (see number 21 of this post, is a blind but profound love for the empire of produce known as Whole Foods. In fact, you could trace our relationship through the aisles we've frequented: from the Fresh Fields in upper-northwest DC, where like pilgrims to Mecca we were drawn every night, to the sprawling Bread and Circus in Newton and now the Whole Foods in Fresh Pond (although the River Street location, with its wine department and oversized cheese section, is preferred for weekend trips).

When, in far-away offices, their team of marketers suggest, "Let's get some actors in dirty overalls in here and charge $5 a pop for these Vermont-grown potatoes," our mouths start watering and words like "rosti" spring to mind and we run to the nearest Whole Foods, not understanding our urgent need for potatoes but powerless to deny it. We are totally their bitches.

So one day about five years ago, fingering the goods in the Newton store, we stumbled on what--even in Whole Paycheck--seemed impossible: a $10 jar of tomato sauce. Is it mispriced? No? Then it must be from the last batch of award-winning sauce made by someone's Italian great-grandmother before her death, whereupon the secret recipe expired with her. No? Then what's the big fucking deal with this sauce?

As we stood there, reading the ingredients and trying to make sense of the madness, a woman walked by. "It is worth every. penny." She paused, reached for a jar from the shelf, and repeated it. "Every. penny." Since we are, as I have suggested, card-carrying suckas, we bought a jar. And it was, I must say, really good.

Fast-forward to present day: I am shopping at the less-overpriced grocery store in town when I see my old $10 friend on the shelf. In a moment of weakness, I put it in my cart. But this time, the taste isn't nearly as write-homeable. Maybe it's me. Maybe they've changed the recipe. Or maybe it's because now we're a nation at war. Anyway, the love affair is over.

In its place, I would like to leave you with this recipe, with credit to Marcella Hazan, for The Best Sauce This Side of the Pond. Make extra, because you'll be eating it with a spoon.

Put a 28-ounce can of tomatoes and their juices in a pot with a medium onion, cut in half, and five tablespoons of butter (for the love of all that is fatty and good, do NOT use olive oil and do NOT skimp on the butter). Cook uncovered at a gentle simmer for about 45 minutes, stirring from time to time. Add salt to taste. Before serving, discard the onion and whiz it up in a food processor. Or don't. But do charge your friends. $10 a bottle seems like a good starting point.

my selective attention deficit disorder

The headline read, "Wallace to stop being '60 Minutes' regular." I clicked on it, simultaneously disappointed to learn that I'd been missing Wallace and Gromit on TV (how long had they been on? do they report on news events? is there cheese involved?), while also pleased for the pair and their come-uppance on national network television. I clicked through three pictures of that farty old news man, Mike Wallace, in search of my toothy animated friends, before I figured out my mistake.

you gotta know when to hold 'em, know when to roll 'em

On the T this morning, a woman sat on me. Well, she sat on one of my legs. I think her aim was off. Other things were off, too. Like her judgment. As soon as the train got underway, she started digging for nose treasure. She found one faster than you can say "hand sanitizer." She pulled it out, looked it over, then started rolling. At first, it stuck to her thumb. So she rolled it again, and then it wouldn't let go of her index finger. When patience ran thin, she wiped it on her purse. Between Harvard and Charles Street, where I got off the train, she found two more nuggets. Each one, rolled and flicked. Watching them spring from her fingers and hoping I could predict their direction, I renewed my vow to myself to set sail in a rowboat with no oars at the first sign of my own mental decline.

on keeping raindrops from falling on your head

Walking the dog through a steady drizzle in Davis square this morning, I noticed that everyone had their umbrellas open. The sidewalks aren't wide, so everyone took a turn in the you-lean-this-way-I'll-lean-that-way dance, to avoid eyeball injury. As I bobbed and weaved, I thought about the unwritten social code that mandates participation in this dance. And those people who choose to sit out: Do they not know better? Are they oblivious? Do they have it out for my eyeballs?

It reminded me of a weekend spent in New York City with friends from New Mexico. (Stay with me--you'll see how this relates. Really.) It was their first trip to the Big Apple, and they spent it with heads tilted back, a la Pez form, in constant awe. In advance, they had compiled a list of things they wanted to see--the Statue of Liberty, the World Trade Center site, Macy's, the Flatiron building, the Empire State Building. Things they'd seen on TV or in the movies, basically. We walked the city, crossing destinations off the list, covering miles and miles of sidewalk on foot.

But there was something else that hadn't even made the list, something they'd never witnessed and hadn't thought to anticipate: a rainy day. Sure, it rains in New Mexico. But they don't get the all-day-dumpers that we see here. In fact, they get so little of it--and in such short bursts--that this pair had never even used an umbrella. Let me say that again, in case you missed it: They had never used an umbrella. In all their lives, people. Even now, a few years later, it still doesn't quite make sense to me, but there you have it.

So we get a full day of rain in New York City. And we hand over wads of wet cash to the guys hawking umbrellas on the street, because what else were we to do? As we walk, umbrellas open overhead, one of the New Mexicans says, "I feel so self conscious with this thing. I'm not even sure how to use it."

How to use an umbrella? It had never occurred to me that this was a learned skill. But there you have it. So the lesson is: Next time some ass nearly takes out your eye with his umbrella, give him the benefit of the doubt. He might be from New Mexico.

there'll be crocuses to bring to school tomorrow

bad review revue

Matthew Baldwin, the genius behind Defective Yeti, takes a look back at past Oscar winners--and the critics who hated them--in this article at the Morning News. It's like a take on his Bad Review Revue, a semi-regular feature at Yeti.

Readers know that I'm always gratified when the wreck that was Titanic is panned, and in this case I have Barbara Shulgasser from the San Francisco Chronicle to thank: Although the film won the 1998 Oscar for best costumes, Shulgasser writes, “No amount of excellent period costuming and brilliant set decoration can substitute for a good story and decent acting." Too true.

But my favorite bad review OF ALL TIME was posted on Yeti long ago and written by someone I regrettably can't remember for the 1999 Brendan Fraser flop, Blast From the Past: "A blast from my ass would be more entertaining." Damn, I wish I wrote that.

invetigation* in progress

A federal agent came calling yesterday. She introduced herself and flopped open her ID, just like they do in the movies. She was conducting a background check on my neighbor, who has applied for some sort of security clearance, she explained. "Do you mind if I come in?"

We sat down, all formal-like, and she explained the process: She would ask the questions, I would provide the answers to the best of my ability. It sounded like we were going to be all business, until my dog sauntered into the room, whereupon The Fed melted. Really. She lost it. I have mentioned before in this space how impossibly cute he is. (For examples, look at this, this, this, and this, where I let him speak for himself. This is not at all to be encouraged, but still.) This woman was what is called a total sucka. She lost her focus. "Has your neighbor abused illegal drugs? And LOOK at those EYES!" she said. "What's his name?" She told me about the cocker spaniels she had while growing up, and how this dog was even cuter than those AND her children combined.

But there was an interview to conduct. Between sighs, The Fed pressed on: "Does she own land in a foreign country? Is she close with any foreign nationals? Do you have to brush him often?"

By this point, we were getting perhaps too comfortable with each other: "Is she planning to"--barely holding herself together--"overthrow the government?" she asked with a huge guffaw. "I thought that maybe this time I'd get that question out without laughing, but I blew it!" And so we went, laughing about how likely it is that my neighbor hacks into government databases, hangs with shady characters, or operates under false names. Serious business, this.



*Thank you for pointing out this misspelling. It saddens me that you don't watch enough of "The Office" to recognize a Gareth Keenan reference. Get thee to a DVD player. Stat.

pimpin in the air

I happened to be watching when Hustle & Flow's "It's Hard Out Here For a Pimp" won best original song at the Oscars on Sunday. I happened to have the movie at home from Netflix, so I watched it Monday night. Then this morning, waiting for me in my inbox happened to be the first necessary step for getting street cred as a playa: having a name that gets respect. Get yours here.

And please call me Trick Magnet jenny Flow from now on. Shizzle that.

(Shout out to the Reverend Jarman Smooth for the tip.)

dominica: the best caribbean island you've probably never heard of

No, it's not the Dominican Republic, but everyone thinks that. This one sits between Guadalupe and Martinique, all green and lush and a total snoozer for the cruise-ship crowd. Pronounced dom-in-EE-ka, the island is named after the Latin word for Sunday, the day of the week that Columbus found it. But the neither-shy-nor-retiring Caribs kicked his ass off their shores--as well as those belonging to the English and French who tried in vain to settle there--until 1805, when the UK finally colonized it. The island won its independence in 1978 and elected the Caribbean's first female prime minister in 1980. Its 290 some-odd square miles are covered in rainforest, volcanoes, and banana plantations on impossibly steep slopes.

While we were there, we ate coconuts, star fruit, and grapefruit right off the tree, warmed by the sun. We saw cinnamon trees, ginger, cocoa, and banana trees. Today, in the cold of winter, I'm wishing I were back at the market, under the Caribbean sun, deciding which fruits to have for tomorrow's breakfast. Helas.

knitting madness

For the last six years, I have been knitting a sweater for Burton. For the non-knitters in the audience, I should say that sweaters are no small deal. They are big. Huge, even. They have hems and sleeves and seams. And, unlike scarves, they need to fit in a very specific way. Which is a lot to ask.

Adding insult to injury, Burton wanted cables (but let's not blame him: he didn't know any better). So a cabled sweater it would be. Only, as the project got underway, I developed a severe and unabiding loathing for cables. Nevertheless, I cabled and cabled and cabled, hating it more and more with each twisted stitch. Until I hated it so much that I threw it down in disgust and forgot about it for five years. And by "forgot," I mean that I pretended to have better things to do, but really it cried out to me from the darker nether regions of the hall closet: "Can't you face me, you cable coward?" It taunted me. It took advantage of my weaknesses. The sweater-that-was-not prevented me from holding down jobs. I developed a rash. It got in the way of my relationships.

So. Sometime last year, on a day when there was probably something even worse I should have been doing (like filing taxes or meeting a writing deadline), I dusted off the plastic bag and looked inside. About eight inches of the front panel of the sweater stared back up at me, begging to be put out of its misery. "Please, just let me go with dignity," it sobbed. "I don't want to live anymore."

I am a woman of compassion. And I believe in new beginnings. So I pulled the work off the needle and, slowly at first, tugged at the end of the yarn, watching each stitch work itself loose. Then I let 'er rip. Outside, a flock of doves took flight into a beam of morning light, while a harp struck a major chord. Ok, fine, that didn't happen, but you weren't there, how can you argue? Anyway, it felt fucking awesome.

And I started over. With a new pattern and new resolve. And this week, after overcoming my fear of sewing in a zipper, I finished! The sweater made its first public appearance last night: Burton wore it to visit some friends, who said upon his entrance, "That's a great sweater!"

At least that's what Burton told me. I wasn't actually there. But I choose to believe him.

So, in this moment of giddy excitement, I'm beginning my third sweater. (We don't speak about the first one.) And I am resolved to finish it within The Month. The month beginning on the first day of the next full month. Or something. Oh, internet, I am going to regret this. You'll see. But new beginnings, right?