What have I gotten myself into?

As you may already know, I have made a trip to New York for restaurant week. For the beginning of my vacation, go check out Maddie's post. Now the dining has begun.

Last night I joined Lisa at Perilla. (For those of you who watch "Top Chef," Perilla is Harold Dieterle's restaurant.)


We started with the spicy duck meatballs. Lisa had heard that these were one of the specialties. I don't recommend them for David as they are indeed spicy.


Next up was the fish special of the day -- a Montauk fluke, if I remember correctly.


And to finish it all off, gingerbread cake.

The food was delicious. The company wonderful. And fortunately I have more hours before I must dine once more. I have realized this will be quite the challenge. While I love tasting new things, I just can't seem to eat as much as I used to. And hopefully my future photos will be of better quality.

Reverting

This is probably going to be one of those posts that Nat used to love back on my old blog. All I know is that Fluffycat has been hearing my rants all week and has been saying I should just write a post about it all. Especially since there are already so many out there on the topic.

It all started on Facebook. One of my "friends" (I call the folks that I have added merely for gaming purposes "friends.") posted a link and stated how she was horrified that a publisher had an edition of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn in which the n-word had been replaced. There were all these cries of censorship. I clicked through further and saw that this edition was a response to teachers who had complained that the book had been banned in their districts because of this word but they desperately wanted to teach it.

People have argued that the removal of the word waters down the message of the book. That it is all an effort to sanitize history. That the teaching of the book in its original form allows for the discussion of race in our society. Perhaps.

If you know me, then you know that I'm a former teacher. In my years of teaching, I chose to have my classes read The Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittman. This book too contains that nefarious word. I had to figure out how to deal with a word appearing in a book that I had made clear should never be spoken in my classroom. I likened it to teaching about the caste system in ancient India. But it really wasn't the same. It was much more personal.

This is what probably made it easy for me to teach that particular book. I had 90 students -- 89 of whom were people of color. I had it easier than the white teachers in the school. My students and I shared a common unspoken history. They assumed that I would understand their feelings about race in society. Let's get real. In all my years of teaching parents of color would be overjoyed to see me in the classroom. They figured that their child was being taught by someone who could understand their history in a way that a white teacher just couldn't. Our common ground put me heads above these other teachers. I could have honest conversations with them about academic English and perceptions of others. And even more importantly, I could code switch if the situation warranted it. (Because like it or not, Ebonics is an actual dialect with linguistic rules. And if I code switch around you, it means that I am very comfortable with you and so can let my guard down.)

But back to Huckleberry Finn and the whole brouhaha. My first complaint is that everyone seems to be upset with the publisher. They are in business to make money. They identified a need and they have tried to fill it. That's the American way. They are not the people with whom you should be angry.

If you want to be angry, get angry with the people who created the need for this new edition -- the school districts that have banned the book. Now things get tricky. Because how public education is structured in this country, you can only really protest if you live in an affected district. So that then brings up the question of a nationally standardized education system. Without that, you can talk until you're blue in the face and still not make change.

I have also taken issue with the doubt in teachers' abilities. Yes, it is clear that those who want to ban books have no faith in the ability of teachers to handle the material well with students. Of course the same could be argued of those who are crying censorship. Really? A good teacher cannot convey the ideas of racism present in the book without this word being included? Seems like these people do not believe in public school teachers as well.

Have I mentioned that my first year teaching, I had to teach ancient Israel -- from a textbook in which the chapter was almost completely made of Biblical quotes? And that I had a student whose parents are atheists. But they had no doubt in my ability to handle the material appropriately in the classroom and instead had issue with the district's approval of the use of the book in the classroom. Oh, and the reason why I thought of this? Race and religion? Both protected classes. As well as gender. But really it gets down to the fact that I was fortunate enough to be in a community in which the parents trusted me to handle difficult topics well - whether it be highly controversial or watered down. Also how does one draw the line between acceptable and offensive? Who gets to draw the line? There have been many cases that the objection to the n-word in the work in question was raised by blacks. So their continued pain is OK for the common good? And what is this common good?

My other issue has been the feeling that some have had that the inclusion of this word opens up conversation. Sorry but I'd like to see some empirical data on this. In a population that is mostly made up of people of color, it really doesn't. Well maybe it would have if I hadn't taken advantage of other teachable moments earlier in the school year. People of color are aware on a daily basis of the role that race plays in this society. Frankly the whole argument over this past week has felt like white people trying to show how progressive and accepting they are. "We are incensed. These are things that we should be discussing." Nice lip service but are you really discussing it all? Are you trying to get to the heart of it all? If you are not, then as the saying goes, "If you are not a part of the solution, you're a part of the problem." All I've seen is a bunch of posturing without sincere effort. Here's the thing. I dare you to ask a person of color if they are not aware of the impact of race in our society. Frankly there's only one group of people who need to be made aware of this. But they're too busy patting themselves on the back that we have a black man as President.

As the week has progressed, more thoughts have swarmed through my head. "A classic"? I challenge you to look at the list of books that are considered to be classics in this country. Now I want you to tell me the percentage of those books that were written by women or people of color. Yes, white men wrote the majority of the classics; they are the ones who had access to publishing. Knowing this last part, are we to treat all their books as some Holy Grail or the like? I mean would we feel the same way about their books if other authors had been given equal access at the time? I don't know about you but I'm tired of someone who is nothing like me defining who I am -- whether it's about how I should look, act or read.

I also dare you to look at a banned book list and see how many of the books deal with themes of race or gender. And instead of saying, "This is wrong," I want you to take it one step further. I want you to ask why this happens still today. And then I want you to think of ways to change this. This means doing more than complaining about how this is wrong; it may even mean you putting yourself on the line.

Frankly I'm getting tired of trying to reach out to people who don't really want change -- even if they proclaim that they are open to change. (Saying you want change but not doing something concrete about? Yep. You're in this category.) I am tired of giving my perspective to people who tell me that I'm wrong and can't really know. Since I'm that silly black woman girl. (Hmmm. Just got me thinking. The editors were wrong. They should have used "boy" instead of "slave." Because "boy" feels just like that other word, just a little more polite.) I dare you to have real conversations. To make real change. It's time to put your money where your mouth is.

Self-parenting

You spend over 40 years raising them and you think to yourself that by the time they're in their 60s, it's OK to kick your parents out of the nest. Silly me.

It started an envelope found in my mother's mailbox on December 24. According to the information in it, my father's two rental properties were up for foreclosure. I wrote on Facebook that I was beyond livid. And then I let it go.

This was followed by a phone call from a cousin last night. A quick internet search verified the information. My father had lost the house he had had with my stepmother since 1986. Called my cousin back and then a few other relatives as well as close family friends. No one knew. One of my uncle's responded to the news with, "Nothing happens without God's permission." By the time I got to the fourth or so phone call I could no longer hold back the tears.

My father had sent me a text message this past week saying how he had missed my presence at Christmas dinner. I chose last night to respond. "Did you bother to remove anything from the house before the bank sold it in the foreclosure? Like photos? You continually lie and that's why I can't be around you. As I said before, I wish you well in life but you can't be a part of mine."

He replied this morning. Explained that he is a recovering alcoholic (because apparently wine is not alcohol) and that lying is part of his disease. I know. But it's still lie after lie. That he plans on making amends to all those he has hurt. That he's dealing with the foreclosure and is trying to buy the house back from the people who bought it. (Ummm. Apparently they are already living in the house. And they bought it for less than half of the market value.) And the closer? That he really needs me to be his daughter again. My mother says that my response to all of this should be, "Fuck you." I am thinking, "There is no need to make amends to me as there is nothing you can say or do that would ever make me trust you again."

Fortunately I had today off from work. So after a few more tears this morning, I realized that I was hungry. And I wanted beef. Comfort foods. Because sometimes that's how I take care of me.

The summer I was ten, my grandmother bought me the cookbook pictured above. (Silly me forgot to include the cookbook in the photo.) I read through it and prepared my first dinner ever. Meatloaf, mashed potatoes and peas with pearl onions. This time I added gravy. And I decided to use a little more "grown-up" recipe. It was just what I needed.

Identity

This time of year brings out a myriad of emotions for me.

As a kid I had no patience for surprises. Put a present under the tree and tell me that I must wait for several days to see what's inside? Well I'll just carefully slide under the tape to see the end of the package and then reseal it.

Reminds me of a conversation I had with my boss recently. I told him that I prefer when people are blunt. None of that trying to guess one's way though the minefield; one knows completely what one's standing is. This was in response to being told that others don't like "my attitude." Attitude from my part is a response to a lack of communication or a lack of respect. But then I pointed out to my boss that even if the lack of communication is on someone else's part, the end result is my fault. I'm getting tired of cleaning up other people's messes.

Back to the surprise thing. Surprises are good. Just don't make me wait days, weeks for them. Because I will carefully peel back the tape on the end of the package to see what's in there. This would be why after I turned 11 or 12, my mother stopped putting name tags on her Christmas gifts. This just meant that I peeked at them all of the packages and guessed which were mine.

At seventeen I stopped going to church. (My parents are Presbyterian.) This should not have been a surprise to my parents. I had gone to church, attended Sunday school, been an active member of the youth group for years.

I was 12 or 13 when I first began to question. I asked my mother about those years she did scientific research work. How she balanced her faith with her belief in science. Her answer was that she left her religious beliefs at the door -- much like African Americans leave their cultural identity at the door in corporate America. It made sense to me at the time.

At 17 I decided that I was agnostic. The summers that I was 18 through 20, I would pass the family church every day on my way home from work. The pastor would be out front sweeping the stoop and I would stop to chat with him. I would ask him questions about faith and other belief systems. He never once suggested that I return to the church. The only time I set foot back in that church after age 17 was for his memorial service. Because I had to say goodbye to the person who had christened me but had also respected my choice to walk away from it all.

Christmas? It bothers me greatly because it's a part of that life I've been trying to escape. It's not that I hate people who celebrate Christmas. What gets to me is the lack of respect for those who claim to be Christian toward those who are not Christian. The idea that being American is Christian bothers me. OK. Let's get real. It's the idea that one is white, heterosexual and Christian that is OK. If one does not fall into all of these categories, then one is suspect. And I go into work each day and feel like that if you fall into the latter two, then the first can be forgiven on some part.

I have walked through life feeling like I have to hide away a part of myself. That if I let this part show, I am somehow less.

But there has always been that one person who has been the best at seeing the real me. That person who asked me in October if I wanted to take a peek at my gift since she knew my habit of peeling back the tape. That person who knew that I fell in love with drinking tea at age nine and has seen my eyes light up ever since when I see a tea set. Unlike my father who tells me to pretend to be someone I'm not because that makes everything better. And who would never have bought me this gift because he knows so little about me.

I know that when my mother is gone, I will pull out this tea set and remember all of this. That no matter how crazy she makes me, she knows me so well. Like last year when she gave me a cookbook on Indian cooking. She knows my passions without even asking. And that's a rare thing.

I originally posted this on November 28 but promptly took it down after others suggested that I send the text to my mother. I then became paranoid that with her limited computer skills she would use my words to find this blog. Yeah, I know it sounds all kind of crazy. But then again most of you do not know my mother. Those who do know how unbalanced her presence makes me.

The flavor of the season

Last week I joined my friend Emerald for happy hour at the Lake Chalet. I've read mixed reviews on the place but it's a great place for happy hour. It will be even better when the weather becomes warm again and one can sit on the deck overlooking Lake Merritt. I do worry about playing the "What's that smell?" game however. (I still deeply love the ghostridin' portion of the video. Makes me want to head on down to Ghost Town. OK. Maybe not.)

I started off with the Lake Chalet's happy hour special of a Stoli Ginger Cosmo -- Stoli, lime, cranberry and housemade ginger syrup. I then moved on to the Dark and Stormy, pictured above. This contained rum, ginger beer, ginger syrup and lime juice.

After my outing, Maddie told me about a fabulous Ginger Sidecar -- or two or three that had been consumed recently. (Maddie had forgotten my caution that one should never consume more than two Sidecars in a single evening.) This involved fresh ginger being muddled with the brandy and cointreau.

The nail in the coffin? I was perusing the alcohol aisle at the large chain grocery store and spied a bottle of the new Ginger Infused Skyy Vodka. So yeah, I grabbed a bottle. Definitely a ginger kick.

While out today wandering the grocery store with no written list (a dangerous thing for me), I suddenly remembered ginger syrup. So out came the iPhone and as I had suspected, the recipe was simple. 3/4 cup sliced ginger (no need to peel), one cup of sugar, and two cups of water. Boil for about ten minutes. Then cool and strain.

I promptly mixed up a Dark and Stormy. Verdict? Less sugar next time. Like probably half as much. Went well with the sandwich of turkey, cranberry sauce and horseradish though.

Left to my own devices

For the last two years I have picked up food from Poulet for Thanksgiving. This year I decided it was time to return to cooking. Flufficat will tell you that I spent weeks debating turkey or ham before finally deciding for both.

This year there were some old favorites like the roasted yams and red onions. They are then tossed with some Parmesan cheese and rosemary. There were a few new things as well though.

I made some attempts to copy things I've had from Poulet. The dressing was made with foccacia and has chard and sage in it. The gravy is a madeira giblet cream. I highly recommend it.

And I decided to make an attempt at scalloped potatoes. Nestled between the layers of potatoes are sauteed leeks and mushrooms.

The final new thing was the cranberry sauce. Yes, I have made it before but this is the Cosmopolitan cranberry sauce. After cooking the cranberries with water and sugar, you add some vodka and triple sec. When I told this to Kate on the phone this morning, she said that it sounded like a version of Jell-O shots.


Hope you all have had a wonderful Thanksgiving. I need to continue working my way through this plate.

Honesty

Yes, I am still here. When I started blogging nearly six years ago, it was all about being honest. The thing is that sometimes I just don't feel like being honest with the world at large. So first I'd like to share the photos I have taken over the last two months. Because I took them with the intention of writing posts.


The weather turned chilly but I had a taste for ribs. For the first time ever I slow cooked them in the oven. Usually I grill ribs. But after tasting these ribs, they just might be a year-round thing.

And then I found a bunch of recipes I wanted to try -- I believe it was an issue of Sunset -- and so I invited Fluffycat over.


We started with this Romesco soup.


And there was a Caesar salad with homemade dressing and parmesan toast crisps.


Caramelized shallots and walnuts.


Grilled beef roast stuffed with basil, sage and thyme.


Pear pecan upside down cake.

And then this past week Dungeness crab season started. The first crab I had, I simply heated with melted butter on the side. For the second (and third) I decided to try something new to my kitchen.


Oven roasted crab. Roasted in a mixture of butter and olive oil containing garlic, shallots, red pepper flakes, parsley and thyme. Once roasted, I removed the crab and added fresh orange juice to the pan juices. The reduced pan juices were poured over the crab.

So yeah. This is basically what I have eaten over the last two months. Because I decided to take yet another trip down the rabbit hole. It used to be that I would end up there by accident but sometime in the last ten years or so, I decided that it was OK to willingly take a trip there. I say to myself, "Let's just take the ride and see where we end up, " even though a part of me knows this could all end up badly.

I am "better" now. Today I had some tea and a bagel with cream cheese at work. And then I came home and had the last of the crab. And about a third of a chicken breast. I don't need to log the food anymore because I eat so little that it's easy to remember it all. I eat small amounts because my brain tells me that my stomach is full quite early these days. Except for that day that I went to Fenton's a month ago. Then I was able to consume both the crab salad sandwich and a jumbo banana shake. OK. So maybe that was my only food for the day but still. Oh and I would have taken photos for y'all but it was a date and I didn't want to seem too strange.

Bottom line is that I held off on posting because I didn't feel like sharing this stuff. Me and my disordered eating. But hey. Depending on the day, I am 12-15 pounds lighter than I was a year ago. And over the last month or so, I stopped losing weight but did lose inches. Because this past weekend I did actually get into my size 27 People's Liberation jeans -- something I've never been able to do since I bought them. Yes, they were snug but they actually zipped. And yeah, maybe this helps to feed the disordered eating. But there was that one evening a few weeks ago that I caught my reflection and actually thought that I was thin. I can't ever remember thinking that in my life. Since I was 12, all I have seen when I look in the mirror are places in which I could lose weight. I like to think that the last couple of weeks have been better. Except for that time period when the hormones fucked with my head. Because they do that.

Honestly I haven't wanted to put this all out there because I've heard all the responses that people make. Not fishing for compliments or anything else. Just saying this is who I am and where my head has been.

And now? I have a bunch of food in the fridge that I plan to cook for Thanksgiving. It's been three years since I've cooked. It will be just me and the cats, just like the other years when I cooked. This will just be the first year that I will cook and won't be able to dump leftovers on my aunt. Because from what I hear, I potentially have another year to go on this whole grieving thing. Each day gets better though.