Pizza Bagels

A few years ago I became friends with a local comedian who has an identical family makeup to my own: an Italian dad, a Jewish mom and a younger, same-sex sibling. We traded hilarious stories about what it was like to grow up with such, err, "animated" parents and he clued me in on the official term for children with this particular ethnic heritage: Pizza Bagels!*

As a result of this mixed background, our family holiday traditions don't really follow a standard set of practices. For example, while we do celebrate Christmas (woot!), our holiday breakfast usually consists of an elaborate spread of fresh bagels, lox and all the fixings. And once we've opened our presents, we drive over to my mom's sister's house where for many years we spent the day with our Jewish grandparents, eating noodle kugel (pudding) while gazing at their Christmas tree...erected by my aunt's Greek husband...who would often make a big tray of baklava for dessert. The whole thing is kind of comedic, really, yet to us it was just the way things were done.

This year, my sister, her boyfriend and I flew to NJ to spend Christmas at home. On Christmas Eve, we all hopped in the family car to participate in our long-standing tradition of driving through town, admiring the lumanaria bags that line the streets. Secretly, this is a chance for my parents to check out everyone's holiday decorations, commenting on who did a respectable job with their lights and who went overboard this year. Meanwhile, my sister and I (and now Jon) sit in the back seat and fight over whether the radio volume and/or heat should be turned up or down.

As we were driving around this year, we came upon a house that admittedly could have looked a little neater. A mishmash of colored lights were draped haphazardly over unkempt hedges behind holiday-themed robotic Santas that popped in and out of plastic chimneys at random intervals. My mom took one glance at the set-up and deemed it an "ungepatchke" display. Nodding in agreement, my dad scoured, flicked his wrist as if to write it off and called it "shongod" as we turned the corner.

Now, of course, my sister and I knew that my mom found the display to be overdone (ungepatchke in Yiddish) and my dad thought the whole thing was a complete mess (shongod in Italian--spelling?). Meanwhile, Jon--a North Carolina boy with a Southern accent to boot--had no idea what anyone was talking about. Not really one to upset the flow, he simply shrugged his shoulders and continued to look at the decorations under consideration.

The next day, we went to my aunt's house for our usual Christmas celebration. This year, we ate a Christmas ham accompanied by a Greek salad. Then we debated which of our Yiddish names was the biggest mouthful (my cousin Jane won with Zusa-Zisse)...and laughed until my mom declared her kishkas hurt.


*Some people prefer Jewtalian and others Matzagna (matzoh + lasagna), but I'm partial to Pizza Bagel.

"A guy from small town NJ"

For those of you who haven't heard me kvell about Heb's little bro, Travis, and his uberhip restaurant in Venice Beach, the time has come. Vogue featured him in their January 2009 issue in a piece called "Date with Destiny" and I'm brimming with pride. Apparently, our little Trav is part of "a new generation of talent...blazing its way to superstardom." Hells yeah he is! Check it:

Small print above reads:

"My job as a chef is to kind of get out of the way, says Travis Lett. That which he’s making room for includes heirloom tomatoes, spinach, and kale—fantastic locally grown goodies that this 31-year-old chef uses to make dishes to richly colored, one might mistake them for works by Howard Hodgkin. Lett’s restaurant, Gjelina, opened in 2008 in Venice, CA. “We”—Lett has two partners, including an Albanian who supplied the name—“set out to open a modest, humble restaurant.

They succeeded. Gorgeous hipsters* pack the place for dishes like pizza with shaves asparagus, shallot confit, farm egg, sottocenere al tartfuo, and Parmesan. It’s the stuff of dreams for a guy from small town New Jersey who saw himself as an artist [and still keeps a studio]."

Note: Chatham, NJ has really proven itself over the past few years. Not only did we produce Trav, who is blazing his way to culinary superstardom, but we also churned out Francis Koenig, better known to his home town locals as "Marty." And what did our Marty do? Well, he founded AdultVest, the first institutional investment company focusing exclusively on sex industry related investments, which I can assure you, involved blazing in one form or another. Yeah boy!

Stay tuned for more superstars from the 07928.

*such as Heb and me

Get Down On It

On Saturday, I attended what may be the best 80s-themed holiday party to have ever existed outside the actual 1980s...or ever for that matter. The following events transpired between the hours of 8pm and 1am:

1. I saw this cake on one of many, many dessert tables, and YES, it's reeeeally a cake:


2. I high fived a sweaty member of Kool & the Gang after they performed this song on stage (for realz):

.

3. I got to watch blacked-out corporate people pose for professional prom-style photos (using props like antler ears from the treasure trove prop box) that were then projected onto a big screen and therefore subjected to our animal shadow puppetry. I also got to be one of those people, experimenting with what I envisioned to be festive poses. Now that the pics are back, I'm questioning if "festive" is really the right word. You be the judge. Following is Exhibit A (email me for Exhibits B through Oops).

4. I snapped this photo of my partner in crime who was clad in his actual Bar Mitzvah suit from 1987 (suit also featured above).

It Takes (More Than) a Village

For some people, the holiday season officially begins with the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade. Others mark its kickoff with the first sparkling of Christmas lights around town...or perhaps with the first holiday rager. A rule of thumb used by one of my friends in DC is that the holidays are officially in effect the day that coffee shops first offer eggnog lattes...which seems fair. Well, for me, it's when I see that evite in my inbox, announcing the annual Morgan Cookie Party.

Thrown by my friends Matt and Sam Morgan every December (for the past 10 years!), this cookie decorating extravaganza encourages some good 'ole fashion cut throat competition where participants vie for the coveted title of "Best Cookie" (one performance class for kids and another for adults). And this Christmas party ain't no free for all. Nope--either follow the rules or get the f out...cause Santa's watchin'. The way it works is:

• Pre-party: Sam bakes batches upon batches of cookies (both sugar and gingerbread) in all shapes and sizes. They also prepare 10+ colors of icing and purchase a ridiculous amount of of sprinkles and other shiny cookie toppings that would out-sparkle even the most dedicated candy ravers.


• Guests arrive any time on the day of the party to join the hosts for eggnog, wine, and other festive libations to enhance one's creativity juice flow. Prior to go time, some cookie artists aid one another in brainstorming design concepts while others keep their edible brainchildren under wraps. I have a feeling that certain participants plan designs in advance...kind of like those pumpkin carvers who look up Jack-o-lantern creations online and then recreate them. You know the type.


• To pump up the competitors, Matt and Sam display photos of the winning cookies from the past 10 years. See my favorite above (entitled "Bacon 'n Eggs"). Some previous winners such as "Acoustic Guitar" and "Snow Globe" remain frozen in the Morgan's fridge all year and are brought back to life for one day as inspiration.


• At 4pm, and not a minute before, Matt jingles Santa's proverbial bell and people are free to begin building their masterpiece. At this time, the crowd moves from the bar area to the dining room table which now resembles a kindergarten art class. Anxious/intoxicated cookie artists crowd around bowls of colorful icing, cups full of glimmering sprinkles and a selection of shaping tools (no outside materials or implements permitted)...and the madness begins.


• For the next 3 hours, cookie artists use their paper plates as paint palates, mixing icing colors and experimenting with its consistency. The child participants struggle not to devour their masterpiece while the adults attempt to control their language despite the fact that they've been pounding eggnog for multiple hours and just accidentally drizzled green icing over Santa's perfectly shaped white beard. Some competitors finish their cookies in 15 minutes while others painstakingly perfect each and every square inch. And my strategy? Complete and enter as many jaw dropping cookies as possible to increase my chances for victory.


• At 7pm Matt again jingles the proverbial bell and all artists must stop dead in their tracks. The cookies are placed on the drying rack for display and the judging promptly begins. First up is the kids' class. Next up is the moment we've all been waiting for: the adult cookie competition which follows the age-old selection method known as "write your vote on a piece of paper and drop it in a hat. Cookie with the most votes wins."
  

I had a good feeling about this year. My new approach, wherein I had submitted six cookies all within one theme (the Smurfs!), seemed like a sure-fire strategy. Not only had I created a dashing Papa Smurf, a spot-on generic smurf and gorgeous Smurfette complete with brown sprinkle eye lashes, but I had also crafted a smurf mushroom house and the smurf sign that you see in the beginning of the cartoon. It was an edible smurf village. How could I lose?

Well, what I hadn't accounted for was the dark horse entry: a 3D gingerbread stripper dancing around a candy cane pole in a G-string that exposed her delicate heart tattoo, let alone a few other head turning entries. In the end, I went home with an "honorable mention"....and a refreshed faith in humanity. God bless us, every one.


My entry from a few years back: Castrobread Boy (received 3rd place)

From Awesome to Zebra

Just thought I'd share something heart warming that I found on Etsy when I was looking for my annual Arctic animals calendar: typewriter art!

Apparently, this boy named Nathan (in Chicago) can look at a picture and type it out on his manual typewriter to create a well done depiction of whatever he chooses. Not only does he type adorable animal sets that he turns into calendars (with themes like Under the Sea, Dinosaurs, Forest Creatures, Safari and Arctic Tundra) but he also types custom portraits based on personal photos. And they're good!

Another thing I find adorable is the way young Nathan describes his company: "Hello, I'm Nathan Veach. I have a lot of typewriters, typewriters, typewriters, but my favorite is a Smith-Corona Classic 12 manual typewriter.I am also in a band with my brother."

I love to think about our artist typing a portrait of his blushing lover. It would be like the scene in The Titanic where Jack paints Rose...but with a lot of clicking sounds...and a few carraige returns.

More To Life Than Handstand Piroettes?

The summer before last, I got this overwhelming urge to Double Dutch. The only problem was that I didn't know how and no matter hard I tried, simply could not figure it out. I watched YouTube videos of professional jump rope performances (rad!), I tried to learn from a few girls in the crack park near my house (fail)...I even brought Double Dutch ropes to a group campout to see if any of my friends knew how to do it (umm, they didn't). Despite my valiant efforts to successfully jump into the double ropes--and stay in there--I just could...not...do...it.

For those of you who've known me for a while, you've likely cycled through one of my "I'm-Still-An-Athlete-Damnit" phases. Marked by a myopic obsession centering around something athletic (note: can be a loose association), these phases tend to last anywhere from 3 weeks to 3 months. And they usually don't end well.

In fact, one particularly misguided phase (the Of-Course-I-Can-Skate Phase) ended with me entering myself and two friends into a 26-mile skate marathon, convinced that we were "athletic" enough to be competitive despite the fact that we had never skated more than 10 miles in preparation. By mile 12, my poor friends were exhausted and bleeding...and dropped out of the race. Instead, they spent the morning downing beers while laughing at me as I dragged myself to the finish line, ultimately coming in last place...behind a 9-year-old boy. Eek.

I blame this overzealous determination on the fact that I was a serious little gymnast throughout most of my childhood. For about 10 years, I spent three to four days a week vaulting, swinging, balancing and flipping (oftentimes to Rob Base songs, which I'm retrospectively proud of myself for). However, my unwavering commitment to the sport fell by the wayside the minute I hit puberty and realized that there was more to life than handstand pirouettes (a philosophy I'm now questioning).

Long story short, I was never as good at any other sports as I was at gymnastics (plus, it was hard to get pumped for activities that did not require shiny leotards and french braids). Yet, 20 years later, I find it difficult to think of myself as anything other than a "serious athlete," a self-imposed identity that my friend Eric is forever teasing me about. As a result, it rips my soul a little when I try out a new sport and suck hard (which is why I never told him that standing on the flying trapeze platform almost gave me a heart attack when I took lessons last year--shhh).

Fast forward to summer 2008 when I decided I would draw upon my, err, "athletic background" and learn to Double Dutch. Just when I had reached the end of my rope (ha!), I saw that a Double Dutch documentary film (called Jump!) was playing at the Roxie theatre, right around the corner from my house. Was it a sign? I dragged a friend to watch it with me and we were mesmerized. Now I reeeeally had to learn.

Striking while the iron was hot, 2 cute and stylie women about our age stood up at the end of the movie and announced that they were professional Double Dutchers aaaaaaaaaand that they taught lessons to adults right here in the city. I told them about my failed attempts and they swore they could teach me. The minute I got home, I signed up for their Intro To Double Dutch class. Understandably, my 2 friends from skate marathon fame politely declined when I asked them to join me.

Three weeks of Double Dutching stretched into 3 months, stretched into a full year and I am proud to say I can now stay in those ropes for a good long while. Eat your heart out 9-year-old skater boy. Who's got the fancy footwork now? Mmm hmmm. And one year later, I've decided it's official: I am still an athlete, damnit! Woot!

Those Double Dutch girls whom I met at the documentary (now my darling friends) weren't lying when this said they could teach me. In fact, they taught dozens of us. Check out the above video taken at our first recital a few weeks ago. Aren't we...athletic?! And our outfits are just as cool (if not cooler than) shiny leotards, don't you think? All we're missing is a little Rob Base.

So next time my athleticism comes into question (like during the hold your leg pose in Bikram class or the 3-mile run in Boot Camp or when Rick forces me to go down a big hill on a snowboard), my soul shall remain unharmed as I revel in the fact that I can Double Dutch!

Trough Times

Dear Internet,

Can 2009 be over soon? What's that you say? Just 50 more days? Ok fine, but let's make it quick, shall we?

You see, I've been having a tricky time as of late. Not only did my pretty blue wallet disappear on the 14 Mission bus on Halloween night, but then someone charged all sorts of festive items to my missing credit cards. It's true! And according to the purchase history, they really whooped it up that night. Based on the charges at "The Smoke Shop" on Mission, I'm imaginging that they bought a vaporizer, which is kind of funny, my imagination has to admit.

And since my license and house keys were IN my wallet, I had to change my door locks to prevent the stoner party from moving to my apartment. Luckily, this adorable boy that Sherry and I met at Burning Man a few years ago works as a lock smith and came right over to hook a sister up, installing very fancy new locks. Who knew there was such a thing? Seriously, my front door now sports the Rolls-Royce of dead bolts. So...I got that goin' for me, I guess.

`

Luckily, I was back up and running in time for Rick's annual birthday extravaganza . Since I've known him, the theme of Rick's birthday has always been "pork," which really gives one a lot to work with. Falling on the heels of 2 wildly successful urban pig roasts, his wife Zetta stepped it up a notch this year and added a dash of sophistication to the birthday marinade.

Not only did Ms. Zetta rent a house in wine country for a weekend-long fiesta, but this year's pig was served on real plates at an actual dining room table...as opposed to the traditional Dixie plates balanced on your lap while downing a keg beer with one hand and deflecting flying pig parts with the other (this is not a tame crew, mind you). And to top it off, the meal was concepted, prepared and served by team Robert and Barbara, who should maybe consider blowing off their respective careers as a technology powerhouse and fabulous arteest to become celebrity chefs! Talk about bringin' it. Robert even wore a monogrammed chef's outfit while prepping the meal. Meanwhile, Barbara power bottomed, complete with an authentic German accent. GoodGodIlovethosetwo!

Seriously, this badass home cooked meal was truly one of the fanciest I've ever had in my life including that one time?...in Bali? Check out the menu as written by Robert:

Rick's Pigtastic Birthday Dinner

Starters: olives, chive creme fraiche, salami
Course 1: Ginger-infused pumpkin soup
Course 2: Oink Oink (pork tenderloin wrapped with sage and prosciutto accompanied by cream roasted potatoes drizzled with manganista gravy)
Course 3: Roasted manganista pig served with bacon-wrapped green beans and parsnip puree topped with fried manganista pig and a veal reduction sauce
Course 4: Vanilla panna cotta smothered in quince sauce served with warmed Guinness whiskey and Bailey's Irish Cream Cupcakes

Read Rick's personal account of the meal here.

After a weekend full of wine, pork, and lots of laying around with full bellies and big smiles, our birthday crew returned to SF. And on the drive home, my celebration of pig came to a squeeling halt. Enter the swine flu. For realz.

As for life with the H1N1, my experience is that the test for it was WAY WORSE than the actual virus. Seriously, The United Nations Convention Against Torture has been barking up the wrong tree, dear Internet. Waterboarding, shmorderboarding. The "nasopharyngeal swab" is what deserves massive global outcry. The way it works is that your doctor sticks a throat culture-sized Q-tip up your nose, through your sinus and all the way into your swine-infested brain (or so it feels). Meanwhile, you have the flu and practically pass out from the procedure. It's all very dramatic.

But I have to admit it is exciting to get the positive results back 5 days later once you're feeling a lot better. Because then, you get to tell everyone you have a legitimate, confirmed case of the infamous H1N1! Heb and I agree this makes me sort of fame-ish. Kinda of like having Anthrax poisoning in 2001...minus the terrorism.

`

Anyway, here's to 2009 wrapping up in 50 days...and counting. Enough with pigs, already. Bring on the year of the TIGER!