No heartbreak for you!

I recently heard from two friends that they've decided that love and heart ache are not for them.


What does this mean, exactly? I'm not sure.

One is a youngish male from the UK. The other is a female from Texas, around about the same age as me. And no, I'm not giving my age.

It's none of my business why they both decided on their particular life courses. I didn't ask and they didn't actually offer. They both made their declarations not to fall in love and because I respect people's choices, I let it be. Still, I've been thinking about why someone, anyone, would decide to forgo romantic love.

They both have families who love them. And as just about everyone outside of the Huxtable family knows, there is even a certain amount of exposure and vulnerability to heartache when we love our family. I suppose it's easier to love them because of the familial connection...or harder not to love them for the same.

Maybe life would be easier without romantic love. Perhaps I would be move level-headed and make better choices.

Though I doubt it.

For those of us who are led by our hearts, I'm not convinced we can turn it on and off. As much as I would prefer to be ruled by logic at times, I know what is impossible for me.

Job Satisfaction

I've been thinking lately that job satisfaction us something I rarely experience. Most days I'm happy to still have a job in this economy, but that's as far as that goes. But once in a while something happens that is almost as satisfying as watching the asshole who just passed you on the right get stopped and ticketed.

I'm told that I should be satisfied on a number of levels because at least I have a job. At least the checks they send me get cashed. And on those basic levels I am happy. I can pay my bills and order Chinese food once in a while. But when did it become OK to be simply "satisfied" with the jobs we hold. When did mediocre become acceptable?

I've been looking for another job for quite some time now because though I like the sort of work I do, I am increasingly unhappy with how I'm expected to do it. I see friends and long-time co-workers get laid off and those of us who remain are supposed to just happily pic kip the slack. We're expected to do more with less and in less time. So, really, our corporate masters are the ones who set the bar low for us. They expect mediocre work for mediocre pay.

But the problem with looking for a job right now is that there is such glut of out-of-work college grads. My experience and salary range have made me unhirable. These younglings are so starved for work that they'll take anything for almost any salary. Why hire me when someone can hire three 20-something's for the same amount of money?

As dissatisfied as I am, I know that I'm good at what I do. Dare I say that there are even days when I kick ass? I doubt I could ever teach anyone to edit effectively. I don't understand how I do what I do half the time, but I just know when something is right. And this past year I worked on a project in which I came, I saw, and I kicked ass. My accomplishments won't get me a promotion or a raise. They might not even mean anything when layoffs come around again. But I'm happy knowing I can do my job blindfolded and in half the time it takes most of my co-workers. 

AND I get to work home.

What My Evil Twin Was Thinking

It wasn't the hooker-tight skirt or the tube top, both three sizes too small for you that I noticed first. Nor was it the recent post-pregnancy belly that hung like a fifth appendage that neither article of clothing could hide. And it wasn't the ankle-high Uggs you were wearing on this 80+ degree, humid day.

Nope, the first thing I noticed about your classy self as you were standing at the bus stop was the big wad of chew you spit into the street as I drove by.

Trash isn't limited to trailer parks in rural areas. We have them right here, too, in the over-populated Northeast. You find them everywhere, but you see them mostly in Wal*Mart and local convenience stores.

I wonder what you thought as you dressed yourself this morning. I bet you thought you looked good. Do you have anyone to tell you otherwise? What were you up to? Where were you going as you waited for the bus? You know what? I really don't care.  You simply offered me comic relief as I drove to my destination, with you mismatched ensemble clearly designed to titillate and draw attention.

You gave my mean, little mind something to distract me from the constant barrage of crap I have to deal with on a daily basis.

Parsnip Pancakes

While I would rather have my fingernails ripped out, one by one, than become vegan, I do appreciate the cuisine when it's done well and the dedication that vegans have to their chosen lifestyle. And these days I find myself looking more toward vegan and vegetarian recipes to add a larger variety of vegetables and healthy protein substitutes to my continually evolving diet.

Vegan with a Vengeance by Isa Chandra Moskowitz is on the top of my go-to list of cookbooks, especially when it comes to desserts that don't include dairy or eggs. But last night I wasn't looking for sweets. I wanted something crunchy and bad. What I really wanted was something that had been battered and deep-fried to within an inch of its life...but I settled instead on the Parsnip-Scallion Pancakes in Moskowitz's book. If you know how to fry something properly, and then drain it adequately, there is no need to feel dieter's guilt about eating it.

I don't believe these pancakes would work well if baked.

Moskowitz calls for 4 cups of shredded parsnips to be mixed with 1 cup of scallions, flour, canola oil, salt, pepper, and water. I cut out the oil, since I was going to be frying the pancakes. I just didn't want the extra oil in the batter. In this case, both the oil and water were there to act as a binding agent in place of eggs...and since I enjoy eating animal products, I had no problem substituting a couple of eggs. I could easily have added milk. And to my mixture, I added a couple of minced garlic cloves...because most things are better with garlic. It's a simple fact.

Shredding the parsnip was the biggest problem I faced. I bought a big one and my hand-held grater wasn't strong enough to handle it, which to me is more dense than a carrot. I had to bring out my stainless mandoline and hand guard or my fingers would have been shredded faster than the parsnip.

I also didn't make nice, neat little balls, as the recipe instructs you to do. I dropped the spiny looking mixture by the heaping tablespoon into the heated oil and I watched them bubble and fry until golden.

I served two pancakes up with a scoop of chicken salad I made out of a leftover roast from the day before. I mixed diced chicken with apples, celery, onion, curry powder, prepared mustard, and a dollop of mayo. I had a leafy, green salad on the side.

The sweet parsnip and the mild onion flavor of the scallions worked surprisingly well together.

Gym Drama

So, getting older means that things don't work as well as they once did. Anything I do to myself now will determine what, if anything, my doctor has to do to me in future decades. Goody for me.

I see my friends, co-workers, and acquaintances adopt new, different, and sometimes crazy habits in order to cheat time, age, gravity, whatever. (Vegan? Are you kidding me? I give you a month without bacon before you crack.) Some of these people are successful, and some just go to such extremes that all I can do is bite my tongue and wish them well on their journey, even if I believe that journey is doomed to failure. But hey, who am I to judge?

I just want to be healthy so that over the remaining four or five decades that I have left I stay as active as possible and my doctor has to do as few invasive and painful procedures as possible.

To this end, I have resolved to make it to the gym every single day and to avoid eating all things that a toddler would eat and enjoy. I can't remember the last time I tasted a slice of pizza. *sigh*

Have I been successful? Not completely, but you have to keep trying, right? Am I demoralized by my failures? Not at all. If I resolved to make it to the gym for a minimum of one hour per day, seven days per week and I only make it three or four days, I'm still doing better than I was a year ago when I was paying for the gym membership but not using it at all. I feel like less of a sucker when I get there...and once I'm there, I might as well stay an hour or longer.

I make a game of doing cardio, which is thankless, boring, and has seemingly little immediate reward. I know that it will save me when the zombie apocalypse comes, but being able to listen to loud, obnoxious music while watching the gym drama unfold in front of me is the best I can hope for at the moment.

I watch the muscle heads grunt, sweat, and worship themselves in the mirrors. I see the gym vixens who wear their underwear on the outside and I amuse myself by speculating whether their sports bras were more expensive than their matching sneakers. It's also a lot of fun to see them preen with the hope of catching a muscle head's attention, particularly when I already know the muscle head who's been targeted is more interested in his reps and audible grunting than in anyone else.

I like being the fly on the wall. I can assume that these two people are more interested in being admired for their respective physiques than in being able to engage in adult conversation. But I could be wrong. Perhaps they're both highly educated, as well as beautiful, and I'm just too old and bitter to accept that they have it all. Well, clearly not all, else they wouldn't be working out in a cut-rate gym in the middle of Bluecollarville, Bergen County, New Jersey.

But these are the thoughts that keep me amused while I spend 45 minutes on the stationary bike or the treadmill. If I wanted to watch television, I'd have stayed home on my couch. If I have to go to the gym (and, according to my doctor, I really have to), then I would much rather watch the human drama unfold in front of me with a soundtrack of old-school punk cranked up to 11 in my ears.

Thanks, Chef

Thanks, Anthony Bourdain. You wrote the tale of the kitchen outlaw. You and that accursed channel made people believe that there is a certain romance associated with working in most kitchens. You did for professional cooking what Errol Flynn and Tyrone Power did for the historic pirate - you made it seem cool to cook. The good guy always wins in the end and Olivia de Havilland is always there, just off camera, ready to throw herself into the arms of the conquering hero.

Sure, as an after thought you remembered to mention the long hours, shit pay, asshole owners, lack of health insurance. But by then it was too late because you had already sucked Joe Public into the poetry of your 17-year-old idea of that Cape Cod kitchen.

Bastard.

I went to culinary school, but not because of you. I didn't even open your book until I had graduated. By then I had started to understand what it was I was paying a lot of money to get myself into. I read your book anyway. And I enjoyed it. I met the people all over NYC who mimic your characters and co-workers. I liked them, and I loved the work.

I chopped onions for what seemed like days at a time, but it was really only 12 hours. I stood at those very cramped tables in basement kitchens, stuffing fish with lemongrass while the people around me did obscene things with octopus tentacles. I didn't feel I had worked a full day unless I left the dark basement, covered in green lobster slime. I will never lose the memory of everyone in the prep kitchen, from the porter to the dishwasher, to the 300-pound ex-con grill guy, breaking out into a heartfelt chorus of Build Me Up Buttercup for no other reason than it's just a great song.

Good food, the kind that you remember the taste of three days or three years later, is made with a little piece of the cook's soul and a whole lot of his or her love. I believe that it is possible to be as intimate through food preparation as any adult act, so long as your whole heart is in it.

I have done my part, showing my love, working the line in a 65-seat house that could serve upwards of 500 covers for Sunday brunch. But what you have never said, chef, and I have never seen through the polished lens of that accursed channel, is what happens when the love dies, making you feel like a cheap, pre-Disneyfied Times Square hooker. For me, it sent me running for cover, back to my moderately well-paid corporate job with full health benefits.

Earlier today someone interrupted a conversation I was having with Joe The Grill Guy in my office's cafeteria and said how much fun it would be to work in a kitchen. Joe and I stopped mid-sentence and just stared at this poor woman. She obviously loves her food porn and fell into the kitchen-as-romantic-pirate-ship trap. She doesn't understand that behind the smiling faces on those shows (you know those shows - don't deny it) are feet so swollen and painful you can barely walk. There are second- and third-degree burns. There are scars from too many slips of the knife. There is that bad back that never quite seems to get better. There are 16-hour days and weeks without a single day off. There are customers who wouldn't know a medium-rare steak if it walked up behind them and stole their wallet. This reminded me of the time when a particularly evil woman told me how romantic it must be to work in publishing, simply because Jackie Kennedy had done it.

Oh, the misinformation!

So, again I thank you, Chef, for perpetuating the myth. While it tickles me to think that someone out there might view me as a romantic character, I don't feel particularly full of swash or buckle when, for no good reason, my feet ache.

My kitchen crime scene

I like red things. I dye my hair, I wear red nail polish, I like red lipstick. And I love beet juice.

I don't like cooked beets. I like the raw, unadulterated stuff sliced, mashed, and squeezed until there is nothing left but the juice pouring out of the spout with the sawdust-like pulp coming out the other end of my juicer. It's even better when mixed with carrot juice and a tiny bit of squeezed lime, though the orange and green does dilute the beautiful red.

No matter what I do and how hard I try, the juice splatters everywhere. It looks like a crime scene - much worse than when I dye my hair. I should take comparison photos.

The white countertops and cutting boards I have don't help, of course.

I'm not complaining, though. I think part of the appeal is that beets leave a bloody mess. Is that morbid? Gross? I could try to buy golden beets, but that might ruin my fun. If I'm going to be healthy (or at least try to be), I see no reason why I shouldn't be a tiny bit juvenile.

I prefer my pistachios to be red, too.