Security Blanket.

Sorry guys, this is going to be one of those posts that gushes about some really important people in my life: my siblings. I'm thinking about them hard core as my roommates and I and the remainder of the northeast prepare for this Hurricane Sandy [which I truly believe is going to amount to nothing, at least for our area]. Earlier tonight, as we were closing storm windows and gathering flashlights, batteries, candles, water and other essential supplies, I jokingly commented about how we were kind of 'camping out'. Mind you, I am no where near an outdoorsy, woodsy person. I slept outside twice in my entire life: once on my front lawn, once on a beach in Delaware that just so happened to be in record heat. Notsomuch my cup of tea.

All of this hurricane preparation got me thinking about how I would lead my siblings in camp outs. We would cover the entire family room with blankets and pull up my brothers "football tent" from the basement. It was a kiddie tent with every NFL team logo on it. We would stay up late [10 pm] and huddle together inside the tent [yes, all three of us would fit]  under layers and layers of more blankets, just giggling, being in each others presence. One of us was bound to twitch, which would spur on more giggles and maybe even tickling. Occasionally we would talk some nonsense or show some type of affection for one another, a goodnight hug or forehead kisses, and eventually we would all cozily and comfortably fall asleep.

Camping out was much different than just sharing a room with the sister. Sharing a room was sterile. We each had our own side, our own stuff, and our brother was all the way down the hall. Camping out, being surrounded by blankets and siblings [and knowing that mom and dad were upstairs to ward off any monsters] felt safe. It was secure. It felt like nothing in the world could harm us. 

What I wouldn't give for another one of those camp outs. To hear my brother giggle again in his little-boy voice, not his deep manly grunt.

Hurricane Sandy is coming, and although I feel safe, and although I love my roommates, there is a depth of security that is void in me: and it's not just because the hurricane is coming. It's a void that I walk around with everyday. It's times of trouble that draw attention to it; it's the lack of these two precious beings in my everyday life. And for some strange reason, I think I just figured out what a deeper sense of family is.

My spuradic memories jostled me to check out the depths of my external hard drive. This is what I was able to find. I'm laying here now, cuddled up under three blankets. Though none of the images I could find really capture the age range I'm specifically remembering (I'm talking when I was about 8 and the bro was 4), simply looking at these pictures brings me a warmth as this cold front is moving in, colliding with Sandy. It's a deeper warmth than just the blankets could provide; it's a heart warmth.

2004

2009

2011

2011...a better representation.

Flashback [Part 1]

There are things for me that I think will forever be 'ruined' because of China. There will always be things that I associate with China, now and forevermore. Some are simple, like any combination of red and yellow, any type of plumbing problem I may ever encounter, and of course, any of the seven outfits that I rotated with for an entire year (I'm pretty sure they will always and forevermore have a funky China smell attached with them as well). Others, I think, will end up striking me at odd random times, blindsiding me when I least expect it. Although I can't say that it's happened yet, I know that it will, and chances are it's not going to be pretty.

Yesterday, feeling ultra introverted, I came home from work and errands and plopped on the couch to indulge myself with mindless television [circa DVD's due to the fact that me and my household refuse to pay for TV]. Though I usually don't endorse this kind of behavior, it is something that had to happen for my own mental health, coming after a solid two weeks of no alone time, no down time, deadlines, raging customers, and educational endeavors.  A night of mindless TV and just "being" was desperately needed.

Sorry, that has nothing to do with China. This next part does though. For dinner, I made myself some homemade dumplings, complete with soy sauce, vinegar, and la jiao jiang (辣椒醬) as a dipping sauce. In case you don't know, la jiao jiang is a traditional Chinese paste/spice that usually accompanies a variety of foods, most notably dumplings or soups. It's sheer goodness. I promise. I may or may not have developed an addiction to the spice/paste and consume it with everyday foods.

Dumplings, dipping sauce, chopsticks, and pomelo. I know some of you are like "pomelo? What the heck?" I had never even heard of pomelo until I went to China. The street vendors were selling these bowling ball sized fruits at the stands.  My teammates and I bought one out of sheer curiosity. Within two bites, I was hooked. Let me give you the basics. It's a fruit native to South and Southeast Asia, kind of like a cousin of grapefruit, similarly sour, but you can eat it like an orange. It's made up of particles like a pomegranate  I explained it to my curious roommates as such: "Pomegranates are made up of eggs. Pomelos are made up of sperm. They're both great on their own, but together they'd make a happy fruit baby."

Last week as I was perusing the fruit section of the grocery store I came across the giant yellow things. I just about did a cartwheel [as they're not always in season and therefore not always available at the local grocery store]! Granted, in China pomelos were about 75 cents on the street, and here I'm paying about $2.50 per fruit, but it's so worth it. I was that girl on team who always had a pomelo in her fridge. My students would buy them for me for gifts. It's a perfect midnight snack. There is something about me and acidic fruits. I love them.

Anyways, curled up on my couch I sat under a blanket, eating away at my dumplings and fruit. I thought was struck by how much "China" was on my mind while consuming the food. As I pulled the skin off of my pomelo, I flashed back to breaking apart the same fruit on the other side of the world with three other wonderful women as we sat up late and giggled, swapping stories, opinions, and encouragement. I flashed back to my classroom as I walked up and down the aisles between the students, them handing me the food from their desks, sometimes a sliver of pomelo. Other times, I wasn't so lucky. As I ate my dumplings, I thought of Lauren's first encounter eating dumplings, ruining her shirt with the dipping sauce as she struggled to hold the slimy bundles with her chopsticks. I flashed back to our school cafeteria and the "Dumpling Man" who was always trying to strike up a conversation with the foreigners who ordered dumplings, as he advised us not to put in too much 辣椒醬. I flashed back to my favorite restaurant, a hun dun place (混沌), with a student named Haily who had decided to confide in me about her new boyfriend and all the excitement that she felt in her new relationship. Memories, so vividly clear, yet so far away. 

They're from the other side of the world, but they're not removed.

Judgement Day

I think I've already confessed this on here but for the sake of today's story I'll restate the facts.  As a child I would slowly make my way up and down every isle of the school library, judging books by their cover. Oh the shame! But it's true! It had to have a lot of color to capture my attention. Usually the protagonist had to be a girl (but boys were sometimes acceptable...sometimes). The text couldn't be too big, as I was an avid reader and didn't want to be considered a cheater. Chapter books were best. If it had anything to do with abandoned children or someone getting kidnapped that also earned the book some points [weird criteria, I know]. Any swirls or funky writing would seal the deal and that puppy would be in my backpack to be read at home.

As I've grown older this lesson has come to be more inclusive than just books. 

• Don't judge an outfit by how it looks on a hanger. 
• Don't judge the taste of the food by how it looks or smells.
• Don't judge a house until you've seen the inside.
• Don't judge a couch until you sit on it.
• Don't judge a device just by the name brands (or lack there of).
• Don't judge a guy by...well... I'm still learning that one. I'll get back to you.

Today, another one hit me in the face. More so, it scalded my taste buds.  You see, upon my arrival to America I was astonished that there were other flavors of tea. China has green tea, and more green tea, so seeing the vast array of berries and spices and teas of the rainbow before me in the grocery isle I was a very happy camper and decided to try a few boxes for my sampling. As the temperatures have decided to take a turn for the worse, I decided to wrap myself up in a few sweatshirts and blankets [no joke, we haven't turned on the heat yet] and make myself a cup of tea. I busted out the box that sounded as though it was going to be the most satisfying. Madagascar Vanilla: come on, does that not just sound delightful? It even had a royal lion perusing the box. The title is adventurous, bold, and leads one down exciting mental trails of happiness to come.

I opened the box, and a great aroma filled the surrounding area. I boiled the water and let the tea soak through the hot liquid and I used the mug to warm my hands. Everything was perfect until I tasted it. Yea... not so good.

Just so you know, there is no resolution to this story. It just wasn't good. I mean, I'll drink it anyway because I spent three dollars on the box of tea (or was it two-fifty?) but I thought I would just tell you as a public service announcement. 

Good friends don't let friends drink bad tea.

Home Is Where The Stomach Is

For so many years, I've challenged people on their use of the term “spoiled”. To me, spoiled is not a state of being, spoiled is an attitude and mindset, a true belief that one needs or possesses something that makes their life complete. Just because a person has nice possessions does not necessarily mean that they're spoiled.

Well, friends. I confess before you here today that I was just blindsided by the realization that I have been so spoiled in one crucial way: my momma's cooking. Maybe it's something genetic within Italians, but my mom knows how to make various foods come together to make the second coming of Jesus on a plate. Like, Snape, the potions master, she could throw in a dash of this, a flask of that, stir it three times and produce heavenly, steaming magic, while (in the meantime) keeping her kitchen essentially spotless. Magic, I tell you.

So last night I decided to be brave and adventurous and to whip out one of Momma's recipes of Tortellini Soup. Fall is in full swing, folks, whether you like it or not, which means [at least in my mind] that soup season is ready to be embraced. [Note: thats one thing I really appreciate about China. It's soup season all year round!] Tortellini Soup: always a classic in our family, usually accompanied by some leafy greens and some fresh hearty bread of somekind. To reminisce of those golden childhood years I chopped up some celery sticks and popped some frozen biscuits into the oven.

Things seemed to be going okay, until I came to the part with the liquid. This is where momma's directions took more of an abstract approach and didn't completely guide this little piggy all the way home. I poured in reasonable amounts of crushed tomato and beef broth. Two-thirds through the container I knew something was dreadfully wrong. This didn't smell like mommas cooking! This was remnants of cow. How could I claim to be my mothers daughter if I had a liquid calf boiling on the stove?! Although I was internally depressed that things were not going to taste how I imagined, I was also too cheap to go buy new materials. So throwing in a few extra carrots, extra green beans, and a couple extra dashes of Parmesan cheese, I did my best to make it edible.

As I sat at the table with my soup, funfetti cookies in the oven, I sat and reminisced about our family days at the kitchen table. Depending on the day, the other siblings provided their own entertainment show, or sat in silence and spoke in hisses. Dad always cleaned up the plates of the kiddos who couldn't finish, and momma always kept the conversation aglow. I always merrily laughed along. But now... now that I think about it... Momma, that master magician of all things edible, never seemed to be struck by the magic of her own cooking, always deflecting compliments with shoulder shrugs and throaty noises of mediocrity. A realization dawned on me, and in that moment I knew that there would never be a way for me to recreate my momma's cooking. I was missing something crucial, that one invisible ingredient that my soup so severely lacked, and no store within 200 miles would have it stock piled on their shelves to satisfy the goodness I was hoping to concoct on my own: Momma's love. You can't bottle that sucker or compact it into a bullion cube.

So alas, here I sit fully realizing my state of spoiledness towards the foods that I hold so near and dear to my heart stomach. I fully realize now that I will never cook like my mom, and it will never, ever taste quite as good as I want it to. At least theres funfetti cookies to make it a little better.

Helicopter Cooker

In case you don’t know me personally, I’m all about creativity. Whether that include paper and crayons, photoshop and web URL’s, food, or a bucket of paint or sidewalk chalk, I basically live and breathe creativity. One of the things that was definitely lacking in my year abroad was the ability to expound my creativity in the kitchen. Cooking in China was basically impossible, and so not worth it (as the food from the cafeteria satisfied any and every hunger craving…except pizza). Thus, the one thing that I really have enjoyed since being back in the states has been becoming a creative cooker. But I've realized that it's come with a price (and no, not just the grocery bill).

It’s not that I’m a control freak. I can wear mismatched socks. I'm comfortable with ambiguity. I lived in China for a year (land of the ambiguous). I'm definitely not a gossip queen either. I just like to know what’s going on. It's not that I'm nosy. It's just that I genuinely care.

It's not that I can't follow directions (although rice and I have had our misfortunes a time or two...or four). I can assemble things from boxes,install new programs, and get myself from point A to B when mildly guided by Google maps. I understand that so often in cooking comes the instruction “allow to simmer for 5 minutes” or “let stand for 5 minutes”, or the worst "set on rack until cool". It has something to do with flavors and tasting delicious (but really, who wants to wait an additional 25 minutes for the banana bread deliciousness to "cool"?). These instructions emphasize the part of the process where one allows the food to just be. But inside of me there is this impulse to lift that lid right up and give whatever is in there a stir. Just to make sure. I can't leave my cooking food alone until it has reached it's fullness of potential. It's kind of like a mother who can't leave her baby, and opts to sleep on the floor instead of returning to her own, much more cozy bed. Due to this impulsive behavior of mine, I thought I would take the liberty of classifying myself into the category of Helicopter Cooker. That's right. It drives me absolutely crazy (yes, Kuh-RAZY) that my current oven has no window. How am I supposed to know if my cookies, or bread, or cake, is rising properly!? It's almost a catastrophe every time.

It's not that I'm obsessive. I can let things go pretty easily (most of the time). Where for most working mothers, these 5 minutes of simmer time would be used for washing up some dishes, setting a table, or wiping up a snotty nose. But these five minutes for me are super unproductive. No matter the pile of dishes or piles of books, that simmering food and I make eye contact every 15 seconds, allowing my mind to be severely distracted from the secondary task at hand. It's just me and the food.

This can't be healthy behavior. Maybe it's really a big metaphor for how I'm physically unable to let my life just simmer, how I have to be constantly on the move. I refuse to stick to a pot, and therefore will not allow my food to be the same way. Oh gosh...thats deep.

Let's just pretend it's because I don't want my curry to burn.

Good thing I have a long time until I have to worry about being a helicopter parent.