Your Insides

Who took all my stuff?

First of all, I'd like to make it clear that I know nothing about anything to do with organizing, interior design, or architecture. Yes, I was a History of Art and Architecture major in college; yes, I spend a lot of time looking at magazines and blogs like Shelter and Apartment Therapy; all this means is that I really like to think that, one day, I could be kind of competent at creating a nice-looking, functional space in which to live. I reach back into my memory now for a scene from my college apartment, and drag up a vision of a place that could have been decorated by Pete Doherty. A friend, an honest friend, once referred to my high school bedroom as "not messy, but dirty." He was referring to, I think, the mosquito netting -- which I wouldn't let my mother remove and wash -- and its dangling earrings of dust and feather; the eyeliner pencil shavings that accumulated under the bed; the dripping aquaria, with their oft-escaping inmates...the tiny bits of paper...the pen caps...

[drool]

Formerly messy people love the idea that they were not to blame for their messiness -- they blame their stuff. They're half right: you can't avoid clutter and stuff-sprawl when you have too many things for your living space. When you have too much stuff, you're also terrified to throw things away, since you can't differentiate between Possibly Important Stuff and Obsolete Throwaway Stuff. In a masochistic fervor, formerly messy people often fall in love with lofts.

What's the deal with lofts? Peter and I toured some (notably the Sunset Silver Lake lofts) -- with minds open and biases set aside -- last year. Yes, we have three pets. Lofts are not for people with pets. Why? Well, unless your pets are as organized as your accountant, they're going to fuck your shit up sometimes, and you have to have a place to put your unfuckable stuff -- this is not allowed in a loft, because LOFTS HAVE NO WALLS. People forget this, but a true loft is a big open space. The Sunset Silver Lake lofts, hardcore till the end, actually did without traditional bathroom walls, opting for sliding frosted glass doors. The stall showers had no doors/walls. They seemed to discourage shower curtains. Their giant windows (so giant, my brain literally hurt when I thought about curtain options) were like the Eye of God peering into the as-yet-unfurnished space. These lofts said, "I have nothing to hide." But what about all the stuff you want to hide?

STUFF YOU CAN'T HAVE OR DO IN A LOFT

• Leave the bathroom while undressed. Why? Because it's like being naked on the surface of the moon. No walls as far as the eye can see. And let us not forget the giant loft windows. Are you Samantha in Sex and the City? No? Then this is a problem.
• A fight with your roommate or domestic partner. No doors to slam!
• An unmade bed. All of a sudden, as with a studio apartment, your bed is your Fancy Furniture instead of your bed. You can't have a mountain of clothing on the floor and a glass of old wine hanging out by your nightstand. You will be judged. By the Eye of God peering through your giant window, or your guests. Both are bad. Beware.
• Trivial art. We're talking stupid photos, embarrassing posters, things you printed from the internet and stuck in a frame and assigned personal worth. No. You know why these things can't go in a loft? Because, for some reason, everything you stick on a loft wall is Vastly Important. Wall space is at a premium, as there are so few of them. Don't waste Loft Wall time with anything that's not huge in scale and minorly prententious.
  

Recipe Contest!

My recipe ("Tessipe") for a morel tartlet is up at Marx Foods website -- you can vote here (it only takes a second) and I will gladly give you my firstborn child to repay your kindness.

Thank you guys! There's 2 lbs of morel mushrooms at stake and I'm in second place right now...the polls close tomorrow at noon. Save the tartlets!!

Rites of Passage

I used to take myself very seriously. It's kind of embarrassing, now.

This phase ended precisely on the day that I auditioned for a commercial in which we had to sing a song about shaving ones' vagina, make up our own improvised verse, and then do an a cappella version.

Go Elsewhere, Young Woman

Tonight. Seven PM. I sit down with a glass of wine and Peter and I get to talking about what the fuck to do with our lives.

"What's the matter?" he asks. I'm already crying.
"Oh, just -- gaaaaaaaaaah...."

It's the same conversation we've had a zillion times, the conversation you tend to have a lot when you're figuring out what to do with your life. There are two coasts. You pick one. No matter what, you wonder what would have happened if you'd chosen the other coast, and if it's too late now to change your mind.

"Look, I'm just saying, I can't leave them." (I point to the mass of pets in a big curd on the sofa). "If we go anywhere, I - have - to take - them..."
(At this point I dissolve into the most disgusting tearfest you've seen since in a while).

"We'll take them," he said, "Of course we would take them."
"We'd have to live in a suburb. We'd have to rent a house. Manhattan is so expensive...maybe some upstate place, not a bad communte --"
"We could have a garden --"
"But the winters."

[Sober pause]

Not being able to drive places. No orange trees by the side of the road. The Cha Cha. My ball chair.

"Maybe I could make some money. We could put a down payment on a house before we even left. They could renovate the kitchen."
"It might be good to have a change."

[I get out the second bottle of wine]

"She won't go to the bathroom." [Pointing at the dog] "The cement."
"We could have a yard."
"We could. We could find one."

The hummingbird feeder we just bought. The blueberry blossoms just fell off. Soon we'll have blueberries. The tomato plants. Those hummingbirds who zoom around the house down the way. The guy at CVS who gives us extra coupons. Our street. Our beautiful street, the crazy gated garden and riverbed behind it. We always wondered who lived there. Lying in a bathing suit in the hammock with a caramel fucking macchiato in December. Molly. Allan. Annie. Rosie. The avocado section at the supermarket.

"But I just -- the house -- can we wait until after our lease on the house? We can see if we can wait."
[A pause. The house.]

Requiem For A Creamsicle

The best way to destroy an enemy is to make him a friend. -- Abe Lincoln

One of my issues with microblogging is both extremely specific and totally unavoidable, especially with the younger (14 - 17, say) set. Speaking of which, if I'd had a blog back in those days, I often wonder if I would not have fallen prey to this same thing (I'm getting to it); judging from my diaries circa 1996-1999, I would have. And this topic, this issue I have, is the blogging about your dieting.

Now: I have dieted extensively. I don't particularly mind a mention of it here, a shaking-your-fist-at-the-heavens there. It has been dealt with elegantly, sparely and effectively without offending me (see: Bunkercomplex on baked goods), and less so with muy offendidos (SkinnyIsTheNewGlam -- if your eyes burn off, at least I warned you). It's a topic often complained over at Unfollow Friday and it seems to creep up on everyone (okay fine, mostly women) now and again. But why? Why?

Dieting as a teenager is different. I suppose times have changed in the past six years or so, since I left teenagerhood behind in a rush of fast cars, neon signs advertising cheap beer, and stacks of marble notebooks filled with shitty poetry which I will never show you. But back then, you dieted in secret while your friends were gorging their skinny selves on donuts, microwaved bagels (travesty), and what-have-you. I guess LiveJournal may have been a good spot wherein I could have laid bare my feelings about my thighs, my worries about not fitting into anyone's jeans when my statuesque and rail-thin pals were sharing their clothes, the crap about no boys liking me ever. But somehow, fate landed me in a Dial Up Adolescence, where liveblogging your binge-eating cost your parents $16.



Do these teenagers find support and some kind of implied veil in sharing these anxieties? Or does it just sweep you onto your back, baring your belly for nasty barbs and making you feel less secure about even your innermost thoughts? Can it validate all the horrible things you think about yourself when you're fourteen, struggling with your self-image, and willing to believe the worst?

The other day, on an old episode of Freddy's Nightmares, a baby-sitter who'd recently grown out of her "baby fat" ("With hard work!" she exclaims to the parents of the child she's sitting, straightening her sweatshirt on her willowy frame) becomes tempted by the stocked fridge, and her weakness is compounded by the stress of dealing with two very bratty children. She eats everything, then turns into a pig-faced monster who, in the final moments of her nightmare, turns to the dog bowl (filled with leeches, natch -- it's Freddy's Nightmares and I will not spare you a thing) before deciding that eating the kids would be a better idea.

Why did this stick with me? Well, of course, there's that thing -- that fear -- in the back of your head, if you've ever been fat, that you will eventually, again, become fat. I also had what was called "baby fat," I now realize, but at the time it was just Fat-fat. When I went to college, particularly the end bit where I kind of sussed out my mind as it related to food, I found myself less worried about what I was eating: there was less of it around, as I was able to avoid my mother's shamefully delicious (and healthy -- but not when you eat six portions of it) food, and I hated to spend money, which for-sure eliminated, like, lobster ravioli. But I think living alone really did it -- the shame of sneaking brownies was gone. Nobody cared. Food became more food-like, and less like crack cocaine. The fear diminished. I'm now happy with my weight and I've stayed here for five years. But it doesn't mean that I can't easily summon that nagging creepiness of the nights spent polishing off a dozen donuts, or the ghost of that feeling, and that worrying over some 15-year-old anonyblogger and her feelings doesn't creep around the back porch of the old brain stem.



I think of how our attitudes towards obesity have changed. In the 90's (GOD I MISS THE 90'S) it seemed to be that however you were was okay with everybody. Fat, skinny, hairy, hackey-sacking -- nothing was particularly offensive. Now that we've entered into an economic and health-care purgatory zone, other people's fat is an issue over which we feel we must exercise control; this, as blogging about one's diet, can be done well (The Biggest Loser) or poorly (taxing the crap out of soda is just plain cruel). I wonder, too, if this paternalistic attitude is not backfiring into making the guilt and shame of being overweight another reason to feel that it is monitored, an impossible expectation. It certainly can feel impossible.

What really changes as we grow into adults with regards to how we handle our weight? I suppose it has to do with a realistic view of how much your body affects your life, versus how much your actions and attitude affect it. Or it could be a sense of physical transience, knowing that your body, your face, will change. Endlessly. And in a way that is inherently beyond your control. When you're 16, there's an immediacy to everything -- maybe in particular how you carry yourself, how you present a relatively new young adult version of yourself. You're told daily that you should be enjoying this phase, so you feel pressure to take control of everything you can to make it the best teenage chunk of life since The Wonder Years. But this is why airing one's concerns about this immensely personal topic is risky: what happens if, and when, the audience for whom you write tears you down without even showing its face?

When Tessipes Attack

Hey y'all. I am in this recipe-posting frenzy on Tumblr right now, and I realized that it's really not the platform for a gigantic post about food and cooking. I'm working on setting up tess lynch dot com, but I'm not as tech-savvy as one might think, or hope, so you can let that thing cool in the window of your mind for a while, and I'll let you know when it's up.

In the meantime, I am about to hit you with everything I've been eating and cooking lately. I feel like I can do this on Blogspot, because I'm not taking up Dashboard space and I've got a lot to say. For instance:



Heirloom Tomatogasms

I should preface this by saying that I love to live in LA because of the fact that, any time of year, you can get a perfectly ripe and smooth avocado and eat the whole thing for lunch. Not so in Northern Connecticut. Von's and Ralph's have avocados that are about half the price of those at Gelson's, and just as good; Trader Joe's and Whole Foods are at the bottom of my avocado-pickin' list, TJ's because they have tiny ones, Whole Foods because they're usually not very ripe and I have no patience to watch an avocado ripen without being consumed with rampant greedy feelings. They're also ridiculously expensive at Whole Foods, like many other things (but I have to say, as far as proteins go, Whole Foods wins for Mary's air-chilled chicken and the soft-shelled crabs in the freezer section).

The one thing about LA, though, is that we have the shittiest tomatoes you've ever had. The vine-ripened variety was my favorite (the Roma tomatoes, while fine for things like guacamole and heavily-seasoned salsa, are some of the worst), but even they didn't really taste like tomatoes. Growing up on the east coast, the spring and summer tomatoes were so awesome that you could just sniff them and be happy. My mom and I would eat them with salt, or in a sandwich with mayo and salt and pepper, and talk about them as if they were an interesting topic. "ZOMG, these tomatoes," etc. Here, I just use tomatoes when necessary -- sheepishly thrown into a salad or stewed for spaghetti sauce. Then (thanks again, Mom) I was turned on to the glory that is the HEIRLOOM TOMATO.

stuff it

What's an heirloom tomato? Technically, a "non-hybrid cultivar" -- in plain-speak, they're seeds that are either a) coming from old seeds (i.e. 50-100 years old) or b) have been selectively farmed and handed down through generations. They vary in color (green, yellow, purple, red, mottled) and have cracks in the skin. These cracks are the little price you pay for a ginormous, delicious tomato that (wait for it) actually tastes like a tomato. There are a ton of different varieties, and each color of Heirloom tomato tastes different. The green ones are tart, almost like a tomatillo (which is more closely related to the gooseberry than a tomato, and I don't know why I know that), the purple ones are almost sweet, and my favorites are the deep-red and yellow varieties.

The best way, I think, to serve these babies is as a side dish. All they need is a simple red-wine-vinegar-plus-olive-oil dressing and some garlic salt, or even just salt and pepper. Marinate them with a diced sweet onion in lime juice for a few hours, throw in a jalapeno if you're feeling crazy, and you've got salsa fresca. They're also dandy chopped and thrown on top of spaghetti with a little garlic oil and parmesan. There you go.

Soft-Shelled Crab Attack

Another way to eat beyond your means: the mighty crab with the shell of softness. What makes a crab a soft-shelled crab? They're simply blue crabs who have recently molted (try not to let that gross you out). If you can get your hands on a fresh one, you win at life. Go celebrate with a fancy cocktail. If not, they sometimes stock them frozen at Whole Foods, and they're inexpensive for a two-pack. Thaw them in the fridge overnight, or in a bowl of very cold water (throw a couple of ice cubes in there) for a few hours.




I was a little bit nervous about dealing with these suckers. They're somehow daunting. But they're also one of the easiest (and elegant) proteins to cook, because they taste so goddamn delicious no matter what you do to them. My favorite experiment so far was to dredge the thawed crabs in seasoned flour and sautee them in butter and olive oil, then toss a little bit of white wine and lemon juice in the pan drippings and serve them over angel hair pasta that's been tossed with butter and parmesan cheese; super-seriously good stuff there. If you happen to have a deep-fryer, or a big heavy pot + ton of oil + deep-fat thermometer, you can coat them with a mixture of flour and cornmeal (add a little Old Bay because you're cool like that) and then deep-fry them. When I do this, I usually serve them with corn on the cob and perhaps some fries (if you're deep-frying, why not deep-fry everything?).

Ahhh. I feel so much better now that we talked about this.

Blogging In Real Time

I've succumbed to the charms of Tumblr. I will be posting there like a fiend until it bores me and then I will come back here.

NOW YOU GO TO: TESS'S TUMBLR.

Trapped In The 'Vator

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