Missive 334,245 from the Cat Lady Frontlines
Overfamiliars
I just slogged home from dance class, so busted that I couldn’t believe I had to mount two flights of stairs to my bachelor’s pad, let alone take a shower, brush my teeth–you know, TAKE CARE OF BUSINESS. When I walked in, permakitten Grace was crouched on my dresser, all owl-eyed, staring at a mouse sitting pretty in the middle of my rug. I’ve trained her to stop buddy-buddying with mice–she used to be like, MA! FINALLY YOU FOUND ME A FRIEND!–but she still can’t bring herself to hurt them. So this picture is of the two of us not killing the mouse–me because I’m too tired, she because HOW COULD I POSSIBLY THINK SHE WAS A KILLAH. (And, yes, Grace has a Boston accent. Obviously.)
Head-Splitting Split-Pea Soup
Yesterday I woke at 430am and wrote about date rape until midday, at which point all I wanted was wine, shitty 90s tv, and (somewhat inexplicably) split pea soup. Since my refrigerator contained a bevy of greenmarket ingredients threatening to spoil, I poured a riesling, Hulu-ed Dawson’s Creek (has there ever been a more insipid series?), and improvised the following recipe. It’s wicked simple except for the odd cocktail of flavors, and doggedly un-Kosher despite the fact that Rosh Hoshanah was still in effect when I made this. (I told you I was Jew-ish!)
THE RECIPE
2 cups split peas
6 cups water (feel free to substitute vegetable or chicken stock if you have it on hand; I didn’t.)
2 strips bacon (feel free to substitute smoked salt if you abstain from delicious delicious pork)
1 tbs (splash) olive oil
3 stalks fennel, chopped
2 bay leaves
1 medium yellow or white onion, chopped
2 medium-sized carrots, chopped (too many carrots and this is an intolerably sweet soup)
1 big ole pinch cumin seeds (please don’t ask for exact measurements; witches are serious improvisers!)
1 big ole pinch smoked paprika
thyme, fresh
lemon balm, fresh
flat parsley, fresh
mint, fresh
vinegar, rice or white
salt (duh)
black pepper (duh)
Optional: plain yogurt or crème fraîche
PRESSURE COOKER IF YOU HAVE ONE
New Year, Jew Year
Time Is A River Without Banks–Marc Chagall
Today is Rosh Hoshanah, which any New Yorker worth their Kosher salt knows is the Jewish new year.
Gd knows my Italian-American Muppet critics were all over it this morning. Shana tova, kid! they crowed as I slid into the coffee shop for my Americano.
This, after I ushered in the the first morning of 5780 from East River Park, the best sunrise spot in the whole city. Though it was cloudy, Lady Sun was trying her damndest to arrive in a blaze of glory. The results were muted but lovely, as were all the New Yorkers running, walking, biking, tai-chi-ing by the water’s edge. A special glint everywhere.
The glint of rebirth.
In my head there are so many different new years. The new year of every cosmology, and the new year of every individual, which is how I view birthdays. Mine falls on January 19, which I consider magnificent not only because it is Dolly Parton and Cindy Sherman’s birthday but because it grants me a clutch of get-away-free days after the Christian Calendar new year, otherwise known as the phony birthday of Jesus. Continue Reading →