Temperatures this week sunk into “cold snap” territory: 33 F highs that really felt like 20 F mid-day, classic D.C. “wintery mix”, black ice and a dog sliding on ice-encrusted green patches.  That means one thing: winter foods.

I’ve been making a lot of stews and soups.  Last night, I made potato cheddar soup from The Silver Palate Cookbook. I really like this recipe, even though it takes over an hour for prep and cooking times.  The soup base is carrots, onions, and potato, which is then pureéd and seasoned.  Sharp cheddar (the sharper the better) is then stirred in at the very end.  It’s seasoned with parsley and dill.  You can’t see this in my shamelessly faux-vintage iPhone photo, but I served it with some thick slices of warm pumpernickel.

Then, for dessert, homemade hot chocolate with a fancy-pants chili-infused simple syrup I got as a Christmas gift.  (Note to self: don’t use sweetened cocoa powder.  It’s fine, really, but you don’t get that dark chocolate flavor that you do with unsweetened.)  The epicurean nature of the drink, however, was toned down a little by adding good old marshmallows.

Come on.  It’s winter.  Live a little.

• Dropping off the face of the blogosphere for several months
• Last semester
• This semester
• Writer’s block
• Post-writer’s block brain overload
• 2012 going out “not with a bang, but a whimper.”  (If you don’t know that reference, you ought to be beaten until you can recite “The Hollow Men” backwards and forwards–especially if you’re into Downton Abbey.)
• Downton Abbey
• Concepts of being a Lady (see above)
• The creation and conception of students’  and teachers’ public and private selves
• Some other stuff

As you might imagine, that turned into a really long, rambling post that probably could be broken down into several essays, or be a really obnoxious, self-indulgent post.  (Possibly both.)

Point being, I’m back in the real world, I’m writing again after a six-month drought, and this was probably the most notable thing I did last semester.

One of my classes showed some interest in talking about 9/11.

I assigned a few essays, but I realized, midway through class, that all of the works were in the year following.  There was nothing new, with perspective.  The readings were pure reaction from people like me.

I heard about a plane that crashed in the World Trade Center, Tower 1, before I left for work.  Reporters didn’t have a lot of information and it seemed like maybe a pilot lost control of a small plane.

“I have an idea,” I said.  “Post links to articles, videos, etc. that you find or have read.”  The minute I said this, I regretted it.  They seemed intrigued.  I wanted to take it back.

Traffic was slow.  It always was.  A plane flew low.  National Airport is a few miles away.  There are always low-flying planes. Sometimes they go fast.  I didn’t think anything of it.

What do I say?

I had graduated college a few months before, and everything was supposed to be bright, and shiny, and new.  I was going to move to New York and take over the world.  The world was mine.

I woke up to that sky and felt invincible and reminded myself that I worked this shitty job to save money for my move.

What do I say?  That my friends were safe?  I didn’t know this for a few weeks.  I tracked down their family members, left hysterical messages, emailed a zillion times, in hopes that I would hear something.  I don’t know how to explain that the majority of the U.S.’s telecommunications system outright stopped for a few days.

My friends were lucky.  One, who transferred to the PATH train each day at WTC around 9 a.m., worked the early shift that morning.  She worked in Hoboken, and her building had floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the WTC.  She saw it all.

My ex had a day off, and stayed close to home in the Upper East Side.

Two friends’ fathers had called in sick–not wanting to make the commute from the suburbs–because it was a beautiful day.

I was not close to the people I know, or know of, who were killed.  The fiancée of a freshman year hallmate, a fraternity brother of some of my close friends, was on the 83rd floor.  A friend’s aunt and uncle were on the plane that crashed into the Pentagon.  I only knew people who knew people.

Five miles away from the Pentagon, I was stuck in traffic.  The radio updates now had something new: a second plane hit Tower 2.  Disbelief.  I couldn’t think of this being a deliberate act.  It was too big.  

I heard a thud.  The earth shook a little.  I thought it was construction.  There was always construction going on.  There was another pause on the radio.  The emergency broadcast signal played.  

“This is not a test.”

They are freshmen.  They won’t post anything.  They will get lost in the moments of the weekend.

The NPR reporter choked up on air.  It was when he reported that the second tower was hit, then the Pentagon.  Adrenaline shot through me, its icy burn making me shake.

I turned on one street, and then another, and then another, and went home.  It took me two hours to make a 15-minute commute.  Traffic stood still.  People were crying in their cars.  You could see people screaming.  At the ramp onto I-395 North, I saw the Humvees, soldiers hanging off them, holding assault rifles.  Traffic parted, somehow, to let the Humvees go through.  

What do I say about the current “credible threat?”  That this happens all the time?  That it never amounts to anything?  I don’t scare easily.  I live up the street from the White House–literally.  I have long held the belief that if the White House is attacked (or D.C. in general), I will be killed immediately, and this gives me some relief.  I am more unnerved than I want to admit.  Are my students scared?  Is this just another code–whatever-colored alert for them, like it usually would be for me?

What do I say about how my husband flew to Texas on Friday night, and I kept reminding myself that the chances were low that someone would attack an evening plane, since the casualties would be lower?  What do I say that when Dulles Airport was shut down last night, I froze up, forcing myself to leave the house so I didn’t watch the T.V. for hours, and instead ambled around my neighborhood, watching people go about their evening plans?

I watched TV for nearly 72 hours straight.  Any time I tried to sleep, I stared into the blackness.  I heard fighter jets leave from nearby bases .  The first time, I rolled out of bed and laid flat on my stomach on the cold wood floor.  I don’t know why I thought that would save me.  The following times, I sat straight up in bed.  Each time, I dreamed of Flight 77 going over my car, its shadow moving over my car, blocking that blue, blue sky.   The plane that flew over me landed safely.  I was south of the Pentagon; Flight 77 attacked from the west.

How do I explain that the moments I remember were when we felt it was okay to laugh again?  That it didn’t seem right even when it was okay?  I’ve been going through–of all things–the first Saturday Night Live and Daily Show episodes that aired after 9/11.  I listened to the NPR archives of 9/11/01.  I went to my last class of the day thinking I would be ill.  Can they imagine that the entire country was in mourning?  That no one could, or would, laugh?  David Finkel, author of The Good Soldiers, spoke on campus earlier this week.  When asked how his experiences affected him, he responded, “I laugh a lot less.”



My students were eight years old the day planes fell out of the sky.  They grew up with those images, perhaps family or friends lost at an early age.  They probably don’t remember the Towers. I still am unnerved when I look for the Towers, and they are not there, anytime I go to New York.  I’m not sure what to say.  I feel I have no right to cry, that I do so out of selfish reasons, that because I do not share that direct connection, that the day marked how everything changed.

I am not sure what I will tell my students.  If I should tell them.  If they even want to know.  If they do want to know, what I should do. If I can tell them.  If they do ask, I will tell them how before I got in my car that morning, I looked up at the sky, wondrous at how blue a sky could be.

Maya Rudolph is three years older than I am.  I wish I was half as awesome as she is.

Yes–it feels like 114ºF outside, scientifically speaking.  In layman’s terms, it’s like walking towards the flames of hell.  It’s like walking into a brick wall where, on the other side, a fire has been burning all night.  I just walked the dog for five minutes, and my lungs hurt.  The humidity and the air pollution are making me feel like I’ve been smoking packs a day while having double pneumonia.

The weather has never made me cry before, but I am damn close to tears.

My hard copies arrived yesterday, which is when the shock and awe kicked in.  I’ve known that the essay was getting published since January.  Rounds of edits, saw a PDF, and lots of emails.  It was all very exciting.

Yesterday, however, I did something I will now call the publication dance in the elevator and later on the sidewalk.  I held up my package of copies, and one copy, above my head.  Yes, this feeling does deserve awkward, ungainly, joyful dance moves.

This is really strange to me for two reasons.  First, I’ve never been published. A wise poet I met when I was finding my writerly path told me that should I go the MFA route, be prepared to not get published for up to ten years; the MFA guarantees nothing except some time and support, if you’re lucky. She’s right.  It didn’t take ten years, but I’ve gone back to her words over and over when I felt discouraged.  This was the first essay, strange as it sounds, that I believed in—that I knew was ready to fly, that it deserved a home, and that I had to put myself on the line for that to happen.

Second, talking about your own writing is weird.  Back in March, I read this post on Brevity’s wonderful blog, and the message stuck.  Friends and fellow writers and those that fall in-between should happy for one another (and feel a little twinge of jealousy at times, but more happy than not).  Like the article says, I’m always surprised when fellow writers don’t share their good news–as we always talk about those damn rejection letters.  And yet, it feels egotistical to pimp out one’s own writing.  It is so strange.

But if you believe in a story, an essay, a poem and someone else does as well, shout about it.  Your words and work deserve it.

One of my favorite writers-on-writing essays is Wallace Stegner’s 1959 essay, “To a Young Writer.” He says:

To finance school and to write your novel you have lived meagerly with little encouragement and have risked the disapproval of your family, who have understandably said, ‘Here is this girl nearly thirty years old now, unmarried, without a job or a profession, still mooning away at her writing as if life were forever. Here goes her life through her fingers while she sits in cold rooms and grows stoopshouldered over a typewriter.’

Now over thirty, I’m still mooning away, still sitting in cold rooms, still stoopshouldered over my typewriter laptop. However, unlike Stegner’s young writer, I am lucky to have an entire cheerleading squad behind me. Mmm. Maybe they are more like soccer hooligans who tell me to shut up and write like a motherfucker.

Thank you all for kind words, hearing me tell the good news a zillion times, telling the good news for me.  Huge, crushing mama-bear hugs to all of you.

Today was a lovely day for a bike ride.  I climbed some massive hills, and probably checked in at about 10 miles–kind of a big deal for me right now.  I also chose to bike around mid-day, because I find there is less traffic, which makes it less stressful.

Since I pay attention to my surroundings, I noticed that you kept looking to your left.  There were no left turns coming up, so maybe you were trying to get in the left lane.  I wouldn’t know, because you weren’t using a signal.  You moved forward, and despite looking left, you began to shift into the parking lane.  Which, in fact, was where I was headed.  I initially thought I could squeeze through, but you continued moving right so that a full tire was over the line.  (To be clear, there were no parking spaces.)

I slammed the brakes and began praying I didn’t crash or flip.

“WHAT THE FUCK!?!”

You finally seemed to notice me and looked right, seeming surprised. I shook my head and kept biking.

You put the passenger side window down.  ”What?  What did I do?” you shouted.  You honestly seemed baffled.  With your perfectly straightened bob, big sunglasses and pearls, I wondered if you were a lady-who-lunched and had a few too many during a luncheon.

I slowed down, shouting, “PLEASE PAY ATTENTION! YOU WERE SWERVING INTO MY LANE!”

“No I wasn’t!”  You said.  I didn’t hear the rest of what you said because I kept going.  I just wanted to get past you and out of your way.

You kept going, only to once again pull to the right just in front of me, next to cars parked at the curb.   I quickly swerved into an apartment building’s driveway and on the sidewalk, and dodged some pedestrians.  Let me be clear: I hate it when cyclists do this without provocation, but I did apologize to the people walking.  Your window was still down, and you were still double-parked.

As I passed you, I shouted, “LADY! I DON’T WANT TO DIE TODAY! PAY ATTENTION!!”

I pedaled as fast as possible and zoomed down the hill.  I really wished I had stopped and photographed your license plate, so I could have put it here.  Nothing would have happened if you got out of your car to yell at me, because frankly, I don’t care and if you got violent, I could take you.  But I’d prefer that not happen.

Lady, I really need you to do us all a favor–cyclists, pedestrians, your fellow drivers.  Pay attention.  Just because your insurance can likely cover my funeral expenses doesn’t mean you can drive like a jerk.

It’s Sunday and I used barely anything from the share this week.  Didn’t feel like cooking much this week, or planning, or thinking–despite my best intentions.

On Wednesday, I sautéed some bok choy–garlic, a little cider vinegar, a pinch of salt and a pinch of sugar.  Baby bok choy can be really tasty, but full-on, slightly past-prime plants are so bitter.  That said, I usually like bitter.

I took a bite, and spit it out.

That was Wednesday.  Then I didn’t use anything else until today.  The beets–from the CSA and last week’s farmer’s market–were still good.  The fennel I was going to use in the salad is barely usable, but I even lost one between Tuesday and today.  (How is that even possible?!)

Thoughts: without much time, planning is tough.  Plus, few of the items are part of our usual repertoire, so we have to try new recipes.  Even if it’s an easy recipe, it’s difficult to gauge prep time and complexity until you’ve made the dish several times.

This week: try not to waste so much.  The how is the tough part.

(I think the CSA share is, strangely enough, a metaphor for my life right now.)

CSA Share, Week 1

I don’t know if I will do this every week, but I wanted to mark the first week of my first CSA.  It’s a long-ass post.  Ruth Reichl said (students, chime in here), “It’s just not about ‘it tastes good.’”  This post kind of is that, so if that’s not your bag, pass on this one.  What I got, what I’ve learned, and what I did with all those greens are after the jump.

WHAT I GOT

Arugula, bok choi, mizuna, mustard greens, Swiss chard, fennel, chives, garlic scapes (read up here), and fresh eggs.

WHAT I LEARNED

I quickly realized is that no matter how you choose to keep in greens (wet paper towels, crisper drawer, glass of water), they wilt quickly.  That means that if I don’t want things to go to waste, I need to prep meals in advance.

WHAT I MADE

Tuesday

Pasta (I think it was brie-and-roasted-garlic filled) with arugula and garlic scapes.  (John made it.  It was tasty.)

Wednesday

Leftovers from John’s dinner at Founding Farmers.  (Good goddamn, I need to go there. Candied. Bacon. On. A. Stick. Uh-huh. Plus chicken and waffles, mac-and-cheese, and collards. A beignet for dessert, too.  Why yes, that IS the sound of my arteries hardening.)

I did, however, make stir-fried bok choy and mizuma with tofu that night.  Tofu and I have a dicey relationship; I really like it when prepared well, but I have trouble preparing it well.  The recipe was easy and the tofu tastes great thanks to the sauce and greens.  I’m seriously impressed with my mad sautéing skills.  Pat on the back!  This dish was good even leftover two days later.

Thursday

Breakfast

Scrambled eggs with chives for breakfast, and the leftover bacon-on-a-stick.  Cynics claim that eggs are eggs, no matter what.  No they are not. Free-range, organic, farm-fresh eggs have clear albumen and yolks the color of orange marigolds.  Once scrambled, the fresh eggs don’t get spongy and are not that faded shade of yellow that you get with store-bought eggs; instead the eggs are smooth, flavorful, the color of Crayola’s yellow-orange crayon.  (Not to be confused with orange-yellow.)

Dinner

Supposed to make tilapia, chard and couscous, but John ended up not getting home until late and the mustard greens were wilted.  Tried to make chickpeas with mustard greens.  After I started, I realized I had opened a can of cannellini beans, and had no chickpeas; then I realized I did not have enough mustard greens, so I added some chard.  I thought it might be nice to use garlic scapes instead of garlic.  I could try it again with all mustard greens and chickpeas and garlic, but I’m not sure.  Perhaps I just don’t like mustard greens, or the substitutions weren’t right.

Friday

Lunch

Leftovers, plus an apple-fennel salad.  Once again, I found myself without an ingredient: pecans.  I substituted chopped walnuts, of which I had maybe 1/8 cup (much less than required).  Pecans would have definitely matched the flavors, but walnuts weren’t bad at all.  Tasty and sweet; the arugula added a nice bite.  I did squeeze some lemon over the apples and fennel before adding the other ingredients.  I also added a pinch of salt to the dressing.  A little salt goes a long way to bring out subtle flavors, even in sweeter stuff.

 Dinner

We tend to eat out on Fridays or make pizza.  We decided to get sushi.  It is too damn hot for the frequent weekend pizza-making fest (though maybe we will do it anyway).  A 450-degree oven in a poorly ventilated kitchen is not pretty.

Saturday

Good question.  Weekends will be a little tough, food-wise.  We eat out a lot, or will have to go to the grocery store if we do cook.  Same with Mondays, since the share comes on Tuesdays.  I’m sure there’s some creative finagling I can do to stretch the share further—let me know in the comments, pleeez.

Saturday’s Farmer’s Market Goods

Tried to reign in my urge to buy anything pretty and tasty.  Bought strawberries and rhubarb at the farmer’s market to make strawberry-rhubarb meringue bars tomorrow with Dubs.  Bought golden beets and asparagus because they were pretty…and I can use them.

Leftover

• Two eggs (still good, will be used soon)
• Some garlic scapes (still good, will be used soon)
• Most of the chard and mustard greens (bye bye)

So that’s the rundown.  I have a lot more questions and thoughts about how I use and prepare food, but I’ll save those for other posts.