Asparagus Soup

You can either find humor in stereotypes or not.

For me, it’s a combination of the two.

When I’m driving around Boston and a fellow Asian driver cuts me off or stops short, I become livid, usually exclaiming, “this is why we have this stereotype!” I may have road rage.

Yet when my mother insists that the television remote control be covered in saran wrap, I accept this as totally normal. Surely every household has remote controllers covered in saran wrap, that are wiped off every evening with a paper napkin.

“Your father, he has such greasy hands!”

Surely.

I never get annoyed with my mother when she says, “so cheap!” at the grocery store.  Instead, I nod my head, sometimes adding a few of those oranges she found on sale into my own shopping basket.

When I catch up with my friend J, hearing about the hundredth time his mother surprised him, showing up at his apartment unannounced with two suitcases full of Korean groceries, I can’t help but share when my mother does the same (last time with a pound of green tea and a kitchen sink strainer).

J and I also have this ingrained, core value of trying to never disappoint our mothers.  Growing up we were pushed hard to achieve the most academically.  And now that we’ve graduated college (it’s been a few years actually), our mothers are asking about the next phase of our lives.

“Why aren’t you in grad school?”

“When are you getting married?

“When are you having children?”

Even though J and I are opposite sexes, our inquiries are the same.

For a while, J and I were able to push them to the wayside, but the last time we spoke, he told me he was applying to medical school for 2013.  His mother and aunt recently visited and basically had an “intervention.”

For once I’m glad my mother is an only child.

I’m not ready to answer any of those questions.  I’d rather put my focus elsewhere, in the kitchen.

Hitting up the local produce stand is something I look forward to every weekend.  Johnny D’s is closed on Sundays, so Saturdays are usually the best time to go when looking for last minute deals.  And when I saw bunches of asparagus being sold for 99 cents each, I knew I had a winner.

So cheap!

Rosemary and Thyme Bread

Sometimes I wonder if the library has a wall mounted with photos of their most notorious card holders.  Members who have been caught repeatedly doing things “against the rules,” like eating, drinking or talking. (Clearly one of the greatest institutions must be worse than prison.)

If there were such a wall, I’m almost positive my photo would be up there for “most fines accrued.”  When I check out a book it’s pretty much guaranteed it’ll be returned overdue.

I don’t know why laziness I can’t get books back to the public library on time, but as of late the circulation desk staff have started asking, “Another one?” when they spot me rounding the corner.  It’s kind of like when the baristas at Starbucks see you coming through the door and start making your drink.

But with shame.

This bread however

is something to be proud of.

This bread would bring back books to the library on time.  This bread wouldn’t be recognized by the staff at the circulation desk because of fees.  This bread is good.  Quite good.

Studded with woodsy herbs, a lovely salted crust that it pulls apart with ease, it just begs to be dipped into a bowl of hearty soup. And when you come back from the library after paying your shame fees, you can find some comfort by tucking into some of that savory warmth.

Easy, Spicy, Garlicky Green Beans

Ladylike would not be the best way to describe me.

My mother “glistens” when she works out.  Unfortunately I was not lucky enough to inherit this trait.  Instead, I sweat like a plow horse on a sunny July afternoon.  Thanks Dad.

My dancing could only be described as this.  My moves are as smooth as the big guy in the back with the striped tee.  That’s me, inebriated at weddings.  God help me if I’m sober, as what results is an awkward half-Asian hiding in a corner, clapping along to keep up appearances.   Because you know, it’s not like everyone’s paying attention to the bride or anything.

And then there’s the way I eat.  Granted, I do eat with my mouth closed but I do it at such speed that you’d think I was trying to finish my meal under threat of gunfire.

For this, I blame growing up with a brother who seemed to never escape puberty.  There would be times when I’d turn my back away from my plate and a chicken breast would be missing.  Now I understand that growing boys need food, but really?  That much?  And mine?

Thankfully(?) Roo eats the same way I do.  Growing up with three other siblings (two of them being boys) he learned to be protective at an early age.  That, and if you didn’t eat quick enough, you weren’t able to have seconds as there wouldn’t be anything left.

And when I shovel green beans into my mouth, not taking the time to cut their long stalks in half, instead using the inside of my cheek to bend them in half, Roo doesn’t say a thing.  In fact, he keeps an eye on my pace so that he can stay a few mouthfuls ahead of me.

So he can get seconds of course.

Dark Chocolate Stout Bundt Cake

Work has been strange.

Last month my boss announced that he was moving the lab to California.  What resulted can only be described as a workplace full of whispers.  Murmurs of who will be going, will there be raises, and the phrase, “did you hear…” repeated over and over again.

I’m kind of over it.

Not one that likes to bring home their workday, I often turn to the kitchen to let out any stress that may remain.

Did your colleague take the last of your solution and not replace it?  Knead some dough.  Picture it’s his face.  Much better.

Did a granny that smelled like moth balls hiss at you on the bus, because you were applying a “smelly lotion?” Don’t say you’d do the world a favor by calling her kids to tell them to pull the plug in a few months.  Instead, segment some citrus.

Did you lose one of your favorite technicians because they’re being transferred? Make them a cake.  Or two, because if it’s going to be a dark chocolate stout bundt, surely you’d want one for yourself.

Escarole Salad with Grapefruit and Pistachios

Three years ago I dated a pilot, a doctor doctor, a musician and a researcher.

Maybe at the same time.

Two and a half years ago, I met a bartender.  He told me about his novel.

I didn’t stand a chance.

Two years ago, I suggested that the bartender and I break up, because I realized I loved him.

Alcohol may have been involved.

One and a half years ago I moved in with the bartender, who then became a school teacher.

Almost a year ago, we celebrated our first Valentine’s Day; complete with homemade cards stating how much we hated it.

Half a year ago I revealed to the school teacher my biggest guilty pleasure, the reality (and makeover!) show, The Biggest Loser.

Now he watches it with me every Tuesday.

Don’t tell him I said that.

And this week,

Baked Cinnamon Sugar Pumpkin Donuts

I am not the best when it comes to “just buying the essentials.”

When I’m let loose in a store, I end up trying to rationalize purchases “we absolutely do not need.”  Well, according to Roo.

Last weekend I convinced myself that I needed five pairs of knee high socks.

“Why is there a plethora of socks at the bottom of this Target bag?”

“Oh. I need them.  You know, to keep warm.  Boston’s cold in the winter.”

“Spring is almost a week away.”

“I’m cold!”

Roo picks up one of the pairs, “This doesn’t have to do with the fact that they all have Hello Kitty on them?”

Damn.

What’s ironic is that this behavior gets quite bad when I’m trying to save money.  After a few weeks of setting a little aside from each paycheck, I feel the need to reward myself.  And if that treat comes to me via “free super saver shipping” from Amazon, then so be it.

Today, it was a donut pan.

But I’ll be ready when Roo comes home from his mother’s.

Yes, this pan is something we absolutely do need.

Chewy Granola Cookies

I am not the easiest person to live with.

For one, I’m becoming my mother at the wee age of 30.  I realized this when I started to wash out the kitchen trash can last weekend.  Really, who does that?  My mom.  Oh, and me.

Also like my mother, I ask, without fail, the second after Roo takes a bite of food how it is.  (FYI “it’s good,” is not a proper response.)

Second, there were a few times where it was pointed out that I have a hard time throwing things away.

“Babe, we have so many empty glass jars.  I feel like we’re one away from being cast on Hoarders.”

“What are you talking about?  I use them, like all the time.”

“For what?  Besides leaving them in a paper bag on the floor.”

“That’s where they live!  I don’t have any cupboard space.”

“Because there’s no room in the cupboard from all your glass jars.”

Lastly, I may or may not have had two meltdowns so far this week.  But in my defense, the first was from burning my hand….by grabbing a pan that had been in the oven.  The second was after realizing there was shattered glass in every single cup we owned….because I dropped a bowl on top of those cups and it um, shattered.

So when Roo asks if there’s a way he can have cookies at ‘snack,’ (which to me is essentially second breakfast), I try to make it happen.  After all, I need to keep someone around to identify my body when it’s found underneath a mountain of fallen glass jars.

Double Coconut and Banana Loaf

This afternoon I was interrupted Facebook stalking doing my research for my next lab meeting by a phone call from Roo.  He occasionally calls when he’s stuck in traffic.

“Babe, sometimes I think I’m psychic.”

“Mmm hmm….Wait, what?”

“Are you doing something right now?”

I click my browser window closed, “Uh no, I was just petting Monkey.  What’s up?”

“As I was walking up the stairs at school today, I thought, you know what would be funny? If I missed a step.“

“Uh huh, so you missed a step. Ok, well…”

“No, that’s not the whole story.”

“You missed a step and the children saw you?  Did you fall in front of a parent?  Oh no…did you take down a parent?”

“What? No. No, what happened was, I was carrying my cup of tea as I was walking up the stairs, and it spilled. Up into my face.”

“Are you serious?”

“And when I went back into the classroom, the kids were wrapped up in a conversation about what ‘their problem was.’  To which I said, ‘You know what my problem is?’”

“Oh no, please don’t tell me you did a two-face reveal of your horribly burned face,” I said, picturing him asking the class with his ‘good side.’

“Oh yes.  And when they asked, I replied, ‘I just boiledmyface.’”

“You did the dramatic point and reveal, didn’t you.”

“I boiled my face.  Of course it was dramatic.  But that’s not why I’m calling.”

“Are you ok?”

“It feels like burning.”

“Seriously, are you on your way to the hospital?  Do you need burn cream?”

“No, it’ll be fine.  But…do we have any of that cake left?”

Tunisian Soup

The house is strangely quiet tonight.

Roo left an hour ago to meet up with a friend from college at a local bar.

It’s just me, the cats and the sound of rain.

While it would be tempting to have dinner with the tv blaring, staring vacantly at whatever program I happen to come across, I’d rather just sit.

And listen.

Taste.

And enjoy the quiet company that I have.