Visiting with R during wild and crazy spring break here in balmy Boston. I feel the itch for travel and by travel I mean food. With all the days, hours and minutes at my fingertips I am tapping into my inner foodie (fatty?). So we're on the hunt for meals bought, meals cooked and, above all, meals eaten.
First stop was R's apartment. Feeling snoozy from a early rise in Chicago we settled on a whole foods pizza topped with salad and home made dressing (a Hansen family tradition and secret).
Saturday we met up with my lovely friend Caitlin and her man Eilon (I'm probably wrong about the spelling of his name, though I'm pretty sure this is closer than I've been before because I sneaked a peak at his credit card signature) at this fabulous Middle Eastern restaurant called Red Fez in the south end. Delightful and delicious and there was even some belly dancing in case the grub wasn't enough.
So, anyway. Sunday we ventured out and up the coast. Walking around slightly desolate off season sea towns like Glouster and Westminster or something by the Sea. We had an awesome Cesar salad and this tuna business with jalapenos and avocados. yeah, that was good.
Dinner was late cause we decided to make a light salad with some miso dressing and were inspired by some blond beets. Having never actually made beets before I wasn't even sure how to do it but the little sign above the beets said something about boil and enjoy. It neglected to tell us that it was a 2 hour boil, but nonetheless the salad we ate at 10pm was a light and crunchy, slightly spicy, delectable dish.
But the thing is that when I get cooking (or whatever) I'm always in dire need of some chocolate. And we were watching the Barefoot Contessa earlier that day and she makes you think that 1) it's OK to cook with a stick of butter in every dish and that 2) chocolate is good at every meal. But R's kitchen, it turns out, isn't so much like the Barefoot's, but like a bachelors. Fully equipped with just enough silverware and bowls to get you by on a partially liquid diet.
So here I was inspired by the Barefoot, so much so to purchase a half a pound of dark chocolate and then figure the only thing I could melt it in was a jimmied double boiler involving two mugs, more or less. But it worked and I covered the shit out of some nuts and then this pretzel topped with peanut butter business that was AMAzing.
But NONE of that goodness tops what's simmering on the stove right this minute. Yeah, that's right. Take a big deep breath. That's short rib ragu that I'm gunna put over some pasta and then top with - wait for it - bitter sweet chocolate shavings. Just try not faint.
I'm trying not to. Oh yeah, and there might be some more of those pretzel peanut butter chocolate businesses in the fridge. Just hanging out until we're good and ready. Man spring break is the best.
It's been golden and delicious. And I'm definitely going to pull in another five pounds while I 'tour' Cambridge and all the rest.
Me scuzie, the ragu needs a stirring (genius does not cook itself).
More after we digest and eat again.
xoxoL (&R)
Monday, March 23, 2009
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Half time
Well, two down and two to go. As of yesterday I am done with my second quarter of graduate school! Seem fast? That's what happens when grad school is squished down to a year. It's genius, really, if it weren't for this retched economy. Luckily, I'm still only half way through so I don't technically have to succumb to those depressing realities.
In other news. I'd like to take this half-time opportunity to thank those items that traveled hundreds of miles and across a whole time zone only to site idly on my Chicago shelves.
1) Iron. Oh iron. Why ever I thought you would be necessary, I don't know. You looked so adult and professional sitting there in my New York apartment. I even haggled for you with R and won. Only to put you on a nearly unreachable shelf in my random closet. No offense, but you're not even that special. You were bought on a desperate pre-interview whim on sale at Duane Reade. But, nonetheless, here you are. Giving my wrinkled shirts the stink eye. But they're just cotton and those creases are kinda cute, so far as I'm concerned. But there could be hope for us yet. Spring is around the corner and I hear linen might be a must.
2)DVD player. It was a rough drive for you. We nearly forgot you that sunny day back in September but I ran in and found you, shadowed by a nearby discarded box. I squeeze you into a crevice in the back. You sacrificed a button for that ride but proved you could work with out it. You were just a delight during my darker non-cable days - playing early episodes of 90210, even repeating them for me when you wanted to move on to the artsy film recently delivered by Netflix. Then cable came with a big-footed greasy-fingered cable man who worked like a ninja behind the TV to make the cable wires fit where they may. Pulling out some and inserting others. Metal pieces flung like confetti and before we knew it was gone and, so were you. That cable man gave me instant gratification - the food network, TLC and the occasional prime time something rather. Months passed before I thought to try you out again, but by that time it was too late. I don't know what the cable man did back there but you've grow impotent and dusty and what can I do but warm myself by the glow of another episode of John and Kate plus 8?
Speaking of which...3) Netflix. Oh netflix account. You encouraged me with ease and lower prices to continue service when I moved out to Chicago. Just $6.99 you said and I agreed. And the queue was entertaining and overwhelming but it was mine...all mine. I quickly deleted R's selections (the divide was obvious: go (History Channel and PBS documentaries, i.e. The Nazis) and stay (Made of Honor)) and built a list of entertainment I would never get through. Now, without faithful DVD player, what use are you to me? The artsy foreign flick I chose ever so randomly is still sitting, unopened, atop DVD player. The postage date glares: Jan. 3 2009. Yet every month you take out that $6.99 and I just turn my head. Just when I think I've had enough you coax me back in with the allure of instant movies that I can watch on my computer. Alright, I say once more, you can stay. Three months have come and gone and I still haven't opened artsy flick nor have I watched a movie instantly, like you promised. Why is it so hard to let you go? Perhaps things will change over the spring. As warm weather draws people out of their caves, will I be tempted to stay in and watch the next vaguely review Judd Apatow movie?
Thank you hapless items. I hope to reap the fruits of your general existence...sometime soon. Until then, I'm blowing this Popsicle stand to hang with R in Boston!
xoxoL
In other news. I'd like to take this half-time opportunity to thank those items that traveled hundreds of miles and across a whole time zone only to site idly on my Chicago shelves.
1) Iron. Oh iron. Why ever I thought you would be necessary, I don't know. You looked so adult and professional sitting there in my New York apartment. I even haggled for you with R and won. Only to put you on a nearly unreachable shelf in my random closet. No offense, but you're not even that special. You were bought on a desperate pre-interview whim on sale at Duane Reade. But, nonetheless, here you are. Giving my wrinkled shirts the stink eye. But they're just cotton and those creases are kinda cute, so far as I'm concerned. But there could be hope for us yet. Spring is around the corner and I hear linen might be a must.
2)DVD player. It was a rough drive for you. We nearly forgot you that sunny day back in September but I ran in and found you, shadowed by a nearby discarded box. I squeeze you into a crevice in the back. You sacrificed a button for that ride but proved you could work with out it. You were just a delight during my darker non-cable days - playing early episodes of 90210, even repeating them for me when you wanted to move on to the artsy film recently delivered by Netflix. Then cable came with a big-footed greasy-fingered cable man who worked like a ninja behind the TV to make the cable wires fit where they may. Pulling out some and inserting others. Metal pieces flung like confetti and before we knew it was gone and, so were you. That cable man gave me instant gratification - the food network, TLC and the occasional prime time something rather. Months passed before I thought to try you out again, but by that time it was too late. I don't know what the cable man did back there but you've grow impotent and dusty and what can I do but warm myself by the glow of another episode of John and Kate plus 8?
Speaking of which...3) Netflix. Oh netflix account. You encouraged me with ease and lower prices to continue service when I moved out to Chicago. Just $6.99 you said and I agreed. And the queue was entertaining and overwhelming but it was mine...all mine. I quickly deleted R's selections (the divide was obvious: go (History Channel and PBS documentaries, i.e. The Nazis) and stay (Made of Honor)) and built a list of entertainment I would never get through. Now, without faithful DVD player, what use are you to me? The artsy foreign flick I chose ever so randomly is still sitting, unopened, atop DVD player. The postage date glares: Jan. 3 2009. Yet every month you take out that $6.99 and I just turn my head. Just when I think I've had enough you coax me back in with the allure of instant movies that I can watch on my computer. Alright, I say once more, you can stay. Three months have come and gone and I still haven't opened artsy flick nor have I watched a movie instantly, like you promised. Why is it so hard to let you go? Perhaps things will change over the spring. As warm weather draws people out of their caves, will I be tempted to stay in and watch the next vaguely review Judd Apatow movie?
Thank you hapless items. I hope to reap the fruits of your general existence...sometime soon. Until then, I'm blowing this Popsicle stand to hang with R in Boston!
xoxoL
Monday, March 2, 2009
A wanted woman
Yeah, that's right. My article on the Chicago Bosnian community was posted on the home page of the American Southeast European Chamber of Commerce
What is the AmSECC? Yeah, I'm not sure. But we are besties already.
And, hey, even Maureen Dowd had to start somewhere. Alright, so she started at the Washington Star, but let's be honest, that's absolutely a fake newspaper.
Stay tuned for a byline in the Chicago Journal (maybe).
What is the AmSECC? Yeah, I'm not sure. But we are besties already.
And, hey, even Maureen Dowd had to start somewhere. Alright, so she started at the Washington Star, but let's be honest, that's absolutely a fake newspaper.
Stay tuned for a byline in the Chicago Journal (maybe).
Sunday, March 1, 2009
I'd thank to the Academy
I have been lame, I'll admit it.
But I've been busy building my film journalism repertoir.
Yup, I'm a one man band. Hitting the streets with the camera, tripod, lavaliere, cords, batteries, voice recorders and all the rest in tow.
Except that the company I bought the camera from neglected to send me the very professional bag that comes with it - you know the one with the cleverly placed pockets and mesh lining perfect for extra tapes? Yeah, didn't have it. But what I did have was a pleather shoulder bag. I may not have had any of that nifty protective padding, but I did have the blinding sheen of daylight on pleather. Classy.
I planned my most professional looking outfit: they're not called jeans, but...slacks? Yeah, there were some of those, a black button down and even a vest-type thing. I felt comfortable enough to leave my "I'm a journalist, for real" sign at home.
My subject in question was a family going through foreclosure who was kind enough to share their story with me.
I headed west in my professional outfit and pleather camera case. I overshot my first bus stop and had to back track. The time crunch made me break into a sweat immediately and unleashed a blizzard of butterflies in my tum.
I made it to the family's house on time, despite or maybe because of my jump-the-gun anxiety.
Now, when you're doing a video story you need to film something called B-Roll
I was told you should have more than you think - not just a one minute shot here and there but up to 30 minutes or more, if you can stand it.
And stand it, I could not. Filming is awkward. Perhaps because my camera (and everything else) is not the large professional one that comes out of the white television van and screams "I have a purpose (a.k.a I'm not a creep!)."
I wasn't sure what to expect with the family, though I had met them once before. For the situation they are in, they were amazingly open and welcoming. They had three boys who were at school at the time of my visit. I interviewed the husband and wife and the husband's mother who had never lived anywhere but that home. For this family of six, this house was TINE. EY. I mean, damn. It was impressive. Moma foreclosure gets a room. Parents Foreclosure get a room (the husband's childhood room - still powder blue) and the three boys share the room in between.
Granted maybe the smallest boy could still fit comfortably in a corner and you wouldn't have to worry, but if these boys' growth mirrors their father's I'd be really concerned that they'll pop the roof off the home Alice in Wonderland style.
So I asked: would you want to see you boys grow up here...would you want to stay in this home if you could? Yes, definitely yes. If and when the foreclosure process ends they hope to turn the attic into rooms for the boys (dear god can someone please do this for them).
Younger Moma forelcosure gave me a tour of the home and then I sat them down for a one on three interview. I had senior moma foreclosure sit along with the parents on the couch and there was a divide so much greater than the vanilla cushion between them. Oh my. I had stumbled into a Jerry Springer warm up.
My friend advised me prior to my shoot to TAKE CONTROL. You are the journalist. You're the one with all the equipment. Feel free to guide them, tell them what to do and make them repeat themselves if unplanned noises take over the shoot.
If you're reading this (especially this far down) you'll probably already know that taking control is not, shall we say, my strong suit.
When a chorus of cell phone rings took over the first five minutes of our interview, yeah, I let it go. When family foreclosure put on a spontaneous phlegm-ism version of Beethoven's 5th, who was I to cut them off? And when their full-sized bull dog lept up over the child gate and into my camera, what are you going to do?
The interview lasted a little bit longer than planned. But we pulled something out and wrapped up. I said my goodbyes and let them know that I'd probably be doing a walk around the outside of the house for a few more shots. Ten minutes into these final filming, younger moma forelcosure walks out of the house with my tape and voice recorder (absolutely necessary components!). CLASS. EE.
Clearly, I'm meant for this - just think of where I could end up. You can check it out the final video for yourself. Get excited. Or depressed, cause that is a sad situation for family foreclosure.
xoL
But I've been busy building my film journalism repertoir.
Yup, I'm a one man band. Hitting the streets with the camera, tripod, lavaliere, cords, batteries, voice recorders and all the rest in tow.
Except that the company I bought the camera from neglected to send me the very professional bag that comes with it - you know the one with the cleverly placed pockets and mesh lining perfect for extra tapes? Yeah, didn't have it. But what I did have was a pleather shoulder bag. I may not have had any of that nifty protective padding, but I did have the blinding sheen of daylight on pleather. Classy.
I planned my most professional looking outfit: they're not called jeans, but...slacks? Yeah, there were some of those, a black button down and even a vest-type thing. I felt comfortable enough to leave my "I'm a journalist, for real" sign at home.
My subject in question was a family going through foreclosure who was kind enough to share their story with me.
I headed west in my professional outfit and pleather camera case. I overshot my first bus stop and had to back track. The time crunch made me break into a sweat immediately and unleashed a blizzard of butterflies in my tum.
I made it to the family's house on time, despite or maybe because of my jump-the-gun anxiety.
Now, when you're doing a video story you need to film something called B-Roll
I was told you should have more than you think - not just a one minute shot here and there but up to 30 minutes or more, if you can stand it.
And stand it, I could not. Filming is awkward. Perhaps because my camera (and everything else) is not the large professional one that comes out of the white television van and screams "I have a purpose (a.k.a I'm not a creep!)."
I wasn't sure what to expect with the family, though I had met them once before. For the situation they are in, they were amazingly open and welcoming. They had three boys who were at school at the time of my visit. I interviewed the husband and wife and the husband's mother who had never lived anywhere but that home. For this family of six, this house was TINE. EY. I mean, damn. It was impressive. Moma foreclosure gets a room. Parents Foreclosure get a room (the husband's childhood room - still powder blue) and the three boys share the room in between.
Granted maybe the smallest boy could still fit comfortably in a corner and you wouldn't have to worry, but if these boys' growth mirrors their father's I'd be really concerned that they'll pop the roof off the home Alice in Wonderland style.
So I asked: would you want to see you boys grow up here...would you want to stay in this home if you could? Yes, definitely yes. If and when the foreclosure process ends they hope to turn the attic into rooms for the boys (dear god can someone please do this for them).
Younger Moma forelcosure gave me a tour of the home and then I sat them down for a one on three interview. I had senior moma foreclosure sit along with the parents on the couch and there was a divide so much greater than the vanilla cushion between them. Oh my. I had stumbled into a Jerry Springer warm up.
My friend advised me prior to my shoot to TAKE CONTROL. You are the journalist. You're the one with all the equipment. Feel free to guide them, tell them what to do and make them repeat themselves if unplanned noises take over the shoot.
If you're reading this (especially this far down) you'll probably already know that taking control is not, shall we say, my strong suit.
When a chorus of cell phone rings took over the first five minutes of our interview, yeah, I let it go. When family foreclosure put on a spontaneous phlegm-ism version of Beethoven's 5th, who was I to cut them off? And when their full-sized bull dog lept up over the child gate and into my camera, what are you going to do?
The interview lasted a little bit longer than planned. But we pulled something out and wrapped up. I said my goodbyes and let them know that I'd probably be doing a walk around the outside of the house for a few more shots. Ten minutes into these final filming, younger moma forelcosure walks out of the house with my tape and voice recorder (absolutely necessary components!). CLASS. EE.
Clearly, I'm meant for this - just think of where I could end up. You can check it out the final video for yourself. Get excited. Or depressed, cause that is a sad situation for family foreclosure.
xoL
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