About 98% of the time, I love being single. I'm extrememly independent and do well without having to answer to anyone. I'm outgoing and friendly and appreciate that I can be this way without it being threatening to anyone. I truly like myself and enjoy spending time alone as much as I enjoy spending it with friends. But very occasionally, something annoying happens...
A few nights ago around 11 PM I was laying in bed reading American Wife, by Curtis Sittenfeld (which is un-put-down-able, by the way--go buy it: http://www.amazon.com/American-Wife-Novel-Curtis-Sittenfeld/dp/1400064759), when the light on the ceiling of my room went out. The bulb had been shifty for a while and I knew that this time it was dead. This was particularly annoying because, even with a chair, I am not even close to tall enough to reach the fixture to change the bulb. Worse still, the two tall people in my neighborhood whom I would normally call on were both out of town--David was in Irvine and Chris was in Seattle. I was screwed.
I'm practical and not a total baby, so I lit a few candles, turned on my bedside lamp and dealt. But as I lay in bed, too irritated to read anymore that night, I considered my options:
-Spend $50 on a stepladder.
-Potentially kill myself by trying to stand on the back of a chair to reach the light.
-Wait in the dark for a few more days until Chris or David returns and ply one of them with food or beer in exchange for their help.
None of these options seemed particularly great to me, and most annoyingly, I couldn't help but notice that this situation highlighted the fact that, until a few months ago, I was in a relationship with someone who was tall and helpful and had changed the very same bulb for me every time it had gone out in the past.
Don't get me wrong--I'm glad we broke up. He is a wonderful guy, but we couldn't have been more wrong for each other. As difficult as it was, I haven't once regretted the decision. Still, sitting in the relative dark and thinking about being alone does not a happy evening make. One of the hardest things about re-entering the dating world after breaking up with someone with whom you simply don't belong, is that all of a sudden, you have a whole new set of expectations now that you know more about what does and doesn't work for you. Ultimately, this is good because ideally it will lead you to a relationship that you should be in, but put into practice, it feels daunting. The other thing this brings up of course, is the independence issue. Why am I depending on anyone to fix my light? I'm twenty-six years old, the owner of a successful business and a confident, competent young woman. Why do I need anyone for anything, much less a light fixture?
And all this because my damn lightbulb burned out.
OK, so here's what happened. I calmed down and eventually fell asleep. The next day, Chris returned to San Francisco. I met him for dinner (I know you were wondering where food gets mentioned in this blog, so I'll tell you--we went to La Taqueria at Mission and 25th street and I had the simplest and most delicious burrito: pinto beans, mexican cheese, salsa and avocado. Go.) and asked sweetly if he would come over and help me out. He's such an awesome guy that he drove me to my house and replaced my dead, doubt-provoking lightbulb.
And as I fell asleep that night (my room being electively dark at that point), I decided that I'm not dependent or lonely--I'm just too short to reach the lamp in the middle of my room. And also that being single is never anything to worry about because I already have great friends who are more than willing to replace my lightbulb should it burn out again.
Love,
Gabi
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Nookie Cookies
Around 10 PM on Tuesday night I realized that I would have to get up earlier than usual the next morning. Because my roommate uses our shower earlier than I do, I thought I'd check with her about what time she was planning on showering so that I could plan accordingly. Her door was slightly ajar and so I tapped lightly on it. I heard a murmur and so I opened it more and started to speak until I looked up and saw my roommate and her boyfriend entwined...naked.
"Uhh-- oh! I'm so sorry!" I mumbled, slamming shut the door and running in the opposite direction down the hall. I was mortified.
I probably should have shaken it off and accepted it simply as something bound to happen when you choose to live with roommates and figured that she would do the same, but I have a horribly guilty conscience and so instead spent the remainder of the evening agonizing over how embarrassed they must have felt and how awkward it would be to have to talk about it later. I ended up setting my alarm for an hour before I thought she might wake up, just to avoid any uncomfortable conversations. Ridiculous, I know.
So throughout the day I thought and thought about how to broach the subject and what I could do to make it go smoothly. I figured I should do something nice for them to show how sorry I was, so I decided to make chocolate-chip cookies. Just about everyone loves them and I reasoned that even if they were angry with me the cookies wouldn't hurt.
Just as I was pulling them out of the oven and lovingly arranging them on a platter with an apologetic note on my personalized stationary, my roommate walked in the door. My heart rate quickened.
I took a deep breath and then began,
"Hey!I'msosososorryaboutlastnight!IswearIthoughtyousaidcomein!
Ipromisenevertodoitagain!Imadeyoucookiesthough!"
"Whoa. Slow down. What are you talking about?"
"Last night when I accidentally walked in on you guys. I'm SO sorry. I made you cookies to attempt to make up for it."
"Oh! I totally didn't even notice you come in. No worries. The cookies look good though! Nice work!"
Well, it's a good thing I've been freaking out about it for the past 24 hours.
Here's the recipe for I'm Sorry For Walking In On You and Your Boyfriend Cookies:
"Uhh-- oh! I'm so sorry!" I mumbled, slamming shut the door and running in the opposite direction down the hall. I was mortified.
I probably should have shaken it off and accepted it simply as something bound to happen when you choose to live with roommates and figured that she would do the same, but I have a horribly guilty conscience and so instead spent the remainder of the evening agonizing over how embarrassed they must have felt and how awkward it would be to have to talk about it later. I ended up setting my alarm for an hour before I thought she might wake up, just to avoid any uncomfortable conversations. Ridiculous, I know.
So throughout the day I thought and thought about how to broach the subject and what I could do to make it go smoothly. I figured I should do something nice for them to show how sorry I was, so I decided to make chocolate-chip cookies. Just about everyone loves them and I reasoned that even if they were angry with me the cookies wouldn't hurt.
Just as I was pulling them out of the oven and lovingly arranging them on a platter with an apologetic note on my personalized stationary, my roommate walked in the door. My heart rate quickened.
I took a deep breath and then began,
"Hey!I'msosososorryaboutlastnight!IswearIthoughtyousaidcomein!
Ipromisenevertodoitagain!Imadeyoucookiesthough!"
"Whoa. Slow down. What are you talking about?"
"Last night when I accidentally walked in on you guys. I'm SO sorry. I made you cookies to attempt to make up for it."
"Oh! I totally didn't even notice you come in. No worries. The cookies look good though! Nice work!"
Well, it's a good thing I've been freaking out about it for the past 24 hours.
Here's the recipe for I'm Sorry For Walking In On You and Your Boyfriend Cookies:
3/4 cup sugar
3/4 cup packed brown sugar
1 cup butter at room temperature
1 large egg
2 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon vanilla
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 cups semisweet chocolate chips
Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Mix sugar, brown sugar, butter, vanilla and egg in a large bowl by hand. Stir in flour, baking soda, and salt. The dough will be very stiff. Stir in chocolate chips. Drop dough by rounded tablespoonfuls 2 inches apart onto ungreased cookie sheet. Bake 8 to 10 minutes or until light brown. The centers will be soft. Let cool for one minute then remove from cookie sheet and place on wire rack to finish cooling.
Present to roommate with extensive and apparently unnecessary apology.
Love,
Gabi
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Oh brother.
There was a time when I was bigger, faster, funnier, and smarter than my little brother Jeremy. By "little" I of course mean "younger," as he's not little at all--in fact he's significantly bigger, funnier, faster, and at least as smart as I am. Oh, and he's MUCH cooler. But there was a time when I could beat him at arm wrestling and make him believe anything I said.
My favorite trick to play, was, in retrospect, maybe a bit too cruel, but it worked over and over again and so I kept on with it. Whenever Jeremy would push me or elbow me, or even just tap me a little too hard, I would flop to the ground, remain limp and pretend to be either so seriously injured that I couldn't move...or dead. The best part was that no matter how many times I tried this, he believed it again and again and would make a mad dash to wherever my parents' room tearfully screaming "MOM, DAD! COME QUICK! I THINK I KILLED GABI!" And I would laugh and laugh. I was terrible.
Jeremy was not the only victim though. He committed his share of obnoxious acts, one of which still cracks my best friend Katie up whenever she is reminded of it. One Saturday night when Katie and I were fourteen, we were entrusted with the responsibility of babysitting for Jeremy, then eleven. We were mostly interested in talking about boys and experimenting with eye makeup and so ignored Jeremy for the larger part of the evening, which was fine with him because he was happy eating candy and playing Mario Kart II.
I decided to make risotto for Katie and me-- she had never eaten it before and I had a great recipe. It was simple, with red bell peppers and green onions and, when it had finished cooking, I turned off the heat and we went to perfect the thick eyeliner that we thought made us look so sophisticated.
When we came back to the kitchen, I lifted the pot and to our surprise, the risotto was pink. Trying to remain calm, I reasoned that maybe it was the red from the bell pepper bleeding into the rice and I divided it into bowls and we sat down to eat. It tasted sweet and cinnamon-y. Not at all how it was supposed to taste.
"Is it supposed to be sweet, Gabi?" she asked, grimacing.
"No. It's not. I wonder how it---"and then Jeremy caught my eye. He was grinning mischievously, and sticking out his red candy-stained tongue when I realized the disgusting deed he had done. He had spit his Fireball cinnamon candy into our risotto, turned up the heat, and stirred until the sugary, saliva-coated candy dissolved. I yelled and threatened to call our parents, but this was before cell phones and I think he knew I wouldn't really do anything. He just laughed and laughed as Katie and I tried to scrub out the sticky, cheesy mess and cursed him under our breath.
And now, since we've both grown up significantly and I no longer play dead and he no longer sabotages my attempts at culinary genius, we've grown closer. And recently, he found a new creative outlet, his own blog. Check him out at mrderivative.blogspot.com.
Love,
Gabi
My favorite trick to play, was, in retrospect, maybe a bit too cruel, but it worked over and over again and so I kept on with it. Whenever Jeremy would push me or elbow me, or even just tap me a little too hard, I would flop to the ground, remain limp and pretend to be either so seriously injured that I couldn't move...or dead. The best part was that no matter how many times I tried this, he believed it again and again and would make a mad dash to wherever my parents' room tearfully screaming "MOM, DAD! COME QUICK! I THINK I KILLED GABI!" And I would laugh and laugh. I was terrible.
Jeremy was not the only victim though. He committed his share of obnoxious acts, one of which still cracks my best friend Katie up whenever she is reminded of it. One Saturday night when Katie and I were fourteen, we were entrusted with the responsibility of babysitting for Jeremy, then eleven. We were mostly interested in talking about boys and experimenting with eye makeup and so ignored Jeremy for the larger part of the evening, which was fine with him because he was happy eating candy and playing Mario Kart II.
I decided to make risotto for Katie and me-- she had never eaten it before and I had a great recipe. It was simple, with red bell peppers and green onions and, when it had finished cooking, I turned off the heat and we went to perfect the thick eyeliner that we thought made us look so sophisticated.
When we came back to the kitchen, I lifted the pot and to our surprise, the risotto was pink. Trying to remain calm, I reasoned that maybe it was the red from the bell pepper bleeding into the rice and I divided it into bowls and we sat down to eat. It tasted sweet and cinnamon-y. Not at all how it was supposed to taste.
"Is it supposed to be sweet, Gabi?" she asked, grimacing.
"No. It's not. I wonder how it---"and then Jeremy caught my eye. He was grinning mischievously, and sticking out his red candy-stained tongue when I realized the disgusting deed he had done. He had spit his Fireball cinnamon candy into our risotto, turned up the heat, and stirred until the sugary, saliva-coated candy dissolved. I yelled and threatened to call our parents, but this was before cell phones and I think he knew I wouldn't really do anything. He just laughed and laughed as Katie and I tried to scrub out the sticky, cheesy mess and cursed him under our breath.
And now, since we've both grown up significantly and I no longer play dead and he no longer sabotages my attempts at culinary genius, we've grown closer. And recently, he found a new creative outlet, his own blog. Check him out at mrderivative.blogspot.com.
Love,
Gabi
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Bagels and Lox
About a month ago, I started working in a synagogue and have found that since then, roughly 80% of my meals are now a bagel, cream cheese, and if I'm feeling festive, a little lox. This is not so much because I love this meal, but more because it's free, abundant, and easy to eat while you try to do ten other things at once.
This, however, is not how I remember first discovering bagels and lox. The first time the idea was even presented to me was when I was maybe eleven, staying with my father's parents, known to me as Panta and Grandma ("Panta" because I couldn't pronounce "Grandpa" as a baby). Panta sat in his Los Angeles kitchen sipping coffee, reading the LA Times and eating a huge bialy smeared with cream cheese, weird-looking pink fish and red onions. At the time, I had never seen anything so disgusting in my life.
"What's on your bagel, Panta?"
"It's called lox. You want a taste?"
"No, it looks yucky."
"You don't tell someone their breakfast looks yucky, Gabi-goo."
So I left it alone until my next visit to LA about a year later when, apparantly my taste buds had matured a little and this time when he offered me a bite of his bialy with lox, I took it and suddenly I knew I had found my new favorite food.
The timing of my newfound adoration of bagels and lox couldn't have been better, given the bar and bat mitzvah circuit that presented itself when I started seventh grade. Suddenly almost every weekend when one of my Hebrew School classmates was called to the Torah I got to eat a bagel with lox for lunch at the oneg that followed the service! Sure, there was whitefish spread and fruit and cookies and chopped liver and egg salad, but they weren't nearly as interesting to me.
The next time that bagels and lox abounded in my life wasn't a joyous an experience. In 2005, ten years after my year of bar/bat mitzvah-hopping, Panta died. I flew from Boston,where I was living at the time, for the funeral and to sit shiva with my family. When I first arrived, I couldn't eat--none of us could. But eventually, we realized we had to keep up our energy and so we turned to the masses of deli platters that people brought over overflowing with--you guessed it--bagels, cream cheese and lox.
It is said that in Judaism, we carry the Torah in times of joy and we carry the Torah in times of sadness and dispair. This rule, I've found, also applies to consumption of bagels and lox. When Panta died, the familiar food that held such fond memories suddenly felt heavy in my stomach. We were all too devastated and tired to think about coordinating anything else though, so we just kept eating the endless bagels and lox that loving friends and neighbors brought to my grandparents' house. I didn't touch another bagel-lox sandwich for a very long time after that.
And yet now, I find that they are a staple in my diet--something I eat almost mindlessly these days. This morning, as I arrived at the synagogue to set up for yet another bar mitzvah, smeared my bagel half with cream cheese and topped it with a sad-looking piece of lox, I vowed that the next bagel with lox that I eat will be eaten sitting down, with a nice cup of coffee and a thick newspaper-- or better, with someone I love--and savored slowly, just as Panta would have done.
Love,
Gabi
This, however, is not how I remember first discovering bagels and lox. The first time the idea was even presented to me was when I was maybe eleven, staying with my father's parents, known to me as Panta and Grandma ("Panta" because I couldn't pronounce "Grandpa" as a baby). Panta sat in his Los Angeles kitchen sipping coffee, reading the LA Times and eating a huge bialy smeared with cream cheese, weird-looking pink fish and red onions. At the time, I had never seen anything so disgusting in my life.
"What's on your bagel, Panta?"
"It's called lox. You want a taste?"
"No, it looks yucky."
"You don't tell someone their breakfast looks yucky, Gabi-goo."
So I left it alone until my next visit to LA about a year later when, apparantly my taste buds had matured a little and this time when he offered me a bite of his bialy with lox, I took it and suddenly I knew I had found my new favorite food.
The timing of my newfound adoration of bagels and lox couldn't have been better, given the bar and bat mitzvah circuit that presented itself when I started seventh grade. Suddenly almost every weekend when one of my Hebrew School classmates was called to the Torah I got to eat a bagel with lox for lunch at the oneg that followed the service! Sure, there was whitefish spread and fruit and cookies and chopped liver and egg salad, but they weren't nearly as interesting to me.
The next time that bagels and lox abounded in my life wasn't a joyous an experience. In 2005, ten years after my year of bar/bat mitzvah-hopping, Panta died. I flew from Boston,where I was living at the time, for the funeral and to sit shiva with my family. When I first arrived, I couldn't eat--none of us could. But eventually, we realized we had to keep up our energy and so we turned to the masses of deli platters that people brought over overflowing with--you guessed it--bagels, cream cheese and lox.
It is said that in Judaism, we carry the Torah in times of joy and we carry the Torah in times of sadness and dispair. This rule, I've found, also applies to consumption of bagels and lox. When Panta died, the familiar food that held such fond memories suddenly felt heavy in my stomach. We were all too devastated and tired to think about coordinating anything else though, so we just kept eating the endless bagels and lox that loving friends and neighbors brought to my grandparents' house. I didn't touch another bagel-lox sandwich for a very long time after that.
And yet now, I find that they are a staple in my diet--something I eat almost mindlessly these days. This morning, as I arrived at the synagogue to set up for yet another bar mitzvah, smeared my bagel half with cream cheese and topped it with a sad-looking piece of lox, I vowed that the next bagel with lox that I eat will be eaten sitting down, with a nice cup of coffee and a thick newspaper-- or better, with someone I love--and savored slowly, just as Panta would have done.
Love,
Gabi
Monday, September 8, 2008
It's not you, it's me....or at least this awful restaurant.
I really hate dating.
I used to love it. In college I would sometimes go out on several dates per week, not really caring how they turned out, just enjoying the fact that I was meeting new people and trying new restaurants and bars. I suppose part of it is that I am only recently single, but now, whenever I have a date, I actually get nervous and drop things and worry about what to wear. What is THAT about? Where is the carefree 20-year-old whose only concern was that she might double-book herself? Apparently she's somewhere in 2002 having a fabulous time while I dab on eye cream and fret in 2008.
I guess dating is also different now that I'm 26 and not 20. It's usually expected that a first date take place in an actual restaurant (and not, say, a dorm room), and that at least a small sum of money is spent. All of this is good, as I like restaurants, but disaster can STILL lurk around the corner. Choose your first date restaurant poorly, and you'll only up the anxiety that a first date already provokes.
In my opinion the ideal first date restaurant should be:
1) Centrally located between you and your date. Of course, if you and your date live in different cities or if only one of you has a car and public transportation is not an option, there are exceptions, but if you are meeting for the first time (like in the case of a blind date), or you don't know your date very well, I think it's best to arrive separately, that way, if you need to escape after your meal, you can do so without having to ask be driven home, or having to drive someone home first.
2) In both parties' price range. Obviously, you can't ask your date what his/her annual salary is before making a reservation, so when in doubt, go with a somewhat casual restaurant with low-medium prices. Even if you are planning on paying, it can feel awkward to the other person when the prices are above their price range.
3)Equipped with a full bar, or at least beer and wine. If, you or your date don't drink, then of course this goes out the window, but for me, I like to know that if I need a glass of zinfandel to quiet my nerves, I'll be able to order it.
My favorite first date restaurants in San Francisco are:
Firefly: http://www.fireflyrestaurant.com/
Monk's Kettle: http://www.monkskettle.com/
Osha Thai: http://www.oshathai.com/
Love,
Gabi
I used to love it. In college I would sometimes go out on several dates per week, not really caring how they turned out, just enjoying the fact that I was meeting new people and trying new restaurants and bars. I suppose part of it is that I am only recently single, but now, whenever I have a date, I actually get nervous and drop things and worry about what to wear. What is THAT about? Where is the carefree 20-year-old whose only concern was that she might double-book herself? Apparently she's somewhere in 2002 having a fabulous time while I dab on eye cream and fret in 2008.
I guess dating is also different now that I'm 26 and not 20. It's usually expected that a first date take place in an actual restaurant (and not, say, a dorm room), and that at least a small sum of money is spent. All of this is good, as I like restaurants, but disaster can STILL lurk around the corner. Choose your first date restaurant poorly, and you'll only up the anxiety that a first date already provokes.
In my opinion the ideal first date restaurant should be:
1) Centrally located between you and your date. Of course, if you and your date live in different cities or if only one of you has a car and public transportation is not an option, there are exceptions, but if you are meeting for the first time (like in the case of a blind date), or you don't know your date very well, I think it's best to arrive separately, that way, if you need to escape after your meal, you can do so without having to ask be driven home, or having to drive someone home first.
2) In both parties' price range. Obviously, you can't ask your date what his/her annual salary is before making a reservation, so when in doubt, go with a somewhat casual restaurant with low-medium prices. Even if you are planning on paying, it can feel awkward to the other person when the prices are above their price range.
3)Equipped with a full bar, or at least beer and wine. If, you or your date don't drink, then of course this goes out the window, but for me, I like to know that if I need a glass of zinfandel to quiet my nerves, I'll be able to order it.
My favorite first date restaurants in San Francisco are:
Firefly: http://www.fireflyrestaurant.com/
Monk's Kettle: http://www.monkskettle.com/
Osha Thai: http://www.oshathai.com/
Love,
Gabi
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