Enough, Peeps!

I came upon (and almost fainted at the sight of) this interesting concoction on Serious Eats last week. This "Peepza" kind of makes my tummy ache just by looking at it. Then again, I abhor Peeps (I know, such sacrelig).

I guess you have to be a real Peeps freak to take a stab at it. I call it an assault on pizza.

This Easter: thoughts on my Catholicism

One of my co-workers this past week laughingly referred to me as a "Christer": a so-called churchgoer who makes biannual trips to Christmas and Easter services(actually, I do Christmas Eve - less kids). With the Easter season afoot, I routinely try to come to terms with my Catholicism. And I just don't feel like it. That could take forever.

There's no avoiding it: I'm just one of the many 20-somethings who've fallen into that slump of not practicing, not really adhering, but still believing and, thus, suffers from the occasional wave of guilt. And my current state of "belief" is just about as confusing and contradictory as growing up Catholic; nothing has changed there.

Technically, I'm a fullout baptized, communion-ized and confirmed Catholic, raised from the very beginning to take Jesus' blood and pray to the Virgin Mother. I got the double-whammy upbringing from both parents, and on top of that, my even more Catholic grandmothers (who still go to confession, to confess God-knows-what). I remember that everything needed to be perfect on my First Communion: my mother gave me her tiny, white pocketbook where I stored my Catechism book (perfect size for little hands) and my plastic rosary (also white). I was seven, skinny, and content to take Christ's body into my own. And He tasted like paper.

A couple of years later, my parents were divorced. I recall mother describing the annulment process as "too expensive, too complicated, and takes a long, long time". Yikes!

My mother taught Sunday School for several years, and we went to church throughout my early teens. At my Confirmation I wore a sexy dress, tight around my new-forming curves, when I was sweet 16. In High School, I made friends with the offbeat metal-heads and skateboarders, who were baffled at my strict adherence to Sunday mass and crucifixes, which decorated my room. My choir teacher, a loud, large, dogmatic traditionalist, never failed to lecture us on the "hard times" his Catholic schoolboy past, and encourage us to sing the Ave Maria with tears in our eyes.

Then came sex, birth control, and college in that respective order. At Sarah Lawrence, Catholicism was a direction of study, not a belief. It was okay to take religion courses, but it was NOT acceptable to think that stuff was actually real. At campus art shows, poetry readings, lectures, and even in class, the topic of Catholicism was slurred over as a silly childhood superstition. It was on par with political conservatism (probably rightly so).

I wasn't offended - I took it as a sign to move on. You have to remember, by that time I'd committed at least one carnal sin, and wasn't on the way to make an honest woman of myself. I took a course on Medieval Christianity and the cosmos (really) and wrote theses on heresey and inquisition. I took Latin and read the Aeneid. I took a Russian novel class and fell desperately in love with Bulgakov's The Master and Margarita (Google it, then read it).

When I spent time in Italy and studied abroad in Florence, I experienced mega-basilica-overload. I saw enough statues, icons, and mosaics and triptychs of saints and angels to fill another Catholic girl's lifetime. Though they weren't just objects. Every piece filled my heart with fascination of their beauty, mystery, and pain. I felt a return, in some way, to my faith. I went to Assisi and saw Saint Francis' tomb (that's what they said it was!). I climbed the fucking cuppola on the tippy-top of Saint Peter's Basilica. I read Dante for the first time, chuckled at his Hell, and loved his version of what Heaven could be. It was a journey into the world that carried the origins of a beauitful Catholicism; wherever you turned there was a sign that this was the mother land of it all. Though, interestingly, the Italians I met couldn't really care less about being surrounded by chuches.

I know, this glimpse really doesn't say enough. But, like I said, coming to terms with my beliefs takes a while, and to be honest, might not ever completely happen. In the meantime, I'm going to keep living in delicious sin with my boyfriend, watch Pope Benedict on TV and shake my head, and spell God with a capital "G".

Puppy alert!

In lieu of my lazy silence this week, I present an adorable, squishable, mushable, 8-week old Jack Russell Terrier that one of my co-workers just brought home this weekend. How do I love thee, little puppy wuppy? Let me count the ways...

Seriously? Your cuteness is hurting me. I can't wait for bring your dog to work day.

Greek Tapas is fabulicious

My beautiful and talented love, Shakira Croce, came upon this darling little gourmet wine bar while searching for a quick place to nosh before catching a flick around Columbus Circle. Kashkaval, squeezed in amongst other cutsey restaurants, can be found on 9th, between 55th and 56th, about five minutes from the subway. The entrance appears to be a shop with a deli counter and packages of dry goods, but in the back is a miniscule bar and seating area. We caught the after-work crowd at about 6 o'clock, which included a bunch of 20 and 30-somethings chatting over tiny plates of food and glasses of red wine. The waitresses, who revealed a hint of Mediterranean in their greetings, were very cordial and attentive. We were seated in very close quarters with another couple, but there was an ample amount of noise in the room that I felt comfortable blabbing at my normal frequency (not much can stop that, I guess).

Their menu is very reasonable and varied (especially for your frugal bloggerista), including gorgonzola fondue for $12, chicken kebabs for $14, and warm paninis ranging from $10-$12. Shakira and I decided to share a tapas for 2, for $12, which allowed us to pick up to five hearty dips from their 24 different varieties. Among other choices, we ordered eggplant taponade, spinach with feta, red pepper spread, and guacamole. The spreads were served all on the same platter, and a warm basket of whole-wheat pita slices accompanied served as delicious dipping utensils.

We ordered the cheapest wine on the menu, a glass of Montepulciano d'Abruzzo, for $6, and it was amazing. The other wine choices were a bit more expensive, ranging from $9-$10 a glass (hey, I like my damn happy hour). The food was great - we gobbled the entire platter and our bread, and were, miraculously, satisfied from some tapas (which never happens to me). I definitely recommend it, next time you're deciding amongst the the usually overpriced and uninteresting locales in Columbus Circle.

Little library hostages

Maybe I'm just being self-conscious, but I have this strange feeling that all librarians think I'm greedy. Or maybe it's that look they give you when you check out books three days in a row, and wait outside on Sunday afternoons for them to open, and you ask all sorts of questions like, "How long can I keep renewing this?". You know what? I like getting things for free. Reading is my life. There's a WHOLE government system dedicated to these two elements of my personal fulfilment. So c'mon, librarian, I'm going to take out as many books as I can carry! And yes I will come to that free concert series featuring local jazz muscians. Now we're even!

Here are my most recent picks and choices:

Since I just learned about an Anthony Bourdain author event in Union Square this coming June, I was like, huh, I should read one of his books. A good friend (who's dating a chef), confessed her love of the feisty/loveable Bourdain and told me she (and her boyfriend) loved Kitchen Confidential (Bloomsbury, 2000). I actually only knew "Tony" from his Travel Channel series, No Reservations, and didn't even realize his writing kicks so much more ass than his show. He's a spectacular writer: the type that writes the way he speaks, but does it like a pro. I squealed when I saw that it was available at our library, picked it up yesterday and haven't put it down. It's a speedy yet savory read that's part autobiography and part how-to guide to cooking, eating, and enjoying a meal at a restaurant, particularly in Manhattan. He touches on all the essentials: why risk is important in eating, why food should be about pleasure, and why we should never abuse garlic with a terrifying contraption known as a garlic press. I'm about 100 pages through and loving it. I can't wait to read his other books, like The Nasty Bits (Bloomsbury, 2007).

I had been meaning to get my hands on Flannery: A Life of Flannery O'Connor (Little, Brown & Co.) since it came out last February. The author, Brad Gooch, is an English professor at my father's alma mater, William Patterson University in nearby Wayne, NJ. I'm about 40 pages into it, and it looks very serious and involved, and I will love finishing it in several months from now. It's a thick book (at 464 pp), and a slow read (for me), but I want to do it, and I already love the history of Irish-Catholic Georgia and the evidence of its influence on her stories. I've also skipped right to the glossy black and white inserts that reveal photos of dear Flannery, from her school portrait to her posing with crutches on each arm. WILL READ! Promise.

A literary buddy of mine at work suggested Delillo's White Noise (Penguin Classics, 2009), after I told him about my attempt at Mao II (a different recommendation from another literary buddy) that featured amazing prose, but the subject matter was a little too sci-fi for me. I haven't cracked it open yet, but I will. My friend told me it was the best start to reading Delillo. Will do!

A short story of Jennifer Egan's was published in last week's New Yorker, which got me nostalgic about a paperback I happened to pick up at The Strand once when I was 15 or 16: Look At Me (Anchor, 2002). Especially for a teenage girl (surveying different sorts of femininity), it was a provocative, epic read about a supermodel who messes up her face. Kind of desperately, I looked up what other books she'd done, and found that our library had a copy of The Keep, which Anchor released back in 2007. I did spend a few days with it (while waiting for other library orders to arrive), and I almost decided to finish based on one element: her style. The plot, however, was stupid: a guy from New York goes to a castle in Germany to spend time with his long-lost cousin who used to be a loser but is now a millionaire who's fixing up the castle, and there's a magic lady at the castle who has sex with the guy, and that's as far as I got. The thing that got me was the second story that seems to be simultaneous with the front-story: a man, a relative of the main character and his cousin, is in prisoner, taking a creative writing class. Egan jumps from front to back story in a particular way that leads you to believe the prisoner is actually creating this story about his cousins. The prison chapters were most authentic. And I LOVE Egan's dialogue - she's one of the better contemporary dialogue-ers. Unfortunately, this was a case where I was questioning why I care. There wasn't much reason, so I gave it a go, and decided against it halfway through.

Mussolini obsessed

Vincere (2009), an Italian film about the young Mussolini-in-progress and his first wife, Ida Dalser, just released yesterday in Manhattan. It looks stunning - can't wait to see it. Read the NY Times review here.

I guess we'll take the leftovers...

There's nothing like a good dose of grandma's guilting. So when Dan's grandmother looked me in the eye yesterday and said, "Will you take all the potatoes? How about the carrots?" and the ultimate temptation: "I'll give you my tupperware", there's no way to turn her down.

The reason why St. Patty's side dishes amount to such abundant leftovers is because, well, the corned beef kicks the crap out of the boiled potatoes and carrots. (We shiver at the prospect of leftover cabbage. No one even wants to look at it.)

So now I'm left with two pounds of cold, wet, starchy "Irish" fare. Spice is a must here, and heat, and a little hope.

Spicy St. Patrick's leftovers:

Things you need:
Olive Oil
1 garlic clove, minced
Chicken broth
Leftover boiled red potatoes, quartered
Leftover boiled carrots, diced
1 can of red kidney beans, rinsed
1/2 bag baby spinach
Chili powder
Salt
Pepper
Tabasco sauce (I like habañero flavor)

To do:
Heat up oil and garlic in a shallow saucepan (or wok!)
Add the quartered potatoes (any amount you want - it will be the base of the dish so add a lot)
Add about 1/2 cup chicken broth
Heat the potatoes up for about 5-10 mins, then add the kidney beans and mix it up.
Cover for about 5-10 mins, then mix up some more and add carrots. Keep mixing, so it get a bit mushy, like a stew.
Add the spices to taste. If you have it, add a cajun seasoning like Slap ya Mama - I put this on EVERYTHING: http://www.slapyamama.com/
Gradually mix in the baby spinach and let it cook down.

You'll like it - I promise! And will make you feel guilty if you don't try a taste.