How do you eat your noodles?

Not gonna lie, I enjoy watching and judging how people slurp their noodles (and I take great offense when there is no slurping!). Most of the time, I can’t help but laugh; especially when a server offers the diner a fork. Sometimes, I think their style perfectly matches their appearance. And, once in a while, there’s nothing to judge because they employ the same technique I use.

But once, only once in my many pho-loving years, was I thoroughly impressed. This Asian woman used her chopsticks to grasp a few noodles very close to one end. Then she twirled the chopsticks around the bowl a few times. When she lifted the chopsticks to her mouth, a nice little noodle pile resembling spaghetti twirled around a fork was just waiting to be relished.

I’ve tried to replicate this technique but I just end up with broth all over the table, my lap and everywhere but where it should be: in my belly. So I stick to my tried-and-true method of eating pho and wonder if there’s someone out there who thinks it’s cool/methodical enough to be duplicated.

Maybe bacon is too much his favorite

E! Online tweeted: "'Top Chef' Finalist and Favorite Dish Parting Ways"

I clicked the link to find a picture of Kevin (the one with the beard and the pig tat who jams to bacon) and I immediately thought he and bacon were on the outs.

It turns out Kevin and his wife are divorcing.

Reaction #1: Tsk, tsk E! for a misleading headline. Especially since this is a serious topic.

Reaction #2: Thank goodness Kevin and bacon are still going strong!

Reaction #3: I'm probably going to hell.

Reaction #4: What if bacon was mistresses #1-14?

My little dog

Edith Wharton once described her little dog as “a heartbeat at [her] feet.”

My little dog, Phoenix, is my heartbeat. Sometimes, at my feet. At times, on my lap. Most often, cuddled up against my leg if I’m sitting up and my side if I’m lying down.

Phoenix’s highest religion is body contact. Incomplete and restless until he has obtained the most physical contact possible, there is no distance he won’t travel, no heights he won’t climb, no blankets he won’t dig through. Sometimes, I think he isn’t even satisfied with laying on me; like he needs to be even more closely connected, like he wishes he could crawl inside my being and lounge alongside my vital organs. Especially on cold days like today.

What he doesn’t know is that he’s already there; he’s just as vital as my lungs, stomach and liver. In spite of his occasional snoring.

There's something about Jersey...

Oh, Jersey. Having spent some of my most formative years in Staten Island, I know it well. The northern part, anyway; it was the best and closest place for reasonably priced gas, tax-free shopping (even after NYC removed the tax on clothes and shoes) and days at the shore. Southern Jersey, however, is as alien to me as Siberia and Arkansas.

Thanks to MTV’s new reality show “Jersey Shore,” everyone, regardless of geographic location, can share in the wonders of The Garden State. I missed the premiere and doubt I will ever make the effort to watch the show but, unlike UNICO, many Staten Islanders and the Jersey Shore tourism board (who even know this existed?), I’m not offended by it.

Italian-Americans should just suck it up. You can’t always be represented in a positive or multi-faceted light. Asian-Americans don’t bitch and moan about their men being stereotyped as computer nerds or karate masters and women divided into dragon ladies and exotic flowers; and those are the nicer generalizations of a diverse ethnicity.

Staten Islanders need to s.t.f.u. and get a sense of humor about this whole thing. (And, before you get mad at me, know that I lived in Staten Island for nearly twenty years of my life and Brooklyn for a year before hopping over the Verrazano.) First of all, the show’s not even set in Staten Island. Saying a reference to Jersey also includes Staten Island is sort of akin to saying people are talking about Staten Island when mentioning Manhattan—completely ridiculous and big-headed. The line between Jersey and Staten Island is slightly foggier because so many people move from Staten Island to Jersey and the stereotypes are more than similar. Is that why you’re annoyed? Because it touches so close to home? If so, get over it and find a sense of humor and some perspective.

Secondly, you know you make deprecating jokes about Staten Island, Brooklyn and Jersey all the time. I know I did and continue to; especially when someone refers to “True Life: I’m a Staten Island Girl.” (Just think about that for a second. This episode first aired my senior year of high school—2002—and people still talk about it more than seven years later. That’s sort of amazing. At least I think so.)

The Jersey Shore tourism board should thank their lucky stars for all this free publicity. Ask California, North Carolina’s Outer Banks and New Orleans. It’s hard out there for tourism these days.

It’s actually perversely flattering, all this attention on this tiny part of the country. Seriously, what did Jersey (and Staten Island) do to warrant it?

Furthermore, what’s the big deal if some kids from Jersey make fools of themselves on national cable TV? Who cares if viewers make judgments? Anyone with a brain knows MTV’s “reality” shows are far from actual reality. MTV knows what its viewers like and they accordingly cast, script their shows and edit their footage.

You know, if you think about it, you shouldn’t even be mad at the show or MTV; but at the individuals who allowed MTV to film their lives and their antics and willingly lived up to what MTV asked for. I guess some anger can be directed at MTV for exploiting the ridiculous and exalting these stereotypes for profit.

But, mostly, just laugh and endeavor to live so that people learn not everyone is like the MTV stereotype when they meet you. Besides, your ire is drawing more attention than the show alone ever could.

This one time, on a swamp tour...

I had a few things I absolutely needed to do while in New Orleans: treat myself to a cafe au lait and beignets at Cafe Du Monde; drink a few hurricanes/hand grenades on Bourbon Street; see the Ninth Ward; try to stalk Brangelina; eat at one of Emeril's restaurants. I checked off all of these and something else I didn't expect to do: go on a swamp tour and see real-life alligators. 

Cajun Encounters at Honey Island Swamp in Sidell, La.

 

A real life shrimp boat!

Great white egret taking flight

Who knew swamps could be so pretty?

Gators eat two things: Yanks and marshmallows. Thank goodness the guide had a lot of marshmallows!

Great white egret in greenery

West Pearl Bridge, requires 4-hour advance notice to be lifted

 

Pretty sure this guy's name was Brutus and he was a BIG boy!

Family day in the sun!

Blue Heron. Apparently, they're feisty!

 

I guess turtles aren't the only ones who like to sun themselves on fallen trees.

Spanish moss is really pretty.

Did you know Spanish moss isn't really Spanish? It was so named because it resembled the goatees of the Spanish conquistadors.

The swamp was really unlike anything I imagined. No bugs. No smell. And incredibly lush.

Blue heron taking flight

 

End of the tour.

Just for shits and giggles.

finis.

It’s like déjà vu all over again

President Barack Obama, addressing the nation from West Point Military Academy on Tuesday, formally announced the 2010 deployment of an additional 30,000 troops to and the 2011 withdrawal of soldiers from Afghanistan.

His speech lasted 34 minutes and wrung its audience through the emotional gamut from the pride for FDR and World War II to the pain of 9/11 and Iraq. He invoked grand deeds of the past and established lofty aspirations for the future.

I wanted to believe in the words coming from Obama’s mouth; I wanted to believe in this cause; I wanted to believe in the President of the United States, my President. But I couldn’t. Even the careful crafting of his words couldn’t hide their lack of substance or deny the fact I had heard these points and themes before. And been disappointed and frustrated by my country’s inability to live up to these lofty promises.

Obama’s efforts to pacify the conservative right, fire up the liberal left and inform the general public failed. The right is still boiling, the left still clamoring for peace and the American people know the same information they did last week (if they stay current on the news, that is).

President Obama, directly addressing the West Point cadets seated in front of him, said, “As your commander-in-chief, I owe you a mission that is clearly defined, and worthy of your service.”

The mission, as he elaborated: sending 30,000 additional soldiers to contend with al-Qaeda forces in Afghanistan and appealing to America’s international allies for aid; pursuing a more sustainable and secure civilian strategy; and forming an “effective partnership” with Pakistan.

He spent more time discussing the steps he took to reach the decision to send more troops—yes, we know he prefers peace to war and voted against the Iraqi invasion, signs condolence letters to families who lost one of their own to war, visits “wounded warriors at Walter Reed” and personally met the caskets of 18 soldiers—rather than the decision, and even the mission, itself.

Obama used the phrase “reasonable cost” when skirting around the issue of the time and resources he is willing to dedicate in Afghanistan. What does that mean? Why didn’t he elaborate? “Reasonable cost” is certainly a relative term. What is a “reasonable cost” to President Obama, the commander-in-chief, in comparison to a mother with a son in the army, a daughter with a father in Afghanistan, a husband with a wife serving in Iraq? Obama says he does not lightly take the loss of life yet lives have been lost since he took the oath of office and also in the time he took to decide on the mission in Afghanistan. Still, he is unclear with what “reasonable cost” means.

What was the point of this address? To keep Obama at the forefront of national news and not because of a party-crashing, attention-craving, wanna-be-reality-TV-stars twosome? To bring Afghanistan back into the fray of today’s political discussion? To steal some of the thunder of Tiger Woods, his golf-club-wielding wife and his illicit affairs?

Maybe it was a little bit of all of these. Mostly, and quite sadly, it seemed like the purpose was to rephrase and reiterate George W.’s words. He said some nice things about Americans, a few true things about America and many circuitous things about the war which seemed to be the speech’s intended subject. I guess we’ll have to wait and see whether America has another Vietnam on its hands or if troops really will start returning home in 2011.

What goes around, comes around?

Last year, a friend betrayed my trust and repeated my personal rants to their subject: his sister. It resulted in a catastrophic blow-up that brought a parent into the ridiculousness. No, it was not mine. I’ve had to fight my own battles and win my own wars since I was old enough to start them. My mother taught me, if I was old enough to get myself into trouble, I was old enough to get myself out of that trouble. Their mother does not believe the same. (The sister will turn 22 in February.)

This Thanksgiving, this same friend addressed an aside to his father about his sister. And, according to the friend, it was more of a look than a distinct comment. The next day, his sister texted him, “If you don’t like me doing that, you should just tell me. I’m sick of you treating me like a five-year old and thinking you’re better than me.” {pro for karma}

Granted, this entire situation could have been avoided if my friend had listened to me {pro for karma} and broached the topic with his sister when his frustrations first arrived a week earlier. He’s a little passive-aggressive and hid behind excuses instead of taking action. I could have said something but I’m already too easy a target to pin the villain tail on. I wanted to stay out of this spat. {con for karma}

He actually listened to my advice this time, responding, “I would have talked to you sooner about this but you always had company. I think it’s best to talk in person,” and then called his mother for how best to talk to his sister.

His mother, of course, unleashed all her fury on me. {con for karma} God forbid her children are capable of any wrongdoing and, in case you couldn’t tell, passive-aggressiveness slightly runs in the family. Even with me going out of my way to stay out the sister’s way and avoid any arguments and awkwardness, I still get dragged into this mess. Because I’m forthright and honest, people who don’t know me or willfully misunderstand me label me a bitch. I deserve neither such censure nor such praise. {con for karma?} But it certainly is easy to direct frustrations at me; especially in ongoing situations.

This “argument” has yet to be resolved so I’ll keep you abreast on whether karma wins out or not. Oh, and on the whole friend vs. sister thing, too.\

Just call me the G-Chat life coach

An unemployed 25-year old in denial about falling in love and growing up is probably the last person to approach for advice on career, love and life in general. Unless I am that 25-year old. My friends come to me for advice on just about anything and everything from wardrobe advice to office etiquette. I despise telephone conversations and e-mails so the best way to reach is via text message or G-Chat (the 21^st century’s instant messenger) and, in this battle, G-Chat wins. Texting is terrible for serious discussions. Seriously, what sadist came up with character limits? Word limits I understand; they make sense. But character limits?! Pure, irrational torture.

Just call me that GoogleTalk (or G-Chat) “Dear Abby.”

This amuses and confuses me. I mean, I am terrified of ending my (f)unemployment, finding a new love and growing another year older. The word “terrified” is an understatement.

At the same time, I almost understand why they think so highly of my opinion. In addition to a lot of time on my hands, I have exceptional clarity and thorough optimism when it comes to their lives.

For the most part, I don’t mind listening to my friends’ problems. I enjoy trying to help them—I mean, what else are friends for, really? And I especially love laughing at the occasional ridiculousness they find themselves in. (I am only human, after all, and I believe seeing the humor in a situation never hurt anybody. It’s better than taking it too seriously, that’s for certain.)

But, once in a while, all I want to do is pull my hair out, rip my ears off and scream at the top of my lungs. Like I said, I am only human. As such, I am not impervious to the draining effect of their constant complaints and queries.

Self-examination is a normal exercise of mine. For me, it is just as vital as breathing, laughing, crying and singing. I can only wish my friends agreed and did the same. I’m sure they would still ask for my input. For instance, when I state something so thoroughly obvious, they tell me, "I know that. I just needed someone else to say it." I understand the need for an external perspective but a little self-analysis would still go a long way in getting to the heart of the problem and allowing me to return to my life outside the G-Chat life coach role: an unemployed 25-year-old woman with many of her own problems.

Labor(Day)-ing it up in New Hampshire

Labor Day usually offers a respite from labor. Instead, on September 7, 2009, I clambered over moss-covered hills, tripped over exposed tree roots and drove up the highest peak in the Northeast. Restful? Not quite. Rejuvenating? Entirely.

Here are some photes from this trek.

We were definitely not in Boston anymore.

 

The world with which I am most familiar is the modern, civilized one. It is bizarre to me worlds like this are the most familiar to some others.

 

The "Old Man in the Mountain," a natural formation of rocks so organized as to resemble an old man's profile, once lived here. Old age and free radicals eventually caught up with him--I wonder if the proximity of a pretty busy highway had anything to do with it--and he took a tumble. A la Humpty Dumpty, he was never put back together again.

 

Phoenix, my little short-haired Dachshund, daring me to just try and keep up with him.

  

 A little taste of white water.

 

Not yet time for the leaves to turn. Knowing New England falls, I was just a few days early.

  

 The waterfall for which the little park/trail was named: Bridal Veil. (Did you know there are lot of such-named parks/trails across the U.S.?)

Random fun fact: Bette Davis fell in love with man who worked as a guide in the area and married him. When he died, she placed a plaque dedicated to his memory, "The Keeper of Stray Ladies." I managed not to find this plaque hidden among the many rocks along the trail. Not really a surprise. If you head that way, I wish you better luck. 

Phoenix enjoyed playing on and in between the slippery rocks.

 

The wondrous imagination of nature.

A view from Mt. Washington. Still below the tree line.

Another view. This time from the top. Too chilly/exposed for trees at this point.

 

I got a little chuckle out of this. Maybe I'm a fifteen-year-old boy at heart.

Pretty tall,for the Northeast anyway.

 

The cloud coverage was slightly eerie.

  

Young love above the alpine line. Looks smaller than it feels.

 

Two feet back well below the alpine line. Look at these blue skies. The clouds deceived me!

Returning to the world I know.

finis.

A timely and thankful twist on “Random 25 (+1)”

Remember way back (a.k.a earlier this year) when Facebook was inundated with people posting “25 Random Things” about themselves? I know. That’s practically an eternity ago considering current attention spans. If you don’t remember, just go to the Notes page and scroll back to February. You’ll remember. Whether you want to or not.

So in honor of Thanksgiving, here are (in no specific order) 25 things I’m thankful for:

1. My dog. His almond-shaped brown eyes, doggy breath and jubilant tail-wag always put things in perspective.
2. My friends. Especially the ones who unconditionally understand and accept me.
3. Family. I wouldn’t be who I am today without them.
4. Words. They speak to my soul and allow my soul to speak.
5. JetBlue’s All-You-Can-Jet pass. Without it, I wouldn’t have gotten to Seattle, Las Vegas, the Hoover Dam, the Grand Canyon, San Francisco and New Orleans before turning 25.
6. Abbreviations a.k.a. abbrevs. I can and will abbreviate just about anything and will look down on you if you can’t/don’t keep up. Obvi.
7. Alexander Skarsgård. Here’s to hoping he is really as single as he claims.
8. Boyfriend jeans. They are so much more comfortable than skinny jeans.
9. The struggle of writing. If it is not a battle, it is not worth it.
10. Starbucks. Yes, each of my favorite drinks (caramel macchiatos, gingerbread lattes, pumpkin spice lattes and now caramel brulee lattes—all nonfat but I doubt that makes much difference) have the calories of a meal. But it is still delicious satisfaction in a cup.
11. Pedicures. Impossible to feel bad after getting one.
12. Blistex Complete Moisture lip balm. A waterfall on my lips.
13. Free Wi-Fi. Every business should provide free Wi-Fi; even if for a limited time.
14. Sonic’s chili cheese tater tots. I once endured an hour and a half wait in a drive-thru line for them and would do it again. They make my taste buds dance and my belly smile.
15. Body butter. I would bathe in it if I could.
16. Grown-up vampire fiction. “True Blood” and Charlaine Harris’ “Southern Vampire” novels entertain me. And these vamps are much more delectable than the teeny-bopper, “Twilight” versions.
17. Ice cream cake. The box claims, "It’s what happy tastes like." I agree.
18. Pho. Noodle bowls reaffirm everything that is good and right in this world.
19. Sriracha. There is nothing it can’t improve. Except maybe ice cream and cake and other sweets. Notice the maybe.
20. Pilates. It does a body good.
21. 27th World Championship for my Yankees. Is there anything else to say except it was about damn time?!
22. Sushi. It allows gluttony without the guilt.
23. Sweet potato pie. It screams “The holidays are here!”
24. Chocolate. If loving it is wrong, I don’t ever want to be right.
25. Syracuse men’s basketball. Top 10!

26. (a bonus in honor of today) Sweet, sweet photos (a.k.a. photes). They remind me where I’ve gone, whom I’ve been with and what I’ve done while showing me where I still want to go, whom I still want to see and what I still want to do.

Happy Thanksgiving, happier eating and happiest napping! Save me a slice of sweet potato pie. Yum!
 

Oh, the luck of Kate Bosworth…

Some girls have all the luck when it comes to guys. Unfortunately, that girl in my life in Kate Bosworth; not me. It's like she's on high alert for any Hollywood hunk I crush on and, the moment the alarm sounds, she pounces.

As an adult, I've adored two actors: Orlando Bloom and Alexander Skarsgård. What can I say? I'm loyal in and to my far-fetched romantic aspirations.

Orlando and Kate were hot and heavy just long enough to convince me it was serious. I moved on. Then they broke up. Luckily for me, it was a little too late for me to hop back on the Orlando train. He took up with model Miranda Kerr and is--as far I as know--with her still.

Kate and her dating life (and pretty much her career) faded from the spotlight; besides pictures of her skeletal appearance on red carpets and at fashion events.

Fast forward to this past summer: I got HBO and became addicted to all things "True Blood;" especially Alexander Skarsgård. I hadn't been this giddy over a Hollywood guy since Orlando Bloom showed off his elf ears in "Lord of the Rings: Fellowship of the Ring."

Cut to the present: rumors are swirling around a romance between none other than Kate Bosworth and Alexander Skarsgård. How is this even fair?

I'm keeping my fingers crossed it's just a stunt to help her reputation (after the snogging-Chris-Martin-after-a-Coldplay-concert-even-though-he-is-married-and-a-dad gossip. Did he ever get around the suing the magazine that broke this story?) and to promote "Straw Dogs." But I'm not holding my breath.


Since nothing takes the fun out of unattainable crushes quite like the undeniable reality of their unavailability, I've decided on a new approach to my celebrity crushes: use a decoy and pray Kate's luck runs out (or I get some of that luck--whichever's easier).

Marine in a Past Life > Military Wife in this One

Sometimes I think, “Maybe I was a Marine in a past life. Or maybe I want to be/could handle being a military wife.” Then the episode of “Generation Kill” ends and my senses return.

Surprisingly, it’s the first possibility that remains within my realm of reality. How else could I have survived the mean streets of Staten Island (don’t tell me you haven’t seen that episode of “MTV’s True Life”) for sixteen years and thrived in the harsh environment of a Catholic elementary/high school for twelve years? To an extent, this all-(adolescent)-girl environment is probably worse than then elements of the Marine Corps. Seriously. Imagine 100 or so teenage girls in the same small classes, hallways and buildings for four years. And remember this is a private Catholic school in Staten Island. On top of this, my principal made Captain America look like a brave man and Encino Man look like a Mensa candidate. I won’t even get started on some of my teachers. They deserve at least one later entry of their own.

While I do not see myself shooting guns, launching grenades, defecating in public and doing other Marine-y activities, I am slightly afraid of how unoffended and how humored I was at the flurry of racial, sexist and homophobic slurs the men let fly. I know I should have been disturbed and angered but their camaraderie and comfort in each other reminded me of how my high school friends and I were, how some of us still are. We’re brutal and honest and sometimes both simultaneously but we know, in our hearts of hearts, we would do anything for each other. And that, at the end of each day, is what matters.

But the military wife thing, completely busted. No matter how much I adore the HBO mini-series, its writing and its stars, I know I could never handle being the wife of a soldier. I hold to the liberal side of political ideals and dislike how right the military tends to blindly lean. I also, on occasion, need to be the first in my man’s life. Not all the time. But certainly once in a while. I don’t think a soldier could afford that. And I know it would be impossible if he were on deployment. I refuse to be unfair to this imaginary soldier pining for my affection and especially to me.

It is also important to remember the fact these men are probably completely different in combat and among their brothers than in their civilian lives and among family and friends. A necessity for their survival and sanity, I imagine. Even though I harbor the hope there is a real-life, high-as-a-mo-fo-on-Ripped-Fuel Corporal “Ray-Ray” Person. Regardless, and almost in spite, of Episode 7’s revelations.

I also remind myself I’ve fallen for characters based facades created by Marines witnessed by an embedded “Rolling Stones” journalist (who I’m pretty sure developed man-crushes on and slight hero-worship for said Marines) and reworked by screenplay writers. Then I put on the next episode and my senses once again desert me. 

Commuter high and low

Few sights delight me on a New England fall night as much as the sight of the right bus. Especially if I have been shivering at the bus stop for twenty minutes.

This high is slightly hampered when an antsy person appears from behind me and pushes through to the front of the line. To an extent, I understand. It is damn cold outside.

What completely squashes my high is this person’s need, upon reaching the fare machine, to count out the proper change. Not only does this bring me down, it pisses me off. On top of how easy CharlieTickets/Cards are to pick up and reload, they save time and unneeded aggravation. For said person. For me. For everyone still standing out in the cold waiting to get on the bus.

Keep this in mind next time you push your way to the front of the line and then have to count out change. Unless you don’t mind death stares from a dozen or so other commuters.

Don’t we all need a little “Tough Love?”

I enjoy VH1 reality shows. Of this guilty pleasure, the guiltiest is “Tough Love.”

From the first episode of the first season, I was hooked. Partly because Steve Ward (the host/dating coach/matchmaker) cracks me up. His arbitrarily numbered rules partnered with his “Hot Seat” observations leave me speechless.

But, to be completely honest, I watch mostly because the women in “boot camp” strike me as… Well, there’s really no gentle way of putting it: I just didn’t think it possible women like them really existed. Don’t get me wrong. I have known many insecure women looking for love in all the wrong ways and all the wrong places. And then some. But the women on “Tough Love” are really something else.

Now, before you think I’m too hard on my own sex, I must say I sympathize and empathize with many of these women. I share most of their insecurities and delusions. I know many of their fears and hesitations. It sometimes scares me how much of myself I see on the screen. I’ve been burned by boys and men alike so I guess I’m not all that different from the “insecure women looking for love in all the wrong ways and all the wrong places.”

Maybe that’s the real reason I took so quickly to the show. And I can’t wait for more.

The Balance Beam of My 20s

"Happy birthday! You're old enough that, if you were to date a college kid, you'd be considered a cougar."

This is the first birthday message I received ON my 25th. Luckily, it was 7 a.m. (a.k.a. hours before I can be expected to be a functional human being) and I’m generally not attracted to younger men or my so-called friend would have been in serious trouble. Of course I knew he was joking. But he should know how turning 25 terrified me. All of my friends are familiar with the anxiety and fear that has plagued me with every birthday following my 21^st but this most recent birthday has been the worst.

My tension doesn’t even stem from how amazing my 21^st year was. Don’t get me wrong, being 21 rocked. I was a senior in college and completely taken with my classes, my friends and my unrecognized potential.

Maybe it’s getting older. I know I’m not old. With the advent of modern medicine, I may very well live to see my centennial birthday and then some. Hopefully I’ll stop fearing them so much if that becomes the case.

Another friend tried to console me. “I can’t wait to turn 25,” he said. “I think people will take me more seriously at 25. When I tell people how I old I am now, they look at me like I’m a baby.”

Writing this has made me realize I can’t do anything about getting older. But I can change how I look at it. And, for now, maybe that’s enough.

Gargoyles: Not to be feared, but enjoyed

Restaurant: Gargoyles on the Square, 215 Elm Street (Davis Square), Somerville, Mass.
Date Enjoyed: Thursday, August 13, 2009

Summer Restaurant Weeks returned to Boston on Monday, Aug. 9. In case you live under a rock, during Restaurant Week, participating restaurants arrange prix fixe menus and serve them at a set price that is usually lower than their regular menu. It is an opportunity to try different restaurants and foods one wouldn’t try otherwise. Diners usually have a choice among three or more items per course (appetizer, entrée and dessert). In Boston, the price for a three-course lunch is $20.09 and a three-course dinner is $33.09. For more information, you should visit http://www.restaurantweekboston.com.

After some deliberation and debate, I made a reservation for two at Gargoyles on the Square in Somerville’s Davis Square and I was richly rewarded. I arrived at Gargoyles fifteen minutes before my reserved time but was still promptly seated by the polite hostess. I chose to sit in the front room, with the bar, because it was a nice day for people-watching through the large street-facing windows. If you want something a little more intimate and slightly quieter, I would recommend sitting in the back room.

Our waitress came to our table after giving us a few minutes to settle in and to check out the menu (not that I really needed the time. My picks were pretty much cemented when I made the online reservation for the restaurant.). She was pleasant, knowledgeable about the menu and prompt with the delivery of our orders.

The bread was delicious and fresh; crusty, chewy and garlicky in all the right places. The Riesling crisp, fruity and smooth; a great companion to my menu selections.

My meal: Cast Iron Baked Figs (fourme d’ambert, prosciutto, aged sherry and chives), Honey & Hoisin Glazed Duck Confit (sweet sticky rice, mango, cashews, young coconut milk) and Fresh Strawberry Tiramisu (lady fingers, cocoa, powdered sugar). My friend’s meal: Hawaiian Style Tuna Poke (hijiki, nori oil and red ginger), Miso Braised Short Rib (sweet mashed potatoes, corn shoots and oyster mushrooms) and Passionfruit Cheesecake (pineapple-mint relish, whipped cream).

My eyes nearly jumped out of head when my figs arrived. The generosity of the portion surprised me. There was a mountain of cheese covering what seemed like a half dozen figs (quartered) and a whole pig’s worth of prosciutto. The sweet and salty fragrance tickled my nose, triggering my salivary glands. The balance between the sweet and smooth figs, salty and crispy prosciutto and creamy fourme d’ambert melded into a beautiful dance of flavors on my tongue and truly whetted my appetite for my entrée.

Tuna poke came in a less generous serving and slightly overcompensated with intense flavors that lingered a little too long on my tongue. Upon first taste, I was reminded of sauces my grandmother used to make for her dumplings—a mix of vinegar, soy sauce and ginger—and I couldn’t help but fall in love. Unfortunately, the aftertaste long outlasted that affection and lingered even after I finished my main course.

The brown, crispy duck breast and leg arrived on a bed of white, stick rice sprinkled with mango atop a rich, green banana leaf. The duck skin crackled and the meat pulled apart at the touch of my fork. Raising my fork to my mouth, I tasted a refined Peking duck that left me wanting much more. Every element on the plate both complemented and enhanced each other.

Less impressive was the plating and portion size of the short rib but the tenderness and taste more than compensated for that slight shortcoming. A knife was unnecessary as the meat pulled apart at the slightest touch and the flavor was simultaneously rich and delicate.

My strawberry tiramisu arrived as a cloud of mascarpone garnished with strawberries and lady fingers in a martini glass. Strawberry essence tinted the mascarpone and the entire offering was a whimsical and delightful take on a classic.

 
Bold flavors saved the passionfruit cheesecake from its disappointing plating: a thin slice accompanied by small pineapple chunks. The pineapple slightly confused me but I suppose it accompanied the tropical fruit leaning of the dessert.

All in all, an enjoyable evening of delicious dishes and a great continuation of the restaurant week tradition.

Second chances

Sports headline of the evening: Michael Vick signs 2-year contract with Philadelphia Eagles.

This news was blockbuster enough to actually overshadow the official, unofficial start of the football season and Tom Brady's first plays on the football field in nearly a year. Even here in the heart of Patriots' territory: New England.

Tony Dungy, NFL players, sports commentators and even the mayor of Philadelphia freely discuss how penitent Vick is, how he's served his time and continues to do good work with humanitarian socities and how he deserves a second chance. But how would his supporters feel if he couldn't throw or run a football on the professional level? Would they still be in his corner? Because they certainly aren't backing the other hundreds or even thousands of people convicted of similar crimes.

This is a man who tortured animals for amusement. And not just once or twice. But many times over the course of six years. He bet on dogs and abused and even killed them. As PETA said in a released statement, Vick "hung dogs from trees. He electrocuted them with jumper cables and held them under water."

What if his victims were children instead of dogs? Some may call this a giant leap or a slippery slope argument. However, for me, a woman in her mid-20s with no children and two dogs, my dogs are my babies. I probably even take better care of them than I do myself. And I know many other dog owners who feel the same way.

Why does Michael Vick "deserve" this second chance while thousands of others people who are also sorry for their crimes and also served their sentences are left to languish? I have heard how difficult it is for people with criminal histories to make even the humblest of new starts. And the idea that Vick is entitled to this chance millions of kids and adults strive for just because he once played football at the highest possible level is preposterous.

That being said, I fully believe in giving deserving people a second chance and reintegrating them into society. Perhaps the key to successfully doing so is the ability to throw a football. And that, unfortunately, is the lesson this debacle taught us this evening.

My Life According to Billy Joel

For those unfamiliar with this Facebook trend, "Using only song names from one (1) artist, cleverly answer these questions."

=================

Pick your Artist: Billy Joel
Describe yourself: She's Always a Woman
How do you feel: We Didn't Start the Fire
Describe where you currently live: You're My Home
If you could go anywhere, you would go: I Go to Extremes
Your favorite form of transportation: My Life
Your best friend is: Honesty
You and your best friends: A Matter of Trust
What's the weather like: Shades of Gray

Favorite time of day: Leave a Tender Moment Alone
If your life was a TV show, what would it be called: She's Got a Way
What is life to you: State of Grace
Your last relationship: Running on Ice
Your fear: Pressure
What is the best advice you have to give: Get It Right the First Time
Thought for the Day: Don't Ask Me Why
How you would like to die: Famous Last Words
Your future: Baby Grand
Your motto: You May Be Right

I really should write more ....

... consistently and frequently and just more in general.

Life always makes the most sense when words flow from my fingertips; be it through pen, pencil or even computer keys. Yet, I don't make myself write. Despite many vows that I would do so.

This will change. Starting today. At a normal hour.

Brief note to Red Sox fans/NESN announcers...

Yes, the Red Sox are 8-0 against the Yankees this year.

Yes, the Red Sox are currently in sole possession of first place in the A.L. East.

However, they are only 2 games up; even with their 8-0 record against the Yankees.

If the position was reversed, would I be bragging? Probably. Actually, hell yes, I would be. However, I would also realize that things might not be as good as they seem for my team. But, then again, I've noticed many self-proclaimed fans in the New England area fail to understand the finer points of baseball.

=========

Yes, the Red Sox seem to have an overabundance of starting pitching.
 
Yes, Davi Ortiz seems to be actually seeing the ball after finally having his eyes checked out.
 
However, what is going on with Daisuke? What happens when teams start pitching around Papi?
 
I wouldn't get too excited until I see some real results from the highly touted Smoltz and prolonged results from Papi's bat.

=========

Joe Girardi is certainly nothing like Joe Torre. But that does not mean he lacks the wherewithal to manage the Yankees. Honestly, I heartily disagreed with the way George Steinbrenner practically ran Torre out of town and truly believed Girardi was given the opportunity because he would be easier to manage than Torre was. Torre had clearly won the respect of the players, the fans and even the NY press. If Torre wanted to do something one way, he'd do it that way and there was little to nothing that Steinbrenner could do about it. Girardi, being so green around the ears, would be much more malleable.

However, it is important to remember this team is no longer the Yankees of yore. Even with Derek Jeter, the Captain, it is no longer the Yankees of the Torre era. It is a younger, more open team. And Girardi seems to be the perfect fit for the Yankees of today. Especially since they both have something to prove.

I would do anything for love… of the Yankees

Heartbreak is not a stranger to me. I have known it at the hands of men and even at the hands of people I thought were my friends but, worst and most often of all, I have suffered it because of my favorite sports team: the New York Yankees. If any person were to even try putting me through a quarter of what the Yanks have actually put me through, the relationship would be terminated; no questions asked, nothing left to be said. 

I have just finished watching a Red Sox-Yankees game that lasted three hours and thirty-eight minutes. After a two-hour and forty-four-minute rain delay. Just to see the Yankees lose at the hands of the Red Sox for the fourth time this still (thankfully) young baseball season. But, for a diehard (and, not to mention, rather vocal) Yankees fan, this is four times too many. For one living in Boston, it feels like at least hundred-sixty-two times too many.

Even before this season, they have tested my loyalty. Letting Joe Torre leave New York with little fanfare. Failing to honor the little things that brought incredible successes in the late ‘90s. Placing faith in players who little deserved or warranted it. The list goes on and on.

But, still, I cheer for them. When they’re ahead, when they’re down. And I will continue to do so. 

A friend of mine recently picked up and moved her entire life to Germany because she fell in love. Another friend is debating moving to Barcelona because he feels a connection with his sister’s friend and thinks it could be the real thing. And I? I don’t see myself getting on a jet plane for anyone soon but I certainly would follow the Yanks to the ends of the world.

That’s a whole lotta purple…

$30.00 for all-you-can-eat-and-drink and a purple dance floor?! Clearly, the only question is: where do I sign up? The answers: aceticket.com and the Bayside Expo Center for the Phantom Gourmet’s Food and Wine Phest.

Here’s a sweet tip: if you’re really interested in the drinking and the eating at a Phantom event, get there towards the beginning. More and more people gradually fill in as the event goes on which means lines just keeping growing. Before you know it, it’s nearly impossible to fully enjoy the wine and the food between the throngs of people milling around and the long lines in front of the food and wine booths as well as the bathrooms.

My friends and I arrived within the first hour of the event and we were well rewarded for our extra effort. We just walked up to the various food and wine booths and ate and drank to our fill. The only problem I encountered: my eyes were often too big for what my hands could hold. Because there were few tables for us to put our cups and plates on, I often had to juggle and pray I didn’t spill on myself. The worst to manage was my Panera bread bowl (full of cheddar broccoli soup) and my cup of Yellowtail Reisling. Mental note: pick bread bowl or beverage but not both simultaneously. Luckily, we did find a mostly clear table before I made too big a mess of myself.

Fun was easily had; my favorite activities of eating, drinking and people-watching were readily available. Until mid-afternoon. That was when everybody else with tickets and their mothers showed up. The Expo center became so packed with people, it was impossible to go anywhere without throwing a few elbows because shouting “Excuse me” was not nearly enough to get people to move out of your way. Lines melted into one another making it more difficult to maintain a good buzz. Garbage cans were blocked from view and ended up overflowing because janitors were unable to empty them. And don’t even get me started on the lines for the restrooms!

Highlights: Merlot made at the Boston Winery (and I don’t even like red wine), Maschio Brut Prosecco, Da Vinci’s shrimp crostini and Whoopie Pies

Lowlights: long lines, having to pay for water and Dolce Indulgence

Most unexpected moment: “The Electric Slide” on the purple dance floor

Most scandalous: four ladies walking out of the “Makeout Shed” holding hands

Most disappointing: lack of outlandish costumes