Finger foods.

One of the advantages of cooking low-carb is that I can use a lot of different proteins, but sometimes it's difficult to be creative. Tonight I had some leftover bacon in the fridge, so I decided to make bacon baskets. They're fairly easy and they look really interesting on the plate. Plus, it's a nice way to "sneak" some salad into the meal; just fill the baskets with baby spinach and sliced tomatoes. I love it topped with bleu cheese dressing or a balsamic vinaigrette.


First, cover the bottom of a muffin tin with foil. Then, braid strips of bacon over the "hump," weaving like a lattice piecrust. Bake at 400 degrees for about 20 minutes, until the bacon's golden brown and crisp. Let the baskets cool completely before trying to remove them.

When they're done and filled, they look like this:
Isn't that cute? I think this could be really impressive for Valentine's Day appetizers.

To go with our bacon salad baskets, I decided to use some leftover roast turkey in quesadillas. I caramelized some onions in butter and olive oil, reduced them with balsamic vinegar. A little (well, a lot) of goat cheese spread on whole-wheat flour tortillas, some of these sticky-sweet onions, and the shredded roast turkey, and I had a superb quesadilla. My panini press made quick work of the grilling.

The finished result was delicious, with a lovely balance between the mellow turkey, the tartness of the goat cheese, and the sweet tangy onions:

Pizza for Two.

Lately I've been trying to come up with low-carb versions of favorite dishes for The Fiance, who is a rabid carnivore and doesn't eat a lot of carbohydrates. I, on the other hand, love pasta, pizza, and anything sweet or otherwise bad for me. Pita pizzas aren't new, and this isn't anything fancy, but it is a nice way to get the great "comfort food" taste of pizza without devouring too many carbs. Because I use Joseph's Flax, Oat Bran, and Whole Wheat pita bread, it also delivers a lot of fiber, protein, and Omega-3 fatty acids. As always, this is for two.

• 2 reduced-carb pitas
  
• 1 large chicken breast, grilled and sliced
  
• 1 link breakfast sausage, sliced
• 2 T. ranch dressing
• 1/4 cup colby-jack cheese
• 2 T. blue cheese, crumbled
• 1 t. butter
• 1/2 medium onion, finely sliced

Spread each pita with one tablespoon of ranch dressing (you could also use barbecue sauce). Sprinkle with colby-jack and blue cheese, reserving some cheese for the top. Add sausage.

Caramelize onions in butter until soft and brown. Spread over pitas.


Arrange chicken on pitas and sprinkle with remaining cheese. Broil for 3-5 minutes or until cheese is melted and pitas begin to turn brown at the edges.

Devour!!

Birthday Dinner for Two.

Friday was The Fiance's birthday, so to celebrate I cooked him his favorite meal - steak - with a twist of my own: blue cheese-shallot butter. I didn't use a recipe, per se, but this should get you close enough (measurements are for two). Sorry, I forgot to take pictures!

1 shallot, finely chopped
2 T. butter (not margarine or spread)
1 T. fresh parsley, finely chopped
1/4 cup blue cheese (I used Stilton)
Cracked black pepper

Melt the butter over medium heat. Caramelize the shallots in melted butter. When they begin to turn golden brown, add parsley and blue cheese. Turn down heat and stir till cheese begins to soften. Stir in pepper to taste. Serve over steak or chicken (this would be great with a spicy Cajun or Buffalo-style chicken).

I marinated a flank steak in soy, pineapple, and garlic, then grilled it. The Fiance pronounced it a delicious combination, especially served with garlicky green beans and a good red wine! Plus it's ridiculously easy to put together as long as you watch the butter...burned shallots are not Good Eats.

Not Exactly Authentic.

I love Greek yogurt. Until recently, however, I haven’t been able to find any form of Greek yogurt at my local grocery stores, although the Stonyfield Farm Organic plain yogurt does come close to both the tartness and thick texture of Greek yogurt. I’ve used it successfully in a variety of applications recently, and I’m very pleased with its taste and performance.

So I was pleasantly surprised to find Oikos Organic Nonfat Greek Yogurt in the dairy section of my local Kroger this week; since it is also made by Stonyfield Farm (in partnership with Euphrates, Inc.), I assumed it would be good quality. I bought one pot each of both available flavors, Blueberry and Honey, although I was disappointed that Plain was not available because that is my favorite, and is also the most versatile for recipes. (It is available in some markets, as noted on their website, www.oikosorganic.com.)

Sadly I was disappointed in both varieties. The blueberry flavor, with an almost jam-like “fruit” on the bottom, is very sweet, overwhelmingly fruity, and is not as thick as I expect from a yogurt claiming to be “authentic organic Greek strained yogurt.” The honey flavor fared a little better, although it too was quite sweet and was too thin to be Greek yogurt. Neither variety had any of the tartness generally found in Greek yogurt, either.

I didn’t find any substantial difference between this yogurt and Dannon or any other “higher-end” yogurt. Moreover, at $1.46 for a small 5.3-ounce pot, it’s very pricey even for organic yogurt (in comparison, Stonyfield Farm’s "home-brand" small pots of organic fruit-flavored yogurt are 78 cents at the same store). While I enjoy both authentic Greek yogurt and several of Stonyfield Farm’s offerings, I won’t be buying Oikos again.

The Hero We've Been Waiting For.

I'll let you in on a secret: I'm a woman in my mid-twenties, and I love comic book movies. Even the debacle that was last year's The Fantastic Four: Rise of the Silver Surfer could not manage to quench my enthusiasm for the genre. After all, it has everything that I think makes for a great movie-going experience: hot guys in tight clothing, a little existential discussion on the nature of good and evil, and things that go boom.

I've been looking forward to The Dark Knight since I knew they were making it. I saw Batman Begins in cinemas five times, and while it's far from perfect, it opened the door for movies like this year's Iron Man, which blends a stellar cast, a bit of fun, a bunch of big toys, and some serious post-9/11 discussion on the nature of war, the nature of responsibility, and perhaps most importantly the nature of guilt. I was blown away by Iron Man and, while I hoped The Dark Knight would be as good, I couldn't imagine it would be better.

I was wrong. The Dark Knight takes the "I'm-not-really-a-comic-book-movie" ethos of Iron Man a step farther, into territory darker than most crime movies dare to go. It has more in common with hardboiled flicks like The Departed or Layer Cake than fluff like The Fantastic Four. While it's only rated PG-13, this is definitely not a movie to take your kids to: although there is very little onscreen gore, I haven't been this monumentally uncomfortable watching movie villains do their thing since The Silence of the Lambs. And The Dark Knight has more in common with that film than it'd appear to, at first. The antagonist and protagonist here also dance circles around each other in a relationship that becomes surprisingly codependent: "We could do this forever," purrs the Joker in one climactic scene, and by that point we understand why. Batman and the Joker are the Yin and the Yang of crime.

But The Dark Knight is more than just a masterful crime thriller, although it has its fair share of perfectly-timed mayhem. It's also a highly effective look at the torn post-9/11 American psyche. Batman wants to hang up the mantle and live a normal life, but he's also created a world where his very existence means he can't. He's a character compelled to continually clean up the messes of the world, but in the act of doing so he creates the possibility of endlessly worse ones. He's playing a game with an opponent who doesn't have any rules, and so he is faced with the question that haunts so many films of this type: where does one draw the line? And how does one fight a force that doesn't want anything but, as the wise Alfred puts it, "to watch the world burn"? Wisely, the film doesn't offer any tidy answers, and it doesn't put everything back together in a neat montage at the end. Things get broken that will never be fixed.

Because of its obsession with deep psychological issues both political and personal, The Dark Knight is Gotham Noir. It's not a happy movie. Children have guns pointed at their heads. Women get hurt. People die. Even the overall look of the film is murky. But every once in a while it shows a glimmer of very dark comedy, and surprisingly the humor in this film comes almost entirely from its darkest denizen: Heath Ledger's Joker. This performance has been talked about for months, and while I've always been a fan of Ledger (even in godawful movies like A Knight's Tale), I had to wonder whether the performance could possibly live up to the hype.

It does, and more. Nicholson's Joker was a ham with wacky clown makeup; Ledger's, a deeply psychotic, tragically wounded young man who sucks on his scarred cheeks as he talks and likes to kill with knives, he says, because he likes to "savor all the emotions" that a blade brings out. Yet he also brings a deadpan humor that verges on slapstick in some scenes: the physical comedy Ledger brings to one scene involving a malfunctioning bomb timer is nothing less than brilliant. The balance is perfect. He's disturbing to watch, but you can't take your eyes off him. I can say without reservation that he'll be not only the quintessential Joker but the gold standard for psychotic movie villains in general for a long time to come, and would have been even without his tragic and all-too-soon death.

The rest of the cast are excellent, although nobody else comes close to touching Ledger's level of connection with his character (perhaps to the benefit of the audience, as this film is emotionally draining to begin with). Christian Bale's Bruce Wayne is as slick as ever, and although the raspy voice he uses as Batman can be distracting, he holds his own admirably against his opponents - no easy feat in this film. Aaron Eckhart is your typical handsome blonde good-guy as D.A. Harvey Dent, but even before his inevitable downfall we sense there's something not-so-noble lurking under the attractive surface. Gary Oldman's flawless Gordon makes it easy to forget he's acting. Morgan Freeman and Michael Caine are, well, Morgan Freeman and Michael Caine. And thankfully, Katie Holmes is nowhere to be seen, replaced by a competent if outshone Maggie Gyllenhaal.

The Dark Knight has raised the bar for not just comic book movies, but movies in general. One reviewer claims that if it gets anything less than a Best Picture nomination, he'll be outraged, and I agree, particularly with the last few years of Oscar-nominated (and winning) movies like The Departed, There Will Be Blood, and No Country For Old Men, all of which deal with the psyches of the deeply disturbed and question if any of us are really normal. My one real quarrel with the film is that, even at 2 hours 35 minutes, it's too short. I wanted in particular to see more of one character's transformation, but I think there's room for that in a third movie, hints for which are definitely dropped in this one.

Just do me one favor, Chris Nolan: don't bring back Robin.

My Ultimate Grilled Cheese.

I was in an experimental mood a few days ago and trying to clean out some leftovers, so I decided to see what I could use Stonyfield Farms plain yogurt and a large quantity of cheese for. I came up with what could be one of the best grilled cheese sandwiches I've ever eaten! It's a bit gooey, but that shouldn't be a problem for real aficionados. I don't have pictures - I devoured it before I thought to photograph! - but next time I make this, I'll take some shots.

First, I buttered two slices of bread. In my opinion this is a crucial step in making grilled cheese that can't be skipped, because it makes the bread deliciously crispy. I've seen Alton Brown use olive oil, and I've experimented with that, but in my opinion the butter just contributes so much both taste- and texture-wise that it's worth the fat. I used some sturdy sourdough I had left over, and I really liked the tartness of that.

Next (this is my "ultimate" step), I spread plain yogurt on the insides of both slices of bread. Don't go overboard with this step or you'll end up with a soggy sandwich, but this is, in my opinion, what made this sandwich so very good. The yogurt gives a wonderful tangy flavor and gooeyness to the sandwich that a regular grilled cheese doesn't have. A caution: use a thick, rich yogurt like Stonyfield Farms or Fage, because they have the body to stand up to this treatment. A plain Dannon-ish yogurt is too runny and will ruin your sandwich.

Next, I layered on some feather-shredded extra-sharp cheddar cheese and a few slices of brie. I love brie in sandwiches because it melts like a dream, but combined with the sharp cheddar it is a very strong taste which some may not prefer. I guess you could use a shredded gruyere in place of the brie. Anyway, once the cheese was on, I put the sandwich, butter-side down, in a hot pan and pressed it using a plate and a can of pineapple, because I've lost my cast-iron grill press. (Sadness!) I flipped it once during cooking to brown both sides. The gooey, rich center was amazing, and I really think the yogurt added a special touch to this sandwich. I'll be making it again soon!

The Next Food Network...Moderately-Competent Cook?

This show is one of my guilty pleasures this season, although it's getting more and more painful to watch. Last week, Adam - a contestant who was openly called a "bozo" by Suzie Fogelson, Food Network's VP of Marketing - stayed on even though Bob Tuschman, the senior VP of programming and production, told him that with the exception of one dish his food "has not been good." The one dish Adam has done well in the entire competition? Cheese fries. I'm no food snob and I don't have anything against cheese fries. I love potatoes, especially when they're deep fried and loaded with cheese and sour cream. But frankly, cheese fries are dorm food. How is the ability to cook that a qualification for being the next major TV "chef"?

Even Adam is not the worst, however. Jennifer, a single mom, has been guilty of creating such culinarily-confused dishes as mashed potato pizza, which I swear she called on camera a "healthier way to eat pizza" because it was low-carb. Mashed potato pizza, folks. Not surprisingly, she was finally sent home this week after a disastrous broken-glass incident in the kitchen.

On Sunday, the remaining finalists are competing in yet another challenge to prove their mettle as chefs. The assignment? Cook in front of a live studio audience with Rachael Ray. Those of you who frequently read my blog know I harbor no love for Ms. Ray, and I'm consistently irritated by her lackadaisical, sloppy, and uninformed approach to cooking. Yet she's a Food Network darling, and I think The Next Food Network Star explains why. Contestants whom the judging panel openly admit do not cook good food stay in the competition while others go home for not being "authentic personalities." But on a network devoted to food, shouldn't both count? If you have an oversize personality but all you can cook well is cheese fries, shouldn't that be a sign that you probably don't belong on your own cooking show?

The answer, at least on the Food Network, is no. After all, the last winner of this competition was Guy Fieri, whose claim to fame is his not-found-in-nature haircolor and his ability to eat six-pound hamburgers on Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives. And this is the network that rocketed Rachael Ray, that cross-contaminating queen of food misinformation and ignorance, to fame. Now she's going to be responsible for sending one person home, and that person will likely know more than she does about food. Which, granted, may not be saying much.

Personally, I'm rooting for the 19-year-old Shane. And when a 19-year-old is the best-informed chef on TV, it's a sad day for food, folks.

Paraskavedekatriaphobia.

That sesquipedalian monstrosity is a word meaning "the fear of Friday the 13th." Apparently, this phobia is so widespread that it gets its own Greek term.

Tomorrow is Friday the 13th, a day long held to be one of the unluckiest in the year. M. Night Shyamalan's new film, The Happening, is opening tomorrow, with what I suppose is to be a metaphorical symbolism of some sort (although if you really subscribe to superstitions, I should think you'd avoid beginning a financial venture of that caliber on the unluckiest day of the year).

However, at least if one lives in the Netherlands, Friday the 13th may be a bit luckier...at least for your property. A new study shows that "fewer accidents and reports of fire and theft occur when the 13th of the month falls on a Friday than on other Fridays." Furthermore, the number of traffic accidents reported during the study fell by 300, from 7,800 on a typical Friday to 7,500 on a Friday the 13th. Perhaps, like some of the 21 million Americans who suffer from paraskavedekatriaphobia, those Dutch people just can't make themselves leave the house.

However, not all are so lucky. A study in the British Medical Journal found that the number of hospital admissions for traffic-related injuries in Britain rose rather significantly on Fridays which were also the 13th of the month (up to a 52 percent increase).

The moral of all this? Clearly, the only place to be on a Friday the 13th is Amsterdam. Guess I need to cash in those frequent-flier miles.

I Can't Believe It's Not...Yogurt?

Recently, Stonyfield Farms Organic Yogurt has been airing a "30-Second Healthy Meals" commercial on the Food Network. In it, on a set that looks suspiciously like Rachael Ray's own "30-Minute Meals" set, a man says you can save a lot of calories and fat by substituting their yogurt for butter, mayonnaise, or oil in recipes.

I have to admit, this amuses me to no end. It's clearly a jab at Rachael Ray's fat-laden, oil-drenched "recipes," which obliterate otherwise healthy ingredients like lean proteins and vegetables by smothering them with EVOO-that's-Extra-Virgin-Olive-Oil and a pound or so of cheese. And the irony is that the commercial often airs during her shows.

Although their mild criticisms of Ray would certainly win them points with me anyway, Stonyfield's low-fat plain yogurt has also become a new favorite ingredient for my ongoing culinary experiments. It is much thicker and tarter than "regular" yogurts like Dannon, more similar to the Greek yogurt that I learned to love in London, with a great texture that stands up well in sauces and dressings (and it has no added sugar). It's delicious topped with a few berries and granola for breakfast, or as a tangy, tasty substitute for mayonnaise and sour cream. For example, yesterday I made a traditional chicken salad with shredded chicken, pecans, granny smith apples, and plain yogurt rather than mayonnaise. The result was tarter and more refreshing than the original dish, which I've enjoyed for years.

And, oh, last week, thanks to the goodness of my Secret Wren Friend, I whipped up a Five-Spice chicken with steamed broccoli and cashews, tossed with just a bit of plain yogurt at the end which tamed the heat of the spices just a bit and made a creamy sauce for the vegetables. Just delicious!

So thanks, Stonyfield Farms, for not only making a quality product but taking the time to make fun of inferior products. It's appreciated.

Travel should take you places.

That is Hilton's new 1 billion dollar (yes, you read that right) ad campaign for its chain of hotels and resorts. It's also rather self-evident: travel, well, does take you places. Hence the "travel" part.

But Americans, who are already among the worst-traveled people in the world, may be going to far fewer places following an announcement by American Airlines that the carrier will begin charging $15 for the first checked bag. This comes a few months after the scandalous $25 per-second-bag charge that irked me so much a few months ago that I had to blog about it.

You see, I love my travel. I've flown over 20 flights in the past year, mostly on Delta (I'm a slave to their frequent-flier program and the lure, however false, of free travel), and even though the flight experience itself tends to be categorically awful - delayed or canceled flights, frigid cabin temperatures, surly attendants - I absolutely love the feeling of landing and exploring somewhere new. But, like so many other Americans, I'm also working on a budget. And that budget isn't helped by the recent skyrocketing of ticket prices. For example: in 2004, I paid $485 for a round-trip economy ticket to London in July, whereas the same ticket, with the same airline, cost me $1056 in 2007. Flying now means sacrificing Starbucks and shoes, my two principal indulgences, but I'll do it if it means I can grab a few days in Europe.

Unfortunately, American and other airlines (Delta Air Lines, Northwest Airlines and US Airways Group are all considering following suit) penalize travelers like me for precisely that cost-cutting impulse. They don't charge the first-class passengers (i.e. those who could afford the surcharge) for additional bags; first-class is still allowed to check up to three bags at no charge. But the steerage passengers, in addition to having to pay $1056 for their cramped 16 inches of toe-numbing personal space and $12 for an inflight salad, now have to cough up $15 if they want to bring anything along with them on their travels. (And, given the tourist impulses I've observed, they'll likely need the $25 for the second bag to hold all the stuff they cart home.)

This new charge won't impact me as much as some of my fellow travelers; I've almost perfected the art of a self-imposed carry-on-only travel policy, and have gone as far away from home as Denver, Toronto, and London with only a 20" upright. This may not sound like much - Tony Bourdain and Rick Steve proudly trumpet their ability to fit a month's worth of travel accouterments into a duffel - but for me, this is serious forward progress. When I studied in London for a semester a few years ago, I had to buy a second suitcase to lug all my things back home. It was bright pink and so large I could curl up inside it with room to spare. I shudder to think of what Delta would charge me to check it these days.

No, what I object to here is the idea that the budget traveler is a golden goose, there to lay as many eggs for the airline industry as possible before being savagely ripped apart and devoured...okay, perhaps the metaphor doesn't extend that far. But it's painfully obvious to me (especially after having flown in first class a few times) that the airlines consider the coach passenger an inconvenience from which as many fees and surcharges are to be sucked as possible before being crammed into what feels very much like a sardine tin and then ignored for however many hours it takes to reach the destination. And one day the airlines may find that - like the peasant who killed the goose eager to get the last bits of gold from it - in their attempt to extract every bit of cash they can they've destroyed our ability to spend any money on travel at all.

Scarves don't kill people, people kill people.

As some of you may know, there's a huge controversy surrounding one of Rachael Ray's recent fashion choices. Now, considering that some (nay, most) of her wardrobe choices range from dreadfully ill-advised to downright hideous,you may be asking, why the sudden outcry? After all, she's been abusing the tucked-in tee-shirt and too-tight jeans for some time now. Shouldn't the masses have been outraged before?

Well, wonder no more. It would appear that Rachael's latest fashion faux-pas has deeper roots than appalling color choices. Apparently, Rachael's stylist really is out to destroy her boss. If one believes the outraged posters on web forums and even Salon.com, Rachael is wearing the kaffiyeh, what one blogger calls the "explicit symbol of Palestinian terrorism."

Yes, you read that right: Dunkin' Donuts, far from being the mere promoter of underwhelming fried goods, is a supporter of terrorist organizations.

Now, I loathe all things Rachael Ray, so it pains me to say this, but wearing a scarf just does not make one a Palestinian sympathizer. No, not even her. First of all, the kaffiyeh is a form of headgear popular throughout the Middle East for its sun protection; it's not exclusively Palestinian. Second, if Wikipedia is to be believed, both the British and the American military often wear kaffiyeh while on duty in the Middle East due to the protection from sand and sun that it offers. And finally, as seen in the picture on the right,

Rachael is clearly not wearing it on her head, which would seem (to a rational observer, at least) to sever the connection with, well, headgear. Furthermore, the scarf's pattern is not the traditional black-and-white checkered design associated with the Palestinian region; it's a paisley, a design imported into Western fashion two hundred years ago from India by way of Scotland.

So while I'm sorry to have to report that Rachael Ray is not in fact involved with some evil design to destroy the world (at least this time), the simple fact of the matter is: it's a scarf, people. Take a deep breath.

The Next Food Network...Star?

I've been seeing advertisements for the next season of Food Network's version of American Idol. In this show, Bobby Flay - who has turned himself into a FN whore, I'm sad to say - hosts and judges (along with guest judges who include Rachael Ray, gag) a number of contestants who are competing to win their own show on TV.

Previous winners of this show include Guy Fieri. While he's certainly not as bad as Sandra Lee, Rachael Ray, and that lot - he seems genuinely personable, and genuine is indeed a rare trait on the FN - he isn't much of a cook. In an episode of Dinner: Impossible, which I used to like before I found out that chef Robert Irvine is a fraud, Guy pulled a host of frat-boy tricks in order to win the competition, including turning off Irvine's gas stoves and using pre-breaded, frozen chicken tenders and pizza in his "dishes" for the target audience, a group of children. His "cooking show," Guy's Big Bite, involves him making huge meals, and his traveling show Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives shows him giddily shoving entire kielbasas into his sizeable mouth while proclaiming "That is capital-K crunchy." (No, that's not a typo.) While this is certainly media savvy, it's not cuisine, and it's not really talent that I think should be broadcast. I could "cook" with chicken nuggets and stuff my face with 1-pound burgers. I want to watch cooks on TV who show me how to do things I don't already know.

But even that clear lack of culinary skill and/or training is not the thing that irks me most about The Next Food Network Star. In one advertisement, the contestants are being shown getting makeovers as they bounce towards the kitchen: their hair is magically cut, their style magically resembles Ted Allen's, and their makeup is flawless. They're all very attractive people, well-lit, and smiley. But I get the feeling that this show is more about how these people present themselves than any actual talent (very much like American Idol). That would certainly be consistent with the Food Network, which latches onto marketing ploys like Paula Deen's love of butter and hyperbolize them until their hosts become caricatures of themselves. I used to like Paula Deen too, before the FN gave her a "makeover" and turned her into a lascivious grandma who can't put enough butter into anything and makes googly-eyes at her young male guests.

What saddens me is that I don't think FN is looking for a "star" chef a la Mario Batali or Martin Yan, someone who knows how to cook delicious and elegant food and understands the traditions behind those dishes, as well as how to cook them. I think they're looking for another Rachael Ray, someone who can pose in FHM and look cute and talk loudly and cook gimmicky meals that have next to no nutritional value, but hey, they're ready in under thirty minutes or they're a "big bite." I guess that makes for entertainment, but I'm watching for the food. Or I was.

Now, just about the only saving grace of the Food Network is Alton Brown (and the reruns of Tony Bourdain's "A Cook's Tour" that FN optioned). Let's hope they don't try to make him over too.

Khalil Gibran, on Friendship.

Your friend is your needs answered.
He is your field which you sow with love and reap with thanksgiving.
And he is your board and your fireside.
For you come to him with your hunger, and you seek him for peace.
For without words, in friendship, all thoughts, all desires, all expectations are born and shared,
with joy that is unacclaimed.

I cannot express my feelings for my friends in clearer words than those. As I've said before, I love Khalil Gibran.

I like the last line, too, about "unacclaimed" joy. Too often I think we try to "protest too much;" we get so caught up in the hyperbole of friendship, that we would die for them, lie down in the streets for them, etc., that we forget about the quotidian traits that make friendship really worthwhile. Real friendship is seeing a coffee mug with terriers on it and thinking, "That would really make ______'s day." Even if we ourselves don't like terriers. It is giving without expectation of return, only hopes for the other's joy, because that is the return which is most satisfying. It is the knowledge that no matter how ridiculous your fears and desires are, your friends will never laugh at you, only with you as you struggle for maturity and clarity.

And yes, sometimes friends are lovers too, but I think we forget the friend bit of "boyfriend" or "girlfriend," and I think that is part of the reason for our insanely high divorce rate. Sex is lovely, and I'm certainly a fan, but what happens if you are so wrapped up in what you need that you forget the "unacclaimed joy" that comes through giving of yourself unreservedly to another? It's a big lesson, and one I am still working on, but I aim for that every day, and I like to think I'm getting there.

For what is your friend that you should seek him with hours to kill?
Seek him always with hours to live.

My friends, you will live in my heart always.

An intriguing concept.

The idea here is to say things to five people, using no names, being completely honest. My therapist recommended it! So here goes.

1) I have hurt you in ways that I can never undo, but you are precious to me and I adore you. I wish I could lift some of the burden of pain you struggle with, but you will have my love and respect always. You haven't always been perfect, and neither have I, but I think you're a damn fine woman and I will treasure forever the gifts you've given me. Because of you I have the confidence to stand up to bullies, defend my beliefs, and go after what I want, yet I also understand the meaning of sacrifice and compassion. I wish I could somehow explain in words how much you have affected my life and my very self, but I can't, and I'm no songstress, so I can't even say it with music, but I hope you know how much you mean to me. Even when you drive me nuts (and yes, that still happens, and I imagine it always will) I adore you. You are an amazing person and I grow to cherish you more every day.

2) You were my first love and my first heartbreak. And you don't know that you were either. Things work out for the best, I think, and I hope you're happy, wherever you are. Sometimes I wonder if I wasted my time on you, but I think in the end, as the Muse Herself says, "You live, you learn, you love, you learn." And learn I did.

3) My dear, I would do anything for you, whether it be talk with you all night or drive seven hours to support you at a wedding you don't want to be at. You never fail to have a wise word or a shoulder to cry on, and sometimes you have both. I continue to find things to admire about you. You are a treasure and one of the best and most genuine people I know. I've seen some of your flaws, and I know you aren't perfect, but I think you know that too, and that is what makes you so strong. Friends like you are my heart and soul and strength, and I am so blessed to have you. You will go far in this world, dearest, and I look forward to seeing that. I think we'll be "friends till the end of time."

4) You claim to be "genuine" and that a particular person "has strong misconceptions" of you, "won't talk to you about them" and "is surrounded by people who feed him these misinterpretations and reinforce his beliefs." Yet you can't seem to understand that he can't talk to you because you have walled yourself in with defensiveness. I used to count you as a friend (before I realized you were never genuine about your feelings towards me), and you still have admirable characteristics. I wish you were more the man you could be, because I'd probably still like you, but now, you're the fakest person I know, and you're unconcerned about your honesty: you never bothered to check whether anything you've told others about me was true before you spread the lies around. I've been where you're headed, and it's a lonely world when you're the grandly misunderstood one who's really right. You underestimate this man's will and his intelligence to assume he could be "fed" anything, and those who truly care for him wouldn't do that anyway. Sometimes, you have to be willing to let go before you can hold on to what you want; you don't seem to know this yet, and I doubt anyone can help you, but one day I hope you wake up, and I hope that day comes before you've wrecked beyond repair all the relationships that matter most. It only gets harder the longer you wait; trust me on this.

5) You and I haven't always had an easy time of it, but I unreservedly love you, and I want nothing more than to grow old with you. It's taken me a while to appreciate exactly who you are, and I still have so much to learn, but you made me rethink a lot of my ideas and dogmas, and you consistently offer me the challenges I need to grow. When you smile I remember exactly why I fell in love with you in the first place. I can imagine my life without you, but I don't want to. Even though you frustrate the hell out of me at times, I love my life with you in it, and I would, really, do almost anything for you, not just the "I'd lie down in the streets and swallow swords" crap but real sacrifices. I think you know that. You have a great heart, and I am blessed to have your love. And "even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music," I hope we will continue to be our independent selves while sharing that music.

On the Attractions of Ink and Heritage, for Lauren.

So, ma cherie, this is pour toi.

To be honest, I am not sure what motivates women like Isobel Varley. I can't see myself ever going to that extent, but what I can say is that it is certainly a rush to have something inked permanently onto your flesh. It becomes a part of you, in a way. I look at my ankle and I remember deciding to get it on a whim and meeting the insanely amorous Arab who tattooed me and charged me half-rate because he liked my red hair, and offered to marry me so that I could live in London with him and attract customers to his shop. It was an adventure! I think this association with certain memories may be a driving force behind the growth of the obsession; also, the tattoo becomes linked with adrenaline-charged experiences, and therefore you seek to recapture that feeling through another tattoo.

That's mostly speculation, however; it's not quite that addictive in my case, although I really do want another. I think another attraction of them is that they are colorful and as permanent an accessory as one can have, and if you're a woman as into her accessories as I am, you're always eager to get another bit of bling, so to speak. I think in this way tattoos are much like piercings; you incorporate your style into your very flesh, which can be misguided (e.g. clit studs, which sound like primitive torture devices, or "I Love Jesus" tattoos, which assume you won't have a midlife religious crisis) or expressive of your essential self. I like to think mine is the latter.

Lauren also says, "I don't get the whole being proud of your heritage thing, which is another issue entirely, I suppose. I mean, we could've been born anyone, anywhere, at any time... and frankly, nationalism is responsible some of the worst wars ever...so I don't get how something so arbitrary is something to be revered."

While I think she has a point, I disagree. As a military brat, I never learned to form deep connections with one particular place, and in fact that's damaged my ability to write strong fiction, in which the sense of belonging somewhere is so terribly important. Like Jean Rhys and Gertrude Stein and all those emigrants to Paris in the 1920s, I'm still searching for somewhere to be. I've found homes away from home in London and Edinburgh, both cities to which I feel a deep, emotional connection, but I've yet to find a place in which I think I could belong wholeheartedly. And perhaps I won't. Some people are forever wanderers.

Yet I connect very strongly with my heritage, although I separate that from nationalism. I am not particularly nationalistic; like Gertrude Stein, America may be my country, but London's my hometown. (All right, Gertie claimed Paris, but to each her own. I like my cities historical and damp.) I think nationalism is the idea of one's country being superior to anywhere else, and it is indeed very closed-minded and responsible for violence...as any other system in which one is made superior to another is. And that is the crucial difference I see between heritage and nationalism. As the descendant of fairly recent immigrants (my maternal grandparents were both immigrants from Europe) I connect quite strongly with heritage, which I see as a sense of history and belonging to people that I have never developed with a particular place (although London is certainly close). It's not the sense of feeling superior to others, as nationalism is, but of feeling connected to them. And while I respect my Irish and Scottish ancestors for the hardships they endured and the strength with which they faced them, I also realize - due to the fact that I'm also English, Spanish, and German - that I really am a citizen of the world, and that all of those cultures are part of who I am.

This next part will undoubtedly meet with skepticism from a few, but I also believe we likely have lived many lives before, and that our experiences in the past colour who we are now. For example, I have a deep, visceral aversion to zombies: I sleep with a nightlight because I am terrified they will materialize out of the dark, and I cannot watch films with them. This fear I attribute to having a bad experience with them in the past, which makes my survival instincts now much keener in that area. (Don't laugh; prove me wrong.) I have also experienced deep déjà vu in several places in England and Scotland connected to the Howards, to whom I'm distantly related. I've found my way through places without maps, and gotten chillbumps in warm rooms. So in a way I connect deeply with my heritage, because I believe it is quite literally part of me in both a genetic and a more deep, memorial sense. I carry forward both the memories and the genes of those who preceded me. And because of that I have strong connections to my history, and am proud to wear its symbols on my skin. Not because I feel it is superior to anyone else's, but because it is mine.

But, on the other hand, having so many different countries in my blood and lives behind mine has served to fracture me in other ways; I suffer from acute wanderlust, largely because I don't feel connected to any one place, but to all places. And I don't feel that any one country is the best in the world, because so many different nations course through me. I don't know whether this has enlightened you any, my dear friend, but it's the best I have for now.

It is addictive, you know.

"Betcha can't do just one" should be the tattoo industry's motto. I am currently searching desperately for a reputable tattoo artist. Why? Because ever since I lost my tattoo virginity last August (which is a long and entertaining story in itself, involving amorous Arab tattoo artists in London's Camden Town) I have wanted to get another tattoo, and now that school is over and I have nothing to focus on but my part-time job and finding an apartment in Athens, Georgia, my obsession with ink has boldly asserted itself.

While I am definitely not as interested in tats as, say, The World's Most Tattooed Woman, I find myself compelled to get at least one more. I'm thinking a Scottish thistle Claddagh on my left ankle, to complement the shamrock I have on my right. In this way, I will proudly bear my Scots-Irish ancestry on the outside of my body as well as in my genes.

And now to return to Isobel Varley, the aforementioned WMTW. She has a serious penis obsession; she recently had one tattooed between her breasts and has a thicket of them growing on the back of her head. There are also dozens of small mice and birds nestled in various areas of her body. This is a little weird, but I like that she defies conventions so boldly. I suppose that the traditional caution against young women getting tattoos - that they'll sag as you grow older - really doesn't apply to her anyway, since she is now 71 years old. Isobel travels the world and experiments with both traditional and innovative methods of tattooing, and her ambition is to get every inch of her skin covered by the time she kicks the proverbial bucket.

I think she's fascinating, partly for this obsession of hers and partly because she makes my own desire for another bit of ink seem very normal in comparison. Meanwhile, while I'm not planning to ink my body to quite the extent of Isobel, I really do need just one more.

Because I could not stop for Death...

I think the down-side to being a fairly thoughtful individual is that sometimes you cannot stop thinking, particularly about things over which you have no control. Lately, my obsessions have run to the things I cannot change: graduation, growing up, growing old, death. I know I'm not alone in these considerations, but it is still depressing to think of this life that I am learning to love so much ending, even if it is not a pressing concern presently.

I've also discovered a new love recently: Khalil Gibran. We read some of his work in a literature class and I adore him, although the poet in me is ashamed to admit that despite his apparent fame (Wikipedia claims that he is the world's third best-selling poet after Shakespeare and Lao-Tse) I had never heard of him before I read his work in class. But here is a portion of "On Death," which encourages me:

If you would indeed behold the spirit of death, open your heart wide unto the body of life.
For life and death are one, even as the river and the sea are one.
In the depth of your hopes and desires lies your silent knowledge of the beyond;
And like seeds dreaming beneath the snow your heart dreams of spring.
Trust the dreams, for in them is hidden the gate to eternity.

I love this. I am certainly a dreamer of dreams, though far less a music-maker, and I like to think that maybe those dreams are worth something. Gibran seems to think so. I don't imagine I'll ever stop wondering what it will be like to be old, to be different, to die; but I won't let it keep me from loving life as it is, at this moment. Perhaps the two will even coalesce someday, and I will come to think of what comes next as another great adventure.

La meme.

I was notified by my friend Amy J. (another W alum!) that I was tagged in her blog, so now I have to complete a meme! I'd say I love doing these because I procrastinate, but since I officially graduated yesterday and don't go back to work for almost two weeks, I have nothing to procrastinate from!

The rules are:
1. Pick up the nearest book.
2. Open to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the next three sentences.
5. Tag five people, and acknowledge who tagged you.

All right, the book nearest me is The Jane Austen Handbook: A Sensible Yet Elegant Guide to Her World, a lovely gift from an equally lovely friend. Actually, my living room is full of books, and it was a toss-up as to which was closest, but since the JAH has a delightful pale teal cover, it caught my eye first. Here are the sixth, seventh, and eighth lines of page 123:

Here are some techniques and tips to help you get past the Big Quarrel.

Forgive him. If he has done something to anger you, give him the opportunity to show you that he has changed.

That really is strikingly applicable to my life at this point, and excellent life-advice in general. I am rather glad I did this now!

And to carry it on:
Mother Wendy
Dances with Blogs
Je Vois la Vie en Rose
Ill-Behaved Woman

And that's all I know! I know, I am a sad blogger.

Why I Couldn't Be A Therapist.

I hate narcissists, I really do. If I were a professional therapist and had to treat them, I would routinely be arrested for beating them over the heads with my clipboard.

It's the J in me. I am easily outraged (as any of you who've read my entries on Rachael Ray will know) and have no difficulty expressing this. In fact, my mother's nickname for me used to be "the prophet" because my firm ideas and fiery temperament reminded her of Elijah.

As some of you may also know, I'm also currently dealing with several instances of narcissistic men who believe they are far wiser, sexier, and better people than they actually are. All of them are convinced they're now "players" who are irresistible to women, and all of them have had or continue to have issues with substance abuse.

I see people I love being hurt by these men, and it's terribly hard for me to keep my mouth shut instead of screaming at them. I see it as a sign of my increasing albeit certainly-not-optimal maturity that I haven't driven to these individuals' homes and beaten them with the inferior reproductive organs for which they are clearly overcompensating. I make up for it by fantasizing about them one day being told by someone they're trying to impress that they're the assholes they are. And blogging.

I continue to be amazed by how blind some people can be to their own lives. It's hard to believe that one can be so shallow, self-centered, and dogmatically insistent on always, always being right and getting the last word, yet believe that he is generous and wise and spiritual. And it's maddening when these men, who have caused people I love so much pain and harm, then try to turn the tables and - rather than admit to specific, damaging actions of theirs - point out how everyone else has failed them. Or try to blame me for the growing chasm between the person they've been misusing and themselves. A grown man playing the victim is simply nauseating.

Some of my friends have tried to take action to distance themselves from these abusive patterns; others persist, certain that their love will make everything all right in the end. I hate to ever contradict John Lennon, but love isn't all you need. You need common sense too. And narcissists are notoriously difficult to change. In one case, the narcissist involved was asked to keep his distance for a while and make no contact with my friend; of course, he hasn't let go of his iron grip on the relationship, because that would mean not getting the last word. And that's impossible for these men, who believe they are fighting grand injustices against them and are really just nice men who are misunderstood.

The thing is, I've been on the other side of this, too. As a very young child I was labeled sociopathic by doctors; fortunately they were wrong, but I was tenacious in my views and, as a clever child, found ways to turn any argument back against the other person until they either lost their original topic or grew so frustrated that they gave up. I remember often feeling as if the whole world were ranged against me and I was grandly misunderstood, and that if people would just listen to me they would realize I was right. It was a lonely existence.

And then I got out of puberty and, thank god, grew the fuck up.

It's really sad when men in their late twenties haven't left their inner child behind.

Why the Food Network Is Still Worth Something.

The saving grace of the Food Network revolves around one man: the balding, be-moled Alton Brown, who makes my own nerdiness disappear in comparison. Not only is he the host of Iron Chef America, a show in which chefs take on a "secret ingredient" and create gourment cuisine in an hour, but he also is the brains behind (and host of) Good Eats, which is essentially the show Bill Nye the Science Guy would have if he cooked.

The name of the episode I'm watching right now is "American Slicer," and it demonstrates various slices and chops, which is in itself very useful. To top it off, he mentions while slicing a jalapeño that capsaicin, the "hot" element of peppers, is an oil that will stick on your fingers for hours.

Unless, that is, you dip your hands into a 5:1 solution of water and bleach. Why? "This will cause a chemical reaction that will turn the capsaicin into a water-soluble salt that will come off with a rinse."

I love it when science is fun.

Get it together.

Life-coach: google it and you'll find about 6,620,000 results. Definitions range from "an advisor who helps people with problems, decisions, and goal attainment in daily life" (thanks, Webster) to providing "creative common sense" in life situations (from, you guessed it "Creativecommonsense.us").

What I don't understand is how any reasonable person can that think hiring someone else, except perhaps a licensed medical professional, to solve one's problems is a wise investment. Isn't the difficulty facing most Americans that we rely on outside forces for our motivation? Fat? Get a gastric-bypass. Lazy? Claim it's a genetic disorder. If there's an excuse, make it. Don't have self-motivation? Get someone to tell you what to do! And these life-coaches do not require licensing or supervision, because they don't technically provide psychotherapy. This is the court ruling even though most of these coaches do focus on goals like "managing your emotional state" and "conflict resolution," which both sound like the province of clinical counseling to me. If there were ever a way for one person to abuse and manipulate another, it is this situation.

And that doesn't even take into account the fact that these uncredentialed "coaches" often display disturbing personality traits of their own and are generally annoying. For example, almost all of these "life-coaches" use the Royal We, even when they are clearly one person taking a picture of themselves in someone's kitchen. If that's not the hallmark of a narcissist, I don't know what is. In fact, who other than a narcissist could present themselves as the answer to your problem in the first place?

Of course, you may disagree, and say the use of pronouns is just a stylistic choice. (I disagree. Pronouns are a sacred part of the language and should be treated with care, just like any other part of speech.) Then what about their hyperbolic claims on their CVs? Like this one, from "Charles":

"I've coached athletes, performers, and public speakers into peak performance. I've led individuals from career cul-de-sacs into the dream job superhighway. I've succeeded at everything I've ever put my mind to. That means my life is one string of soaring successes after another."

Call me a cynic, but I don't trust someone who claims he's succeeded at "everything" he's ever put his mind to and characterizes his life as "one string of soaring successes after another." (Not to mention the last bit is grammatically dubious in its adjective placement: it should read "a string of one soaring success after another." Yes, it does really come down to word choice.) If I want someone with delusions of grandeur, I'll talk to Han Solo. I definitely won't pay him $100 an hour to instill and maintain in me my own unrealistic views of existence.

Or this one, from "Ryan":

"It is time for the 'Light Workers' of the world to join together to raise the vibration of the Universal Consciousness."

Not only does that sound more than a little like a sex act, it's characteristic of the vagueness of these "coaches." How does vibrating the Universal Consciousness - apart from probably giving the ole gal a good thrill on a Saturday night - solve the fact that you procrastinate chronically, or that you have abandonment issues because of your childhood?

The straight fact is that it doesn't. I'm a supporter of professional counseling and therapy, precisely because therapists (at least, good ones) are straightforward: if you don't want to achieve your goals, you won't, and nobody can help or make you. And therapists are licensed and educated. But anyone, even a narcissistic grammar-abuser taking his own headshot in a crowded kitchen, can set up a jokey website and charge unsuspecting souls $100+ an hour (which, by the way, is more than I pay my doctorate-holding counselor). $100 an hour to get life advice from someone who has apparently solved all his problems and is now moving on to solve yours.

Now that's something you need help with.

Pre-packaged Proposals.

A friend of mine sent me this link. I was, in short, appalled. Apparently, pre-packaged proposal deals are all the rage.

Call me a romantic idealist - Yahoo!'s personality quiz did - but I like to think a proposal is something that a person needs to come up with him/herself. (I include both pronouns since I am an equal-opportunist.) Doesn't it take the magic away to have a person named "Jenifour" (and speaking of which, I abhor pretentiously spelled names that then require mispronunciations) plan out that big event? Jenifour's website provides package deals for proposals ranging from luxury cars to rose-bedecked hotel suites to - you guessed it - dinner at la Tour Eiffel. I'm all for lush romantic gestures, but I think there's something stunningly hollow about paying someone else to plan out, even script, what amounts to one of the most important and life-changing decisions you'll ever make.

And this doesn't even take into account the possible ramifications of spending $5,000-$25,000 on a proposal. First of all, if you lay down that kind of cash, how can you afford the wedding, which in today's society will cost you the average of $27,000? I'm sorry, but I think spending $50,000 on getting married is silly when you can buy a beautiful new 2008 Mercedes SLK-Class convertible for that, which will, with today's divorce rates, likely remain enjoyable far longer.

And secondly, won't this raise expectations to the level where they cannot possibly continue to be satisfied? Staging an entire Broadway musical themed around your proposal may be dashingly romantic, but I challenge anyone to top that for their ten-year anniversary gift. I think this is a form of setting oneself up for failure, by establishing the idea that everything in marriage must be so giddily ideal that when it fails to be - as it inevitably will - and you realize that they really don't know how to put the damn toilet seat down, you start looking for the next person who'll shell out five grand to pop the question.

Another of Jenifour's (and every time I see that, I want to type Jenifive) packages is the "sexy nurse" role-play. The reasons why paying someone else to set up a role-playing sex game is disturbing are numerous, but I particularly thought so of this quote: "Since people have fantasies of their lovers in an assortment of roles and costumes, please feel free to interchange your event to include: maid, stripper, spy, flapper, school girl, milk maid, Jessica Alba, etc."

Jessica. Alba.

Talk about unrealistic expectations...

I learn by going where I have to go.

As Aslan (one of my favorite fictional characters even though I've long since left evangelical Christianity behind) says to Peter before he becomes High King of Narnia, "If you had been certain you were ready, it would have been proof that you were not." I think you cannot be ready for wealth until you are ready to live on what you have. I think you cannot be ready for success unless you're ready to accept the challenge of failure. And I think you cannot be ready to be married until you are ready to not be.

I've known some people who were dead-set on getting married, and I've had some friends who gave the "propose or leave" ultimatum. They could not imagine happiness without the ceremony, the certificate, the thin metal band that binds. For some of them, it's worked out; for some of them, it hasn't. But I think the key here is that, until you realize that marriage (at least, of the sort that involves choice) is nothing more than a ritual that cements a commitment already in place, you cannot be prepared for it. I see a wedding much like a commencement ceremony; yes, you'd graduate even if you didn't get handed that diploma cover, but it is a celebration of what you have achieved, and an encouragement that your dedication is worth it all. And, at least in my case, it's gonna be a heck of a party.

But it wasn't until recently, when I had a chance to examine my thoughts in this area, that I realized how much my opinions on this had changed in the past few years. You see, I used to be one of the ultimatum-givers, out of fear, or societal pressures, or biological drives; who knows? But I know now that I'd be all right not married to the man I love, because in the end it is not the wedding that cements my choice; it is the choice itself, and my continuation of it. You never choose anything just once, after all; if you stay, that is a perpetual choice. As a Wise Wren told me once, it matters less why you chose something in the first place than it does why you continue to choose it. And my choices are based on much more solid ground than they used to be, so I'm content.

At one point I was certain I never wanted to be married; now, I realize I don't want to be married for its own sake, either. It is still something I'd prefer; like John Lennon, I think that that ritual still has some meaning to it. (And when else does a girl get to wear a tiara all day?) I still have a lifetime of learning ahead of me, for sure. I am growing up, and losing some illusions...perhaps to acquire others. But I think that perhaps, just perhaps, I'm edging my way towards wisdom, too.

You have encountered an error and need to close.

Wouldn't be nice if life were like Internet Explorer?

I don't mean by that that we should all be products of a grossly over-rated corporate capitalist maniac, or that we should allow viruses and other insecurities into our existence on a daily basis. What I mean is that charming little window that pops up and reads:

"Internet Explorer has encountered an error and needs to close."

See, when I encounter errors, I have to push through them. Overslept and am now 20 minutes late for class? That's an error, but I still have to go to class or risk not knowing stuff for the final exam. Backed into another car in the parking lot? Also an error, but I still have to fix the scratches. I can't just go into hibernation and tell someone to try me again later when I feel better.

Though I wish I could, at times.

Diners, Drive-Ins, and Death by Heart Disease.

I think the reason so many other countries disdain us can be summed up in one Food Network show: Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives. For those of you who don't watch the Food Network, this is a show that travels America and raises lofty paeans to greasy spoons. And boy, are they greasy.

One of the main difficulties I see with American culture is reflected in this show. It's not about concern for health; it's about the Horseshoe, a 6-egg omelet topped with cheese sauce (oh, yes, my friends, Velveeta cheese sauce), sausage, ham, and not one, not two, but three different kinds of potatoes (all fried, of course). This show praises the fact that you can get a "regular" order of corned beef hash that's three huge handfuls of meat and potatoes. Or deep-fried macaroni and cheese. Or deep-fried cinnamon rolls. It's not about getting enough to eat; it's about getting enough food to feed two or three on one "regular" plate. And we wonder why we have more obesity than (almost) any other country in the world?

The problem is that bigger isn't always better, but I think we've lost track of that in a sea of Baconators, Horseshoes, and Super-Size fries. We see nothing wrong with artery-clogging "comfort food," even though tying emotions to food is a dangerous thing. We think the bigger the portion, the bigger the love. We think it's better to get a heaping plateful of decent food than a bit of the truly tasty. We associate grease with good; grease is American; grease, my friends, works.

I want one of these!

There is a Hobbit moped for sale on eBay. How perfect is that? You can go There and Back Again at an approximate speed of 30 mph.

It's not just a pony any more.

According to this story, the new trend is spending upwards of $5,000 on a birthday party. For a three year old. To put this in context, this is twice what I'm spending on my wedding, and I have a chocolate fountain and a very pretty dress. Why should I expect to pay more for my child's birthday cake than I do for my wedding cake?

According to one party planner in California (of course, where else?), "We really promote a healthy balance of living year round, but it's OK to indulge your child once a year, because it's about making a memory."

My question is, is it really a "balance" if your bat mitzvah includes performances by Aerosmith, 50 Cent, and Don Henley? Aren't your standards going to be impossibly high for the rest of your guaranteed-to-be-less-interesting life? How will your future husband/employer/best friend compete with expectations like this? "Mummy, I want u2 for my wedding! Buy me a band now! Why don't you love me like you did when I was a kid?"

Perhaps the most troubling element of this article came at the end, though, in its attempt to rebutt this idea of the necessity of "excessive" spending. They quoted one mother of a six-year-old as saying "A $500 party doesn't mean I love them any less than if they had a $5,000 party, as long as they have a good time. And that's what it's all about." Five hundred dollars. This was their idea of budget.

I suddenly feel way poorer than I did before I read this.

I don't wanna grow up, I'm a Toys-R-Us kid.

I never understood Peter Pan, nor the appeal of that Toys-R-Us ad campaign, till now. The fact is, growing up is scary. Paying bills is depressing. The thought that even when I finish the next six or seven years of school ahead of me I have a 40% employment rate staring me in the face is terrifying. I like some of the things that come with growing up, like respect and autonomy, but I sure as hell miss the days when the only thing I had to worry about was finishing my homework. I think I wanna be a hobo.

On a better note, it was homecoming weekend at school this weekend, and I got to see many of my dear friends. I always get a little nostalgic after I've spent time with this great group, which could explain my anxiety. Right now, I'm just focusing on breathing, and watching Iron Chef.

Oh, guilty pleasures.

Stuck in the middle with you.

Recently some events have made it very clear to me that some people cannot be trusted to accurately judge a situation. In particular, that narcissism can blind people to what is right in front of them, and that everything they see and experience will be filtered through a perception of the world that is sometimes shockingly inaccurate, leading them to believe that they are victimized by everyone around them, and grandly misunderstood. I understand this even more because it used to be my very own situation, and I know where it leads if it's not constantly waged war against. The end of this road is unbelievable pain and separation.

I'm in the middle of this right now. On the one hand, I feel compelled by the sheer force of gut conviction to talk with this person, to correct his incorrect notions of what I have done and thought, to make him see that I did love him once, and that despite our obviously incompatible personalities I have tried hard to have a positive relationship with him, for both our sakes and the sake of others whom I value. He's made some assertions about me that are grossly unfair, downright hurtful, and potentially damaging to other relationships that I treasure. And he's made them to other people, rather than bringing them to me first. It stings, and the J in my personality wants nothing more than to set the record straight.

On the other hand I know that I can't do that; nobody can ever make anyone understand something that they are either incapable of or unwilling to see. This person is a classic narcissist, and I know now that anything I say to him will be twisted. The last time we spoke, he insisted I had borne a "dogmatic hatred" of him since we met some years ago, which is patently untrue, and I think he'd know that if he stopped to examine our history. It's such an oversimplification of a complicated situation, and one that relieves him of all blame because if I hate him dogmatically, then I haven't reasoned out my position, and he is not in the wrong. This is all terribly frustrating. I do not hate this person. I have never hated him. His actions have caused me intense frustration and sadness, but he is still a person who holds some emotional importance to me, for many reasons. I want him to understand this. But how do you fight something that is so ingrained in another person's consciousness? The simple answer is, of course, that it's impossible, but that doesn't stop the hurt when these accusations are then reported to other people whom I love. I can't rid him of these assumptions, but is it really okay to stand by and let him spread the cancer of his self-absorption to others?

The other difficulty compounding the situation is that there are other relationships involved in this, and other people whom I adore who this person has hurt. The N in me (there I go, Myers-Brigging again) wants very much to protect these people, to stand up in their defense, but again I know that that will do no good for the situation, and could make it worse. But it hurts terribly to watch the people I love suffering because of this person's selfish assertions, and it hurts even more to feel incapable of consolation or protection of those people. I have watched as relationships of a lifetime have rapidly dissolved, leaving only the bitter foam of memories and hurts floating in their wake, and felt incapable of offering any consolation or help to the survivors. I'm a fairly empathetic person, and this kind of situation wounds me deeply.

The thing is, this person still has admirable qualities that I have always valued in him, and I see those being overshadowed by his increasingly narcissistic behavior. He believes that everyone has wronged him, that he is wise and caring and grossly misunderstood and misused. That sort of perception of the world is dangerous. I worry for him, and I grieve for him and for those he has sundered himself from through his actions. I think one day he will realize just how much of an asshole he's been, and I hope sincerely that it won't be too late for him, or for the others he's hurt. One can only play the victim for so long.

Meanwhile, I'm struggling to keep my mouth shut. For those of you who know me well, you know exactly what a struggle this is. Keep me in your thoughts, darlings.

The not-so-Happy Meal.

Did you ever wonder why we're all so fat?

I'm pretty sure it's the Happy Meal's fault.

Examine, if you will, the nutritional value of a children's cheeseburger Happy Meal:

1131 calories, 62 grams of fat (23 of those from saturated fat), 1352 milligrams of sodium, and...3 grams of fiber.

What exactly is "happy" about those numbers? The calories in this meal alone provide over half of an active adult's daily intake. It's a day's worth of fat. For fewer calories, we could buy a footlong double-meat steak sub with extra cheese at Subway, or four chargrilled chicken sandwiches from Chik-fil-A. And yet, we buy it - why?

Because it comes in a cute little box with handles. It's a promise. A promise that if you buy it, it will make the screaming kid in the backseat fat and happy (literally). That happiness can be had for $2.99. That the way to contentment is not meditation or hard work or even hanging out with friends, but a cheeseburger and bleached, deep-fried potatoes, a quick solution as easy as driving through those golden arches.

I'm not buying it. But unfortunately for our kids, other people are.

So this is what death feels like.

Many people say that sex is the single most trust-requiring act on the planet. You are the most vulnerable you will ever be when you are having sex.

To them, I say clearly they have never had a root canal.

As I sat in the dentist's chair yesterday, his rubber-gloved hands busily sticking needles into my teeth, I thought about how much this didn't resemble sex, and how much it definitely required trust. I don't think you are ever in your life more vulnerable than when someone is grinding a power tool into your mouth, that magical cavity of speech and song and sandwich-eating that could be destroyed with just a slip of the wrist. Well, perhaps surgery compares.

But think about it. You are (one hopes) much more likely to know the person you have sex with than the person you give license to drill into your head, unless you found both in a phone book (Governor Spitzer, anyone?). You can tell the person you have sex with to stop if it hurts, and you can charge them with a crime if they don't. Not only do dentists just push right on through that pain, but nobody can accuse a dentist of assault because the drilling hurt like hell. That's expected. And unless you let your fingers do the walking through the Yellow Pages, you don't have to pay for sex, but you are expected to lay out hundreds, perhaps even thousands of dollars for a few hours of the dentist's time. I'm paying a total stranger $1,875 to take a power tool to my teeth for two hours?

That's trust, baby.

Fernweh.

That's a German word I discovered recently. It has the same general sense as Wanderlust, although as I had it explained to me, it has more of a sense of "loving faraway places." I like the very sound of it; it sounds like something faraway, exotic.

I'm currently indulging in a No Reservations marathon. I love this show. It's hosted by chef Anthony Bourdain (who also hates Rachael Ray, hooray!), and he goes to some insanely interesting places. There's little gimmickry; he doesn't dive into maggot stew or pickled calves' brains at each turn, looking for the most stomach-turning dish in each country. And he's not exactly Samantha Brown: he smokes, drinks, and swears, and he doesn't pose jauntily with national landmarks. He doesn't retread the same tired tourist traps every episode: he's been to Moscow, Tashkent, Edinburgh, and yes, even New Orleans - but after Katrina. And he had some pretty harsh things to say, too. His is not a glossy show.

What he does do is engage with locals and attempt to understand their cultures, even when they don't necessarily reflect his own. I admire that. A recent episode dealt with Gaugin's French Polynesia, but rather than taking us to yet another beach with scantily-clad Americans holding neon drinks with umbrellas in them, Bourdain delved into the nightlife of Papaete with...Polynesian transsexuals. Yes, transsexuals. They're called Mahu there; men who desire to lead lives as women. It is something of a tradition there. Bourdain ate poisson cru - a raw fish dish that's "perfect hangover food" - with them and listened as they told him about their dreams; one wanted to find a husband, another wanted to be a doctor. He didn't crack jokes about their boob jobs or ridicule the one for wanting a husband; he listened as they explained what their culture was about.

This is the sort of thing I really want to do. No, will do, one day. I suffer from acute fernweh. I think we as Americans are too narrow-minded to truly appreciate what makes even our own country good, let alone anyone else's. I want to get past the Ugly American stereotype. I want to learn what makes someone on the other side of the world tick. I want to see the Cape York Peninsula before it's destroyed by tourists looking for a crocodile-populated Disneyworld. I want to learn Italian and order gelato from a shop that only the locals know about. I want to go for a hike in Crete and not worry about getting lost, because I am where I need to be. I want to live in London, because of all the places I've been, it's the one that feels most like home, even with the crazy fruit vendors and the constant if faint smell of damp paper.

I firmly believe it's important to appreciate what you have and make the best of where you are; I learned this the hard way. I've been in some amazing places and sometimes wanted only to go home again, and I regret it. And it's no good to just want another stamp in your passport, although mine's been feeling awfully neglected of late. You can travel the world and never actually see anything; I've been on trains next to people who talked about "doing" Dover, Windsor Castle, and Canterbury in one day, and I felt unspeakable pity for them, because I've spent a day in just the Tower of London and not felt like I've seen and understood it all. You have to travel with open eyes and an open mind (and, often, an open wallet, alas!), and that's what I like about Bourdain - I learn something about the countries he takes me to, even though it is only armchair travel. There is so much more in this world than my hometown, my state, my country, and I want to go, see, hear, touch, taste it all.

Well, okay, maybe not poisson cru.

My Own (Almost) 30-Minute Meal.

The fiance and I have decided that, in the interest of budgets and impending onslaught of expenses (namely, a move, grad school, a wedding, a honeymoon...all in the next year), we're giving up dining out for a while. However, since we're both budding gourmands, we don't want to abandon fine dining, so we've decided to try whipping up a fine new meal once a week. I began this tradition a few weeks ago, with a pomegranate-glazed chicken with caramelized onions and steamed broccoli with garlic, topped with a touch of goat cheese. Ohhhh, baby. It took an hour and a half, but it was superb.

This week, it was sirloin and chicken breast (red meat for him, white for me, due to my unusual beef allergy) marinated in red wine vinegar, molasses, chili flakes, garlic, and cracked peppercorns, served with caramelized onions, steamed broccoli, carrots, and mushrooms, and topped with some crumbled boucheron chèvre. We put the meat in the marinade around lunchtime and let it sit all day, which made it moist and insanely flavorful.

But here's the best part: not counting the marinating time, preparing the whole meal (including prep time!) took me just 37 minutes. That's right. I started the onions first (getting that delicious, melt-in-your-mouth golden result takes some time), put the meat on my trusty George Foreman grill, and steamed the veggies in a double-boiler. And this time included my demonstrating to the fiance how to properly wash and slice mushrooms, something he'd never done before. The pricetag came in at under $20, too. I couldn't believe it; a fine-dining meal that took less than an hour to cook and less than $20 to purchase! Take that, Rachael Ray! You don't have to make a "sammy" to have a delicious (and genuinely healthy - no buckets of "EVOO" here) dinner in around 30 minutes.

Here's hoping next week's birthday bash is just as successful!

I guarantee it.

Whatever happened to Martin Yan?

This video will explain my devotion.

I remember "Yan Can Cook" on PBS when I was growing up. It was more fun than pretty much anything else on TV, mostly because of those frenetic knife skills and his wacky humor. He always seemed like he was on the verge of exploding, but a hyper cook is a fun cook, if he knows what he's doing (hence why RR doesn't count in this category). And I liked his slogan: "If Yan can cook, so can you! I guarantee you!" His show made food accessible, especially good Asian food, and encouraged even average cooks to stretch their boundaries and try something new. It really wasn't that hard, and it didn't have to be expensive; he gua-ran-teeed it. He could tell you the difference between light and dark soy sauce, and when to use either. Plus, he usually used screaming hot oil in a very large wok. The possibility for disaster was huge, but miraculously never happened, because he clearly knew what he was doing.

He's humble about his skills, but not falsely so; the man's been named a Master Chef by the American Culinary Federation and has a master's degree in food science. The difference between Yan and, say, Ray, who also promotes the "I can cook and so can you!" attitude is simple: Yan makes food you'd want to eat, respects his ingredients, and brings with him years of experience and authenticity. And he's funny.

He hasn't been on public television in Mississippi for a while, and I miss him. Part of me would like to see the Food Network pick up his show, but I have a feeling they'd probably try and make him dye his hair platinum and come up with catchphrases like "Yum-o" or "money" while cooking duck pizzas with plum dipping sauce in under 30 minutes in a kitschy "Asianized" kitchen with a Buddha in the corner that matches the one on his apron.

Still, I have to think he'd be better than the cooktard likes of Sandra Lee and Rachael Ray. Why? Because Yan CAN Cook!

We love to fly, and it...costs.

Today I learned two dismaying tidbits about the airline industry.

The first is that Delta, my frequent-flier mileage-awarding slavemaster, has caved to peer pressure and announced that it too will be reducing the number of free checked bags per (coach) passenger to a mere one. This comes on the heels of similar announcements by Northwest, Continental, and United Airlines, all of whom appear to agree that passengers flying coach have fewer possessions than their first-class-cabinmates. First-class passengers on all four airlines may check up to three bags for free. For budget travellers like myself, who find it hard not to buy gifts for everyone we know when we're abroad, this comes as a blow; not only do we have to pay for the things we buy, we'll have to pay extra to get them home...assuming our flight isn't cancelled, that is.

My question is this: isn't this akin to giving away goodie bags worth thousands of dollars to celebrities, who could actually afford to purchase all that stuff? If you can afford to fly first class, can't you afford to pay an extra $25 to check a third bag? Why stick us poor steerage passengers with the fees?

And then there are people for whom no luxury is ever enough. For those discerning and non-monetarily-challenged travellers, Emirates Airlines presents their new fully private First Class suites. According to their very posh website,

"The new private suite is fully equipped with individual storage, a coat closet, vanity desk and personal mini bar. The extra-large seat reclines to become a fully flat bed, and the 23" wide-screen LCD screen features over 600 channels of ice entertainment.

Our award-winning, multilingual cabin crew provide an unprecedented level of personal service, including a la carte gourmet cuisine and an extensive wine list."

As if feeling like chattel wasn't easy enough when we're crammed into 28" of pitch space, we now have pictures of these homes-away-from-home to envy. These suites come complete with luxurious polished wood paneling, 600-thread-count Egyptian cotton linens on your fully reclining, twin-size bed, seven-course dining with a trained sommelier at your service, automated reclining seat - just press a button to nap! - and your own personal flight attendant. You even get doors to pull shut while you sleep, completely closing you off from the annoyances of other filthy-rich travellers. It's just like the Hogwarts Express, only without Draco Malfoy stealing your luggage. And the price for this luxury? Starting from a mere $12,626 for flights from New York-JFK to Dubai.

And I betcha they don't have to pay to check an extra bag, either.

Really, Food Network?

Those of you who know me know that I have a "thing" for the Food Network. It's often sort of akin to watching a train wreck: horrific, but impossible to look away from. It's a case of it being so bad it's almost good. So allow me to share with you the latest news in Food Network's programming lineup, straight from the horse's mouth, as it were:

"The Chef Jeff Project, an inspirational series in which drug-dealer-turned-chef Jeff Henderson works with kids who want to be cooks."

Because a former drug dealer should definitely be the one cooking our childrens' meals. Who wants to bet there are magic brownies on the menu?

In other Food Network news, Rachael Ray has decided to give us recipes for dog food. No, apparently she doesn't think the...well, let's be nice and call it "food"...she's been producing for the last five years qualifies. She means meals you can cook for the family and share with the dog. (Apparently, leftovers aren't good enough for your precious pup.) Recipes include "Power Pooch Smoothies" and "Real Dogs Eat Quiche." The latter includes half-and-half and breakfast sausage. Both recipes say they serve four. I'm guessing this is not based on Beagle owners.

And you thought your life sucked.

An acquaintance of mine recently introduced me to the world of mail-order brides, and I must say I'm appropriately terrified. On the other hand, it does make me feel one hell of a lot more normal.

So what exactly is so scary about these services? Well, have a look at Asianbridesonline.com. According to them, it's a fact that "Men seek youth and beauty. Women seek mature, older, healthy, intelligent, successful, financially stable men." This is so important that they repeat it. Four times. Word for word. Is it just me, or is there some adjectivism at work here?

Among their other helpful advice? Make copies of your letters. "By doing this, when a lady responds to you, you can simply refresh your memory as to what you initially wrote her." This will help you keep your lies about being a mature, older, healthy, intelligent, successful, financially stable man straight. It would really suck if one of those luscious ladies found out you were really a middle-aged office supplies salesman.

Then there's Anastasia Web Tours, which arranges "romance tours" (land-only, $4995 for ten days) that allow men to meet eligible "ladies" who have the qualities they're looking for in a wife. If you have a look here, you'll see exactly the kind of qualities he's looking for. He's even making the universal sign-language symbol for them.

But my favorite has to be Kiev Connections, run by an "American proprietor" who gives the following advice to prospective customers:

"We highly suggest you do not have a long correspondence! You can write ladies for ever and usually nothing will happen. You will just waste time, energy, effort, emotions and never get married. Why be alone another minute. Would it not be better to be happily married as soon as possible?"

Indeed. Why waste time trying to get to know one another and waste emotions - you know you have a finite supply - when you could race into a marriage with someone who won't understand a word you say? Do stupid things faster, for god's sake!

The best part of this website has to be the FAQ section, however. If these questions really are this frequently asked, then these morons - uh, men deserve all the mockery that can possibly be heaped upon them. For example:

"Will She run off after she comes to America? No! You are the sponsor of her visa and she must marry you and only you or return to her country before the end of 90 days."

Well, that's comforting. Because it's not scary enough that this woman's come to a strange country to see a strange person several decades older than she is. She has a full 90 days to realize the scale of her error.

"What about the age difference? Everyone knows that a beautiful 18 model is not going to love a overweight, 70 year old man with little hair for his great personality. You need to be realistic. Now, that being said, things are very different in the Ukraine than they are in the west. You will frequently see couples that are 20 years apart in age. It is natural here. Everyone is an individuals and individuals interact and react differently. There are no set rules or demarcation. You need to meet and see if there is attraction and chemistry."

This really is comforting to all those overweight, balding 70-year-olds out there; you don't need a great personality, just a shitload of cash. And apparently, Ukrainian women are a bargain. Each is "an individuals," which is essentially a buy-one-get-one-free situation. Now don't you want to come to Kiev?

But why are all these lovely 18-year-old Ukrainian women desperate to marry men 20 years their senior? The owner of Kiev Connections provides this insightful answer:

"There are decent marriage oriented men in Ukraine but there are many that are not. What is a man? A man is the breadwinner ,he earns the bacon and brings it home so the wife can fry it up in the pan. The man is the provider. Unfortunately, it is very difficult for a Ukrainian man to provide for his family. There are few well paying jobs in the Ukraine. How can the men here take pride in themselves if they can not provide for their family. The result? Ukrainian men bend to peer pressure and drink and drink."

Oh, peer pressure. And we thought you were just responsible for us wearing those puff-painted denim jackets in the '80s. Apparently you are also the reason for Ukrainian men being crappy husbands. The bright side to this is that these lovely Ukrainian ladies can come over to the US and marry American men 20 years their senior. Of course, their husbands will probably still drink and expect their wives to fry their bacon for them, but at least it won't be because of peer pressure.