Pizza Quick Fix.

I've been sick lately, and when I'm sick I crave pizza. However, I didn't want to have to go through the trouble of baking, so I scrounged through my refrigerator for a way to whip up a satisfying snack. I'm pretty pleased with the results.

The pita-pizza is nothing new (I've posted other recipes here before) but the addition of cream cheese takes this to another mouth-watering level. I'm a proud member of the "you can never have too much cheese" school of thought, and I urge you to become one too. This pita-pizza hits the spot! (I ate it before I thought to take pictures, though. Guess I'll just have to make another soon...bummer!)

This makes one serving. Feel free to mix it up with your favorite toppings.

1 pita bread

2 tablespoons marinara sauce (homemade if you've got it)

3 tablespoons cream cheese

1/4 cup shredded Italian 5-cheese blend

6-8 slices pepperoni

Preheat oven to 450 degrees. Place pita on ungreased baking sheet, top-side down (the natural curve of most pitas forms a handy boundary for keeping sauce inside). Spread marinara sauce over entire surface of pita; layer cream cheese on top of sauce. (This part can be a little messy, but it is well worth the effort.) Sprinkle about half the shredded cheese over cream cheese. Fan out pepperoni slices over that, and sprinkle remaining cheese over the top. Bake for 5-8 minutes until cheese is golden brown and bread is crisp. Devour and repeat.

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.