Posts by Louisa

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! Since I’ve spent the last several posts extolling the fabulousness of my family and friends, I’ll spare the sap this time and just reaffirm that yea verily, while moving is a bitch, it’s the logistics that really kill you. Once the movers came to take the majority of my things away in a container last Friday, I really felt a whole ton better. Saying goodbye is still sad, but I’m moving to London, which is really pretty fucking cool.

Anyway, in light of my recent baby steps back toward the land of stability, I’d like to share some random thoughts, Mimi Smartypants-style…

Pixies
I’ve had a really good year, show-wise. There was Bowie in January, Gomez in February, Elvis in March, and now this. The last time I saw Frank and Kim do it up live was way back in 1989, at the tiny, Double-Door-esque Peabody’s Down Under in scenic, exciting Cleveland, Ohio. I’d recently come back from a post-high-school, pre-college sabbatical in France, and at 17 I remember how limitless the world felt, and the enormity of their sound was so fitting for that time. This time, it’s no less perfect. I spent the entire show with an enormous grin on my face, which during several songs was accompanied by tears streaming down. Reminded me of Homer: “smiling through tears”. It was cathartic and totally rockin’ and I am so glad I went. And speaking of Mimi, it was great to run into her and finally meet the elusive LT.

Performance Fashion
While I was stapled to the sofa yesterday, I saw a preview for the show Fashion Police (the latest from TBS‘ crackerjack reality TV factory), and while the voice over explained that the next installment would cover the worst red carpet fashion mistakes in (presumably recent) history, they showed a shot of Björk in her swan getup. Now, respect where it’s due and all, I’m not that big a fan of hers. She’s done a whole lot of interesting music, sure, and Dancer in the Dark was a fascinating piece, but overall I pretty much think she’s a crackpot. Which is why I wish people would stop expecting her to appear anywhere looking normal. Clearly, most of Björk’s life is a piece of performance art, so why should her red-carpet clothing choices be any different? The woman’s not wearing Vera Wang, she’s wearing Odette, for crying out loud. Take it for what it’s worth. She’s odd, she’s pretty, and she’s got enough cash on hand to get someone to make her a white feathered contraption. If anything, fan or not, I’m inclined to give her props for having the balls to take it out in public.

OK, so I lied.
For the past ten years or so, with the exception of one year when I was out of the country, Thanksgiving has been held in my dining room. We’ve always called it the Orphans’ Thanksgiving, my mom and I (my mom started it years earlier) – if you’re too far from home to get to your family, or you don’t get along with your family, or you don’t have anyone else to go see, come on over and get your food on, get your drink on, and have a good time, we say – but this year, my dining room is the only furniture left in my cookware and china-free former home. So we accepted an invitation, my mom and I, from friends of mine. And it was great. We all went around the table, talking about what we were thankful for. We all more or less said the same thing: our families, our extended families of friends, our good fortune and the strangeness of coincidence and good fortune that’s shaped the finer things in our lives. And I really thought it would be hard having this holiday outside of the cocoon I’d grown accustomed to, but it wasn’t. It was warm and welcoming and fun and delicious and utterly, completely lovely. And I’m thankful for that, too.

Gobble gobble yeah.

The packing is finished, with deepest thanks to Jin and Travis, without whom I would have been caught metaphorically somewhere between a chicken sans tete and a deer in headlights. If I haven’t by now sorted out what I need for the next four weeks, I’ll just have to make do; if I’ve chosen to bring too much with me, I’ll have to sell it on the streets when it gets there. As Travis said, perhaps I’ll make some new friends that way… “wanna buy a bookcase?” Men will come to pack and take my things in just a few hours, and in the days that follow, my friends will take what’s left or help me put it in storage. It’s beginning to set in, and with it, the panic is slowly (oh so slowly) morphing into excitement and anticipation: I’m moving to London!

The real setting-in moment tonight was when my cat moved to my mom’s house. It’s true that I’m not just leaving her – I feel the same ache for mom and my friends, whom I adore and whom I can’t possibly thank enough for all the love, support and (most of all) tolerance, but to leave the kittenhead is the closest thing I can fathom to leaving a child. As a result of the fact that she’s a tiny fuzzy creature with no opposable thumbs, she can’t send email. Or perhaps she can. I did get an email earlier complaining that she was annoyed with her new home because she fell into the trash can whilst trying to get up on the counter. I’m hoping she’ll keep sending me stuff on the sly. I’ll miss her, and everyone else, more than I can say.

But hey, kitten? Try not to fall into the trash again, OK? It’s just not dignified.

In other news, the Pixies show last night was absolutely amazing. More on this later, when I have the presence of mind to string two thoughts together. In the meantime, thanks to all who have been kind and tolerant and supportive and forgiving. I’ve been coming apart at the seams a little, I know. But I promise, it’s all for a good cause.

Dang, this blog is getting sappy.

Yep, it’s begun. The wake-me-up-in-the-middle-of-the-night irrational paranoia that I won’t be ready for the movers when they get here, the completely insane worry that I won’t pack enough appropriate clothing to get by during my first two weeks of work, the general creeping dread… I think this is what’s commonly referred to as panic. It’s not a state I spend a lot of time in, so I’m not quite sure how to cope. Making lists seems to stave it off a little. So does having other people around. And funny shit helps a lot.

Which brings me to my point. What the hell is sth doing in this picture, with the big red cowboy hat and the dreamy look and totally surrounded by children under the age of 10? Why, the Macarena, of course. Let the rhythm move you, babe. Let the music take control.

Carla was right. $2 bourbon is a recipe for disaster. I’m sure there are stories, but I don’t remember them.

Also: T minus three weeks.

As the sorting-out of my life in transition continues, I’m afraid I’ve become something of a broken record. It has been pointed out to me that it is not only okay, but in fact more or less mandatory for me to be freaking out at least a little about this change, so I’ve resolved to allow myself to do so. I’m trying to strike the precarious balance between admitting that this is a huge deal (and exciting and daunting and fabulous and scary and wow all at the same time), and wallowing in the state I like to refer to as complete and utter train wreck. I’m listening to a lot of cheerful punk, and spending as much time as I can with my wonderful, fabulous friends, and sorting and packing (less of that than I should be doing, really) and looking at London real estate that I’ll never be able to afford. As a result of all this, the only things I seem to be writing are saparific odes of thanks to my friends and family, and even schmoopier poetry of the same ilk. Which I am far too polite to subject you to.

I can promise a little amusing imagery in the next few days, provided I remember to pick up a certain photo off a friend’s kitchen table and scan it in, and there’s another girls’ night tonight which may or may not produce some anecdotes fit for public consumption, but other than that I’m afraid there may well be a whole lotta nothin’ going on here. The one bit of hard news that I can share is that my ticket is booked: I’ll be leaving on November 30. I’ll be back for Christmas and New Year’s, but by then I’ll be officially living in London. Whoa.

It’s unbefuckinglievable. Then again, is it? It’s appalling, that’s for sure. I’m not the first to say it, and I won’t be the last. I’ve been getting one-word emails from friends across the globe. “Satisfied?” they ask. No. As a matter of fact, I’m not. I’m depressed, and also thinking hey, great timing on my leaving the country. I may not be as eloquently bitter as some of my friends, or as amusingly dour as others – in fact, it’s hard to pinpoint how I’m feeling about this. Disassociated, certainly. The plane ticket and the job in London make that easy. Disappointed, absolutely. But not really crashingly disappointed, for all that – I don’t think I ever had quite the optimism going that a lot of my friends and acquaintances did. JT again made the point about red/blue being mirrored by rural/urban dispersion, and I suspect that it’s a lot easier to be broadly optimistic when you live in an urban center, surrounded (more or less) by like-minded folk. But I met some young, educated urbanites this very summer who thought four more years sounded like a good idea. Maybe what I’m feeling is just plain old fashioned resignation. I did what I could – I made good points in political conversations; I thought I closed my arguments. I voted. I encouraged others to do the same. And still, the problem remains.

Or maybe it’s the resignation born from bewilderment. You want to vote BC04? Because you think things are good and going to get better? Well, OK then. I suppose there’s no arguing that logic, largely because there is no logic there.

I know you’ve all been agonizing over what to buy me for Christmas this year. Despite last year’s winning Inappropriate Christmas Ornament (lovingly entitled And what do YOU want for Christmas, little girl?), what I’m after is not obscene pipe cleaner art. What I’m after is this. I need one. Surely everyone can see that. I’ll bedazzle you an eye patch! I’ll bedazzle the back pocket of your favorite jeans! Or I’ll promise not to, how’s that? Whatever it takes. Please, people. Please?

Oh dear, I just can’t seem to keep up with this thing. It occurs to me that this is not so much because my activity level is high as that I can’t seem to keep my brain focused on a single task (even one so trivial as posting nonsense to my House of Self-Indulgence) for more than 15 minutes. So I’d better type fast.

Actually, quite a lot’s been going on. Two weekends ago, I attended the spectacular Big Gay Wedding of my dear friends Greg and David, in Memphis. Now, when I tell people this, they’re initially unsurprised to hear that I was in a gay wedding – but then, when I get to the part about it having taken place in Memphis, a look of bewilderment comes across their dear faces. Memphis? Surely not. I mean, if San Fran couldn’t keep gay unions legal, how is it possible that this should come about in the borderline baptist belt, yea, so close to the snake-handling counties of Arkansas? Much as I hate to disappoint, the marriage is not in fact legal, but when have we cared about the legality of our actions, anyway? It was a beautiful ceremony, presided over by the inimitable and lovely organic farmer/fairy/hippie preacher Larry Leonard (whose ripe green tomatoes are a delectable treat, should you ever find yourself down his way), attended by scores of friends and family, a reunion of folk who hadn’t seen one another in over a decade and a festival of bubbly-consumption worthy of the coming together of a new and improved circle of friends and relatives. I had a fabulous time, and while I am tempted to promise photos in the near future, we all know how awful I am about that (I can’t even seem to fix the stylesheets in the gallery, for crying out loud), I won’t get your hopes up. You’ll just have to take my word for it.

Since I’ve been back, it’s been a whirlwind of social and cultural activity – between dinners and outings with friends, I managed to have the fullest day of theatrical experiences I’ve had since college. Last Wednesday afternoon, a friend and I attended a dress rehearsal of Aïda at the Lyric. Just under four hours and an execution/suicide later, we emerged blinking into the twilight, in dire need of a drink. We had just enough time for a few quick ones with good old Pat at Nick & Tony’s before another friend came to fetch me for the evening’s production: Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf at the Court Theatre. Now, this is not what anyone would call a feel-good show – in fact, it’s more or less witnessing a three and a half hour act of psychological terrorism. But I’m here to tell you, it was amazing. Utterly worth it. I said that evening, and have maintained since, that it is the single best production I’ve seen in ten years in Chicago. Huge kudos to the cast and crew and director, and also high praise to the scene design. I am almost tempted to rattle on about it at length the way I normally do about productions that I love, but you might leave me and never come back. Perhaps I’ll revisit this at some point – my only regret is that I didn’t get a review up early enough to encourage everyone in town to see the show: it closed on Sunday.

Friday saw another charmed dinner party at my house. Yes, I’m trying to cram in as many intimate gatherings as I possibly can before I quit the country, and even though from time to time I look around the room and get all misty, they are always such a splendid time. The menu for this one was Spicy Corn Chowder, followed by Chili-Lime Marinated Pork Tenderloin and Lime-Cayenne infused Shrimp on a bed of Cheddar/Chipotle Mashed Potato, with French Green Beans and a few cherry tomatoes for color. For dessert, one guest supplied fresh strawberries with a brown sugar-sour cream dip, and another gallantly arrived hours early to bake a wonderful apple pie. Yea verily, we were well-fed. Well-boozed, too, but that’s another story. I’ve still got a can of wine (!) in my fridge if anybody’s interested.

So what have I got that’s amusing and witty and clever? It shames me to say that I’m coming up snake eyes today, folks. Perhaps this evening’s outing to the north side will supply me with some comic relief, or at least some regrettable fashion, to share with you, but for now you’ll just have to make due with the facts.

At least I’ve written something. My guilt is partially assuaged.

Oh yeah, and if Bush wins next Tuesday, I’m leaving the country. Wait a minute… Well, ok. But vote anyway, would you?

So I’m still spending a goodly chunk of my time repeating over and over (both in my head and out loud), “I work for the BBC. I work for the BBC,” in hopes that one of these times, it will sink in. This strategy is not working at all, but it’s the best one I can think of, so I’m keeping it up. It’s hard because there’s really not much I can do yet. My roommate’s moving out at the end of this month, and while I guess I could box up the things I know will go into storage, it just seems easier to let her get her things out first, and then start tearing down my own. I can’t start making the transport arrangements until I get my contract, so I don’t really know when I need to have everything ready, and that impacts my plans to go over and look for a flat, all of which makes me strongly suspect the whole lot is going to happen at once, and be one of those deals where suddenly I have to do everything in, like, three days.

I’m keeping the panic at bay by walking around the city looking at things, and also by cooking. Speaking of which, a few people have started yelling at me about never giving up the recipes for things I make frequently. As I always tell them, it’s not that I’m being secretive and mysterious so much as I honestly don’t know how much of stuff I use – it’s largely done by feel and instinct and smell and so forth. But last Saturday’s dinner was pretty straightforward, and while I can’t guarantee the proportions are exactly right, they’ll get you pretty close. The rest is up to you. So, without further ado, I give you Saturday Dinner (I made it for 8, but the below will feed 4 hungry folk):

Roasted Cornish Hens
you’ll need:
4 hens
1 granny smith apple, diced
1 orange, peeled and cut into bits
1/2 sweet onion, diced
3-4 cloves garlic, minced
olive oil (i prefer to use garlic-infused, but that’s up to you)
sea salt
black pepper
paprika
parsley/sage/thyme blend (usually called “poultry seasoning” or somesuch

1. Preheat your oven to 375.
2. Rinse the hens, inside and out, and pat them dry. You can throw the giblets away or use them as finger puppets, whatever you like.
3. Mix up the seasonings in a small bowl (this will keep you from getting olive oil all over your spice jars). No, I don’t know how much of everything. You’ll probably need more than you think you will – I go heavy on the paprika and poultry seasoning and lighter on the salt and pepper.
4. Rub the hens with olive oil and the seasoning mix, stuff them with the apple/onion/orange mixture and arrange them in a roasing tray, breast-up. Try and get some of the seasoning under the skin.
5. Drizzle the hens with a little more olive oil and put ’em in the oven. They’ll take about 1.5 hours, or until they reach 180 internal temperature.

Mushroom/Sage Risotto
you’ll need:
1 cup d’arborio rice, uncooked
1 – 1.5 cups mushrooms, sliced (I use a mix of button and baby portabbellos, usually)
2 cloves garlic, minced
1/2 cup sweet onion, chopped
3-5 fresh sage leaves
2 tbsp. butter
2 tbsp. olive oil
several cups (maybe 3-4?) chicken stock (or whatever kind of stock you have – I made this once with duck stock and it was amazing)

1. Sautée the onion in the butter and olive oil for about 3 minutes, or until it starts to turn clear.
2. Add the rice and garlic and sautée another 2 minutes or so.
3. Add the mushrooms and sautée another 2 minutes, then add about 1/2 cup of stock.
4. Bring the mixture to a boil and cook until the liquid is absorbed, then add another 1/2 cup. Again, cook until the liquid is absorbed and add another 1/2 cup. Keep doing this until the risotto is al dente. About halfway through, crush or coarsely chop the sage leaves and throw them in. Around the same time, you may want to add a little sea salt and pepper, to taste.
Optional: you can use a little wine or sherry as part of the liquid, but if you’re going to do that do it early in the cooking process.
Word Up: The whole process will take somewhere between 35 minutes and an hour, depending on how big of a flame you’re using, so start early. Risotto is best when it’s fresh, so don’t let it sit too long before you serve it. I know, I know – timing’s a bitch.

Blanched Asparagus with Lemon
you’ll need:
1-1.5 lbs. asparagus, cleaned and trimmed
1 lemon
a little sea salt

1. Bring water to boil – enough to cover the asparagus.
2. Add the asparagus. Wait for the water to return to a boil and cook for another 2-3 minutes.
3. Drain asparagus. Squeeze some lemon over it, and then sprinkle with sea salt. Ta-dar!

So that’s that. For dessert, we had vanilla ice cream with a berry-Frangelico reduction, courtesy of Travis. I prefer fruity things after a meal like this – the risotto’s rich and the birds are warm and filling, and a big chocolate concoction always seems like overkiill to me. But chacun à son gout, as they say.

The party, by the way, was awesome. From cooking to the always-kooky stylings of 2 Many DJs to feeding the neighbors to the long-overdue tête-à-têtes to the dancing in the living room, I had an absolute blast. Thanks again to all who came over – it was truly a charmed evening, and the end to a pretty much perfect day. We’ll have to do this again. Soon.

Today’s word of the day on WordSpy: gossypiboma. It’s the official term for a sponge left inside a patient’s body after a surgical procedure. Because “sponge” was too obvious, apparently, for the medical profession. Probably my favorite thing about the word – aside from how fun it is to say, and the fact that it sounds more like a teenage girl’s pastime than anything hippocratic, is that its etymological roots are Latin and Swahili. There just aren’t enough words in the English language that are based on Swahili.

On a barely related tangent, Swahili is one of the many languages in which I know how to say “I love you”. For those who are curious: nakupenda sana (technically, that’s “I love you very much”, but you get the picture).

This concludes your rambling and pointless entry for today. I would have remarked on the vice-presidential debate (and, for that matter, on last week’s presidential one), but I’m ashamed to admit that I gave up watching Edwards v. Cheney last night after about ten minutes. It was going nowhere pretty, and I stand by my decision to spend that time in the kitchen, cooking and drinking wine. Besides, I do try to (except when drunk and angry at 4 in the morning) stick to my self-imposed rule of no politics in the blog is good politics in the blog. Kind of like punk. Only more annoying and self-absorbed.