Tamale War Zone

I began preparing for battle last weekend with a scouting trip to Essex Market. I had to find corn masa as well as a few other Hispanic ingredients. It is trickier that you might think to track down these items, even in New York. Upon arrival, I knew I had found the mecca of Mexican ingredients in Manhattan!

They had the elusive masa, amazing piles of produce and the lingering aroma of cilantro and peppers. I purchased my ingredients and splurged on some real animal lard! Everything was dirt cheap, what a coup!

I finally made my way home and, poof, lost my motivation. The masa and corn husks stayed in my fridge, questioningly looking at me, for another week. I had an EWI new members even the following Saturday and I decided to make pork buns (yes, I am a procrastinator!), fate had other ideas though. Unable to find pork belly on such short notice, I was forced to face my opponent. The day of the event no less!

It is generally a bad idea to be in a rush when trying a new recipe, but apparently I like to do things the hard way! To make sure I was making a good, authentic dough, I pulled several recipes to compare. They were all similar enough, I felt confident enough to get started. I distinctly remember that the first recipe I studies said to use half of a 4 lb. bag of masa, the second recipe concurred that 2 cups of masa should be combined with 3 cups of stock or broth.

I dumped the four in my bowl, nearly overflowing, and added the broth. Huh. It still looked pretty dry. At that moment I realized I was an idiot. Yes, yes, I'm sure you caught the 2 lb versus 2 cup issues right away. Well, I was rushing. Ok, fine, I will increase everything in the recipe. Yeaaah, well, that mixing bowl was not going to be accommodating and other six cups of stock! I just laughed at my oh, so typical folly and pulled down a pasta pot. Desperation is the mother of invention, and the clock was ticking.

As I desperately mixed, splattering masa, water and broth all over my tiny kitchen/apartment I decided to just go for it. I threw down the spoon like a gauntlet and started kneading with my bare hands. I mixed and added until I had two bowls of dough. Going for the consistency of peanut butter, I dipped my finger in one bowl and then the other, desperately trying to remember what peanut butter felt like! Were we talking warm peanut butter or cold? Screw it, I picked a bowl and started adding clumps of whipped lard.

One site had given the tip that the dough was ready when a small pinch of it floated in a glass of water. That indicates that enough air has been whipped in. I pushed my trusty hand mixer to the max, and the first pinch did not float. I kept mixing and praying that I did not kill my mixer in the process. This was a war and I was not backing down!

In the mean time, I had the husks soaking in my sink and I have to admit, they smelled like wet dog. I tried to ignore this disturbing fact and began putting together my filling. I believe in working smarter, not harder, so I used some pre-cooked carnitas and some Cuban black beans. I also am cheap and wanted to stretch the expensive pork! I seasoned it up and it was good to go.

Alright, go time. I laid down a towel and began pulling my husks out of the sink. I spread the masa, again with my fingers, and put dainty spoonfuls of the pork mixture down the middle. I used the method described online to roll and wrap the little buggers, and they looked pretty damn cool!

About five tamales in, my back started aching from bending over the counter and I made the executive decision to make twenty of them instead of the fifty recommended! As long as there was enough for the party, I would deal with the left over masa later. I wrapped and wrapped and got them all done. Exhausted and in a rush, I jumped in a cab and headed downtown.

I arrived and set-up the steamer, only about ten of them fit in the little pot. I fired-up the burner and poured myself a big glass of wine. Guests were due to arrive in just over an hour. Nothing like testing a new recipe on unsuspecting strangers!

After about an hour, it was the moment of truth. I gingerly pulled out a tamale and unwrapped it. They were good! They were really good! Ha! Take that you tamale bastards!

I decided to cut them into bite sized pieces and set them out for the party. They would be cold, but whattaya gonna do? They seemed to go over well, and as the party wore on I started fishing out fresh, hot tamales and serving them. The hot ones were much more popular, go figure.

All in all, I would have to say that the reverence given to the art of tamale making, the near mythic level of difficulty assigned to this task, is a total exaggeration. They were not that difficult. A bit time consuming? Yes. Messy? Yes. Rocket Science? No. I say this, though the extra masa dough is still sitting in my fridge! Regardless, I came, I steamed, I conquered! That is enough for me.

Dr. Stranglove: VA GYN

I went to the gynecologist at the VA a couple weeks ago. I had a bad experience last year with a fellow who literally drew blood during my PAP with his barbaric methods, and I was relieved that I had a different doctor this time. My relief was short lived.

The tall sallow-faced doctor began asking me standard questions until he came across my IUD in the chart. With an eyebrow raised, he asked me why someone who did not yet have children had such an invasive birth control device. I told him that I suffered from migraines and the hormones in the pill don't agree with me.

He was still perplexed.

He asked me flat out, "So, do you ever want to have children?" A bit startled, I muttered something about possibly wanting them at some point, but not now. He then asked, "Do you want children with your current partner?". Startled further, I explained that I had just come out of a 4 year relationship and was not currently seeing anyone. This sent him into a lecture on the fact that getting an infection with an IUD can make one infertile. I stammered that I was not sexually active, but would definitely use a condom if that changed. He was unmoved, he went on to tell me to think long and hard about any future partners, sleeping with them was risking my fertility and "they better be worth it".

Thankfully, the Q&A section was almost over and I was getting ready to disrobe. He then realized that my period had just ended and said their might be some, "residual still up-in-there". He swiftly asked me to reschedule. Seriously? Well, he is the doctor, maybe there is something about blood and tests that I don't know about. I went out front and reschedule for today.

Making my way down to the basement where the VA banished the gyn clinic, I was not looking forward to another meeting with doctor strange love. After chatting with the nurses and patients and re-filling-out all the damned forms, he finally called me in. He looked puzzled, he said, "you look different, I don't even recognize you!" Confused, I told him I dyed my hair and perhaps it was styled differently last time. He continued to stare. Finally, he shrugged and said, "Well, whatever it is, it looks very complimentary". Weird.

I was careful during Q&A, not wanting to set him off again. I made it through relatively unscathed and was taken to the exam table. It got weirder. During my breast exam he began making awkward small talk, asking about where I was from etc. Moving to the "main event", he decided to mention that my IUD string was quite long. Okaaaaay. He then asked me, "has anyone mentioned your IUD string to you?"

What the fuck?

I told him that my ex once told me he could feel it. He proceeded to ask, "with his fingers?" I was a bit taken aback and said, "No, while he was, um, inside me".

He nodded and said nothing.

I then asked if it could be a problem or an indication that it was coming out. I fully expected him to laugh, like all the other doctor's had when I asked similar questions, but no, he looked at me with a strait face and said, "It's possible, but you haven't gotten pregnant yet."

After this startling proclamation, he simply went over to his computer and began typing notes.

I was aghast!

"Well, I would like to know if there is a problem BEFORE I get pregnant! That's the whole point." He shrugged again and told me he would schedule an ultrasound so they could look at the placement. He said he wanted me to come back to see him a couple weeks later so he could read me my results.

Now, the first thought through my mind was, "if this guy is making all this up just so I will come in for a follow-up to see him, there will be hell to pay!" This thought was quickly replaced by a deep concern that I was becoming cripplingly paranoid.

On my way out tonight I stopped by Little Boss's office. I make a habit of coming in to shoot the shit and gossip about other employees with her. I began telling her about the dungeon of GYN and how awkward my visit was. It was only after my story left her gripping the desk in fits of laughter that I realized, "I'm not paranoid! This guy is a weirdo!"

I don't know how I find these people, or why, but my life seems to be a zoo of strange and bizarre individuals. Interesting that the first man to see "The Cat" since my breakup would be a crack-pot gynecologist, at least I was able to wait until the second "date". I guarantee there will not be a third!

The Season of Bleeding Feet

Spring is here and with it came the bleeding feet.

Every spring I feel like a prisoner being paroled, the wicked cold not longer keeps me trapped in the house, dreading my walks to and from work and impeding my otherwise active lifestyle. I go out and buy brand new flats to accommodate all the walking I am going to be doing.

Like said prisoner, I find my new found freedom throws me into a fit of hedonism. I walk and walk, greedily taking in all the excitement and drama of the city in bloom. I walk so much in these new shoes (which were very comfortable when I tried them on!) that my feet end of looking like they came out of a meat grinder. This all happens the first weekend of Spring, the following week of spring finds me gingerly trying to get my battered feet into whatever pair of shoes don't cause me unbearable agony!

Well, my feet are beginning to heal and the shoes will get broken in eventually. I must say it is worth it though, each passing block offers me its own story or character. For example, last week I walked to the library on my way home from work. On my way in, two young boys passed me carrying children's books. They could not have been more than 10 years old. I though little of it, assuming their parents were waiting for them outside. On my way home I pass the outdoor cafe on my corner. There they were: the two little boys were sitting at at table by themselves, sipping soda and reading their books. I found their adultness to be endlessly amusing, only in New York! Turning the corner, I give a nod to the Empire State Building, thinking how amazing it is that I have such an icon as a neighbor.

The city herself seems to be celebrating; the parks are alive with tulips and lavender, and the trees lining the streets are covered in cherry blossoms. I notice old temples nestled between the brownstones and storefronts I never seemed to see before. She is singing to me, radiant and beautiful, finally waking from her winter slumber.

Walking through her streets I feel that familiar sense of satisfaction. I feel so full inside, like there is nothing else in the world I need at that moment. I suppose I have every reason to feel that way: my professional life is about to begin, I have amazing friends who think I am capable of anything, my family adores me, I have a great apartment, a bearable job and I live in the most magnificent city in the world. I also have a deep sense that all the things I don't yet have are coming to me. Mostly though, when I wander through New York on a beautiful spring day, I don't feel loneliness is possible.

Spring is a time of change and growth, and I suppose then it is only appropriate that it comes with a little pain. The season of bleeding feet is here and I couldn't be happier.

Through the Looking Glass (or the ER)

Today the powers that be aligned in the hallway outside my office, that's right, the unholy trinity of Little Boss, Middle Boss and Big Boss were united. Looking at them together made the irony of the names I have given them all the more clear. Big Boss is an Athena-like, statuesque woman who towers over the other two. Middle boss is a round, grandma-looking woman, shorter than Big Boss, but significantly taller than the tiny Little Boss. Little Boss is a pocket-sized Latina, who is absolutely adorable with the air of a Chihuahua.

They certainly act-out their persona's to a tee as well. BB knows she is the master of the universe, and to her credit, she is a brilliant, ferocious force to be reckoned with. MB is the petulant middle child, bobbling around without enough power to matter, but enough to cause trouble (which she enjoys doing between her triads against whoever has demonstrated themselves to be "an incompetent idiot" on any particular day). LB is happy and bubbly, like the aforementioned dog, pleasantly wagging her proverbial tail and osculating between BB and MB.

I can't really say I find my stature to be comparable to theirs. I feel taller than MB and LB, but definitely a bit shorter than BB. BB is the only one I take seriously, and even she does not strike fear in my heart. Respect yes, fear no. I suppose I feel rather removed from their trifecta of earnestness. This job has felt like a temp position since I started. When they talk about "My future at the VA" I simultaneously shudder and smirk. No ladies, I will remain like Alice in Wonderland, a girl who happened to fall down the rabbit hole and is just passing through!

On the other side of the looking glass there are many strange creatures; The Trinity, Tweedle dee and Tweedle dumb (I don't quit know which is which, Is the rotund cackler dee and the pervy reject dumb? I think they may be interchangeable.), there is the chain-smoking, food dribbling ogar of an IT supervisor(the only outright hostile woman in the place), and a bevy of other freaks, crazies and lost souls. Because their fate is not my own, they are all completely harmless. I am able to walk through the circus with an amused eye.

I appreciate the fact that I have never had a "normal job". The Army was a complete insane asylum. The restaurant was a political hotbed of felon line cooks, temperamental chefs, coke-head fairies, aspiring artists and down-on-your-luck southerners. RRA was run by the single strangest woman I have ever met and was wrot with delicious madness. The VA makes sense. What would I do in a normal office? I wonder if they even exist. Are there places that are professional and drama free? Maybe not.

As long as I can escape from inside these bizarre worlds, sit back and enjoy the show, I think they will continue to serve as anecdotal souvenirs of this life of mine. The key is seeing the story in the chaos rather than living it and truly immersing yourself in the good.

Who Get’s Custody of the Music?

The question of division of assets comes-up every time a relationship ends. What people often forget about are the shared experiences and memories, who get’s those? I like to claim ownership of all my memories, but today I was reminded of one of the casualties of separation: Music.

I was sitting in the Travel Office with the clerks (tweedle dee and tweedle dumber) and there was old school hip-hop and R&B blaring. While I like this music, I don’t like having anything Blaring while I work. This was more than annoying though, it became emotional torture. Each song made me miss D like crazy, the memories flooding in.

Now, I am very blessed that D is still part of my life, but listening to “his music” or “our songs” felt like having a serrated knife nonchalantly pulled through my chest. This shock of sentiment made me realize that this is something I have been unconsciously avoiding. There will come a time when I can listen to these songs without them breaking my heart, but for now, Hip Hop is dead to me. I wonder if he has had to give-up any of his songs. I somehow doubt it, music is in his soul. I think to him the ownership goes without question, they are all his.

Funny how something so seemingly innocuous can sneak-up and punch you in the gut. I have made a great effort to keep certain things, certain city blocks and restaurants, but this I cannot fight, this will be his until the wound heals. I look forward to the day when those songs can make me smile, fondly remembering. D is a good man and I will always love him, but someday it won’t hurt to do so.

Coming Home to N Y U!

I scheduled a meeting with my advisor today, and in typical Felicia fashion, I ended-up getting lost and arriving late and frazzled. I went to 35 E 4th Street, which was an abandoned building. I circled said building twice before deciding it was the right address, but clearly the wrong place. I did not bring the phone number, because I am a fool, so I wandered and cursed and kept calling 411 until I finally got a hold of a woman who informed me the office was 35 W 4th Street. As I roamed around I kept telling myself “you are the customer, you are the customer”, but it didn’t matter, I still felt like a douche!

Dr. Ray had taken his next appointment early, so I sat down to wait for her time slot. I happily read a pamphlet about the NYU Library food collection, a welcome distraction from my shoddy nerves. After reading it twice, I slipped it into my purse and started flipping through a culinary trade magazine. The receptionist called me back and sent me into his office. He was a handsome Indian man, with whom I was already dually impressed with after reading his bio online. It is rare that smart men I am attracted to on paper actually turn out to be so good looking. I guess today was just one of those days.

I was completely unprepared for the meeting, forgetting the forms containing my student number in my office (and the aforementioned phone number!). He was gracious and said he would see if he could locate my file.

When he left the room, I began running my eyes across the stacks of books and the blasted pictures of children, which I am sure are his (how could this man be single?), but the books are what really caught my eye. Sociology, history, cookbooks, novels, for some reason they made me so quietly ecstatic, so deeply happy I wanted to cry. I suppose it is like seeing home for the first time, you spend so much time imagining it that when it appears in front of you it doesn’t seem possible. My vision of “home” is still a blurred watercolor, but something about those books, all the adventures they represent, they felt like my first glimpse.

My file had not yet arrived from admissions, (I did just get in on Friday!) but he said we could do a broad advisement now anyways. That would allow him to clear my account for registration. I already knew exactly what I was planning on taking, but I coyly said, “Oh, I have a few ideas”. (I didn’t want him to feel like his job wasn’t useful, or that his advising skills were not appreciated).

I explained my choices and he laughed, “You certainly are easy to advise! I suppose that must come from your prior training”. I replied, “I think it comes from all the waiting!” He commented on how difficult it was to get in this semester. He printed me some information on how to register once my account cleared and gave me his business card. He told me that I could write him anytime if I needed help. He would even walk me through the online registration if I needed him to. He then mentioned for the second time how difficult it was to get in to this program this semester and how proud I should be; I just reiterated how excited I was. We said goodbye and I floated out to the elevator and back down to 4th Street.

Walking back toward the VA, I again felt the seemingly permanent smile playing across my face and felt the tears begging to come out of my eyes. This flux of emotion is new and familiar to me, I can’t quite place it.

Back in the good ol’ “mental” hospital, I decided to e-mail Dr. Ray my student number, and let him know what a pleasure it was to meet him. He promptly replied, saying the number would help and that it was his pleasure meeting me today and he looks forward to working with me. That e-mail was followed by a CC to his assistant, asking her to clear my account. I am in Love!

Now it is time to get back to the present, back to discharge rounds tempered with dreams of things yet to come! There has been a shift though, rather than living with possibilities alone, hope is accompanied by anticipation. I got into NYU!!!

Everyone keeps telling me my life is about to change, I have no doubt. The future is bright and therefore backlight, I have no idea what is to come, but I feel like it is going to be beautiful.