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Saturday Night Fever……

What do these three things have in common, furniture found on the street, food on the verge of going bad and a pratfall?

Don’t worry, I’ll tell you.

My weekly food planning strategy is stupid at best. I always eat whatever takes the least effort first, this is also  the stuff that takes longer to rot. So my strategy is really abject laziness, procrastination and counterintuitive behavior. Last week I ate sweet potatoes for three days in a row. Then I ate the vegetables that I could stir fry quickly red peppers, onions and mushrooms, while the butternut squash and broccoli sat in the refrigerator getting old. I am too lazy to roast broccoli. I should win an award for that.

I got up Saturday morning and realized I was on the verge of wasting a bunch of food. So, naturally I started cooking immediately. Hahaha, don’t be silly… I cleaned the house, washed my hair and wrote. Then I tried to take an online class on SEO.  The class was so boring, my ADD kicked into high gear. When I snapped to, I found myself in a trance watching early 80’s music videos. The SEO video was still playing in the background.

And it’s 11:30pm

Cooking, I must get to cooking.

I started by making rice, because I was having stir fry for dinner. Then I sautéed the vegetables for the butternut squash soup. Eventually, I threw all the ingredients for the soup in the crock pot and turned it on.

I used a new recipe for the biscuits. It didn’t really work, but I ate five of them right of the oven. No need for stir fry any more.

Then I got a genius idea for the roasted broccoli. I would make a spice rub for it. I started toasting the Kashmiri chili and salt.  I threw in the garlic for a quick second. I should of watched it, but I wandered over to the linen closet to get a kitchen towel. It started to smoke. I ran over and turned off the stove. Then I ran to the other side of the kitchen jumped on the chair to open the window. I struggled for awhile, but I finally got it open. When I went to dismount from the chair, the chair wobbled, because I found it on the street and it’s not really stable. It just looks nice. So instead of sticking my landing, I fell flat on my side. 1:30 in the morning, lying on the ground stunned and it’s still smokey. I don’t want the alarm to go off, so I jump up and turn on the air conditioner.

I sit for a minute on the couch, contemplating whether I want to continue or give up. I need to take an Advil, the fall will not go unpunished.

I eventually persevere, rub the broccoli with the spice rub and put it in the oven. It’s very late, so naturally I call Anand. We play phone tag, because my phone has been unable to receive phone calls. I turn off the air conditioner, because it’s too loud and it’s October. Anand and I finally catch each other. Then….

Fire, Fire, Fire the fire alarm calls out in a calm slightly English accent. Its affected really. If a fire alarm is going to talk I want it to scream in shrill tones. FIREEEEEEEE!!!! I guess it’s better to get the weirdly calm English lady at 2am.

Smoke poured from the oven, because I put the broccoli on wax paper, because I didn’t want to wash the cookie sheet. Now, I am the asshole cooking at 2am. My neighbors must think I am drunk, but the broccoli was amazing.

1 Head of Broccoli

2 TBSP of Kashmiri Chili Powder

2 Cloves of Garlic Minced

Sea Salt

Olive Oil

Pre heat oven to 425. Wash broccoli and cut end off. (Don’t buy broccoli florets.) You want to cut the head of broccoli into long florets, like two inches long. Chop the garlic. Get a small skillet, put the Kashmiri chili powder and salt in the dry skillet on low. Toss the chili and salt around the skillet to release the oils. It only needs a couple of minutes and you need to babysit it. Then throw in the garlic, cook just so it becomes warm and then pour in olive oil. You need enough oil to make a slightly runny paste.

I am lazy and don’t like to wash dishes, so I pour the paste on my cookie sheet and toss the broccoli in the spice mixture with my hands. You can do it in a bowl with utensils, but if you do it my way, do not put your hands anyway near your face until you wash them thoroughly. Put the broccoli in the oven for 20 minutes or so. You want the broccoli still crunchy, with a little char. Eat with your hands. If it’s too spicy dip the broccoli in some Greek yogurt.

Out of Shape

Move you’ve got to move, move. Run, Run, Run!!!

I am admittedly out of shape. Ten years in a high stress newsroom with an unlimited candy supply has made me a little soft around the edges. Also, in my former neighborhood, I had an addiction to cabs. My cab rides became a social thing, as I became friendly with the drivers. It was a way of keeping my hand on the pulse of the neighborhood. This is what I told myself anyway.

When I left the job in May, I decided I was going to be a little less soft around the edges. My current neighborhood is perfect place to tone up. In Washington Heights everything is either up or down a hill. My little legs were going to be tone in no time. Well, maybe not no time. The first week away from the job I went out to get groceries and as I was hauling them back up the hill, an old woman with a walker threatened to pass me. I wasn’t having it, so I sped up and lapped her. I am not going to be fitness shamed by an octogenarian with a walker. Petty…

Unlike my candy addiction, my fitness goals are not something I stick to. I have weeks I walk everyday and other weeks I sit on my couch ordering mofongo. As I sit in my shameful, carbed out coma, I promise tomorrow will be better and then it isn’t.

The other day, I was rushing to get to the post office before it closed. I still haven’t conquered my lateness, so I got a Lyft down the hill. The only way I could justify taking a cab, was to promise myself that I had to walk the long way home through Fort Tryon Park. I made it to the post office with just two minutes to spare, but I made it, handled my business. As I was leaving the post office, I looked longingly at the short cut and then I made myself cross the street towards the park.

Once at the park, there is an easy route and one that is basically like climbing Mount Everest. I decided to take Mount Everest. Fitness will be mine!!!! As I am climbing, I pass two teenagers making out. They stop and stare because I am breathing heavily and sweating profusely. I hadn’t even come to the first fork in the path and I wanted to quit. I kept going, sweating and cursing under my breath.

A few minutes later, I reach the first fork. I pause and pretend I am not sure which way to go. I put on my confused face, so if I encounter anyone, they will think, “Oh, she’s lost.” Not, “Oh the little beggar is out of shape.”  I regain my breath, a little, and continue. My heavy breathing starts back up as the incline gets increasingly sharp. My body is contorted into a 45 degree angle as I climb. I see a man in his 60’s power walking down the hill in an 80’s parachute track suit.  Clearly he is in better shape than I and is smiling as he power walks. My face looks like someone is beating me. As we get close to each other, he says.

Man: MOVE! You’ve got to move, move.

He marches in place as he shouts words of encouragement. I am embarrassed obviously. My charade is blown. My own personal charade, no one else was fooled.

Me: I am going

Man: Run Run!!!!

Me:Yes got it.

His encouragement is annoying now, so I haul ass up the rest of the hill. I hear him screaming Move, Move as I turn the corner. I guess his plan worked. He embarrassed me enough, that I ran up the hill. I almost collapsed at the top, but I didn’t.

I walked the rest of the way home, slowly. As a reward for my efforts, I ordered mofongo. This fitness thing may never be mine.

 

Rasputin and Annie

The first day I went to work from new apartment, I ran into Rasputin and Annie on the subway platform. I was standing at the end underneath some water damage, when I looked to my left. There was an early thirtiesh couple walking towards me. The man, Rasputin, was skinny, pale, had a Rasputinesque beard and long stringy brown hair.   He was wearing a vintage leather trench coat, jeans and a floppy newsboy cap. He looked like the 70’s version of Rasputin.  Annie, his girlfriend, was dressed like Diane Keaton in Annie Hall.  High waisted pants, a silk blouse with high neckline and a leather vest. Her pants were rolled to the top of her granny boots.

They stopped just past me on the platform. I kept one eye on them, while we waited, because Rasputin had weird jerky movements. He was moving way too much for a Monday morning.  The train came and I got on through the second door and they got on at the next.  The car was basically empty, but Rasputin ran in frantically, stood in the aisle and stared at the empty seats.  His eyes were moving back and forth analyzing every open seat. He was paralyzed by all the choices. This is very strange behavior for a New Yorker, because we all have a favorite seat on the subway. I like a window seat facing backwards. When normal New Yorkers get on the subway and see their favorite seat is empty, they quickly put their derriere in it. There is no standing around gaping. Gaping is for tourists. I got tired of waiting for Rasputin to resolve the crisis in his head, so I chose the backward facing window seat to his right. He gave me a look like I cheated him and I gave him a look like “Oh well.” Rasputin and Annie sat across the aisle from me giggling the whole way. I put on my headphones and wrote.

The car filled to capacity at the next stop and remained at capacity all the way to 59th street, my stop. As we were pulling into the station, I gathered my stuff and started to think about making my way through the crowd. Rasputin started pushing his way to the doors while the train was still moving. He crawled over people’s legs, pushed past the people holding the poles creating confusion and annoying everyone along the way. When the doors opened he frantically ran out of the subway car. But, when he got to the middle of the platform he seemed confused. He started walking one way and then suddenly came back in the other direction.  He looked like he was participating in a modern dance performance because he kept going back and forth down the platform with really exaggerated movements. He was sort of leaping and flailing his arms. I was completely fascinated, but I needed to get to work.  I ran upstairs and headed for the escalator.  As I was riding up, Rasputin ran past me with confidence.  Unfortunately the confidence was not to last, because when I got to the top, he was confused again. He had gone in the wrong direction and come back.  I passed him on the sidewalk trying to work it out. I normally help lost people on the street, but Rasputin’s problems seemed more extensive than a quick, “Hey go straight and then make a left at the next block.”

Rasputin and Annie have become regulars in my life.  Rasputin continues to struggle with directions at 59th street.

Swap Meet Rage

When I was six, I had my first bout with rage. I was made fun of pretty frequently by adults and children alike. My mother and father told me to just ignore it, keep walking, pretend you don't hear it. I became very skilled at keeping a straight face. My brother Chris, rarely ignored the taunting. His rage and physical brawn scared a lot of kids away. School was not so bad in the beginning.

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Semi-Professional Paparazzi

You may not believe it but the paparazzi struck again.  This time a professional, well a semi-professional, he has a business card (see above.)  I met Ken walking to the subway, one morning.  Morning punctuality is not a skill I will ever lay claim to, so I was rushing as always.  I was on the home stretch and in real danger of being on time and that’s when Ken’s SUV rolled up on me.  His car pulled up right next to me, but I kept moving with my head forward giving him the sideeye to check his distance.  (No one is going to make a Lifetime movie about me.)  Ken leaned out of his window, but I kept walking without acknowledging him.  Ken slowed down some more and started yelling Hey, Hey.  I kept my pace up and refused to look directly at him.
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My Paparazzi

Occasionally random people decide they must have a picture of me. It feels like I am being followed by paparazzi.  They appear out of nowhere with their phones, sometimes hiding behind poles, sometimes blatantly flashing in my face.  I assume they need the photos to show their friends, because I am not famous (yet.)  I don’t understand the compulsion to take pictures of me getting toilet paper at Walgreens or looking haggard on the subway.  But as my mother always says, there is no accounting for taste.
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The Other One

I share my body with another person.  Well, she’s actually a monster that takes control in the morning.  My parents met her when I started pre-school.   Morning always began with one of them standing beside the bed calling my name sweetly “Cara, Cara, Cara time to get up.”  When I didn’t move, they added a gentle shoulder tap to their effort.  I still didn’t budge, so they resorted to mild shaking.  Eventually, the shaking worked and the monster woke, crying wildly.  My poor parents tried to have a rational discussion with me, but I was asleep and the monster was incapable of being rational.  After a considerable period of the monster’s hysterics, my parents gave up and dressed me while I was lying down.

In grade school, the monster adapted and turned the morning routine into a game, a competition if you will. Her strategy was to stay quiet and hit the snooze button as fast as she could. The hope was they’d forget about us.  Judi and Sid (my parents) never did.

My dad started the game every morning with a wake up call.

Dad: Cara it’s time to get up.
Monster: Uh Huh
Dad: The next time I pass by your room, you better be moving.
Monster: Uh Huh
Dad: I’m serious, the next time I pass by your room, I better hear some movement or you are in trouble.

The monster saw my father’s ultimatum as a challenge and responded with the “Fake Out” (Sit up in bed while my dad passed and then immediately lie back down.)

Enter my Mom, signaling the counting portion of the competition.  Judi is known for having her share of issues with the morning.  So, while she rushed frantically to dress herself, she screamed numbers across the hall as forceful encouragement.

Mom: Cara you have until three to get out of that bed. One….Two…Three. Get Up, Are you Up?
Monster: “Uh huh, I’m up , I’m Up.” (I wasn’t up.)
Mom: I don’t hear any feet on the ground.
Monster: I’m getting dressed on my bed.

Time Out:
My parents had a short strategy session in their bedroom.  This bought me and the monster another minute of uninterrupted sleep.

Mom: I don’t think she’s up.
Dad: Of course she’s not up. I’m going in there!!! (The final escalation)

My father stormed across the hall yelling threats.

Dad: I’m coming in there!!!! You better be up or else you are in deep trouble!!!!
Monster: Zzzzzzzzzzzzz (The monster held her ground and laid there motionless.)

Angered by the lump in the shape of his daughter, my dad ripped off the covers and forced the window shades to the ceiling.  While the shades were flying up, the monster pulled the covers back over our head. When my father turned around and saw the monster unmoved by his dramatic play, he flew into a no holds barred freak out, yelling threats at the top of his lungs.   The threats quickly turned to full grounding; life would be limited to school, homework and reading.  Realizing she had been defeated, the monster dressed us as fast as a lump could. (It was like watching paint dry, but at least we were vertical.)  This was our morning routine through high school.

In college the monster adapted again and was now a foul-mouthed old man.  On our own, I, not the monster, was responsible for getting us up.  She got up begrudgingly, although there were times she forced us to skip morning classes.  All my friends and roommates knew it was best not to acknowledge me until couple hours after we got up. They were never quite sure what would come out of my mouth.

After college, my friend Reuben and I lived together.  He too, has a morning monster. But, our monsters had an understanding that talking was not permitted before work. Grunting was our sole communication tool. As a result, our monsters co-existed for three years, with only a few minor conflicts.

I live alone now and that’s probably best for everyone.  After all these years, the monster has not changed, so I guess this is it.  I am tied to her for the rest of my life.

A couple of days ago, an unlucky woman had the misfortune of meeting the monster.  We were walking down the subway steps as the woman was walking up.  She stopped and stared when she saw us. Since the monster is not visible, I can only guess she was staring because of my height.  The woman began to point and laugh.  Monster, who was still in control of all my major functions, turned to her and said “@*$& @#$%$ @#%$@# you bad wig wearin #*&!##$.”  The woman was stunned into silence and frankly so was I.  But, the train was pulling into the station, so I had no time to apologize for the monster’s outburst. We quickly ran down the rest of the steps, leaving the woman to pick her bottom lip off the ground.

If you encounter us in the morning, please remember, I am not in control, she is.