Sometimes I like using gravity to its full advantage. Instead of tensing my arms to carry my heavy grocery bags home I let gravity stretch them downward and I walked as tall as possible down the block and up the stairs. I love the feeling of stretching my muscles so much that I used to overstretch before dance classes and I was so loose that my muscles weren't strong enough to hold my limbs where they were fully able to go.
I love the floor. The harder the floor the better. I can fall asleep faster on the floor than on a soft couch. I cannot go a day without stretching and if I do I feel stiff and slow and tired. I don't know the chemistry behind this but all I know is how I feel. It's like coffee. It wakes me up.
I like that good pain- and you can tell the good from the bad if you're at all in touch with your body. I like to jam a raquet ball in the space between my femur and my pelvis and lean into it- I could do this for hours. My body is somewhat imbalanced due to a recent diagnosis of scoliosis and thus my right leg feels jammed unless I manipulate it. For some reason I can never overstretch this part of my body.
To treat myself I'll go to a Chinese Qi Gong Tui Na parlor for acupressure massage. They'll ask if you like it hard or soft- hard, please. I like it when she digs her elbow in my back, or walks on me with her heels. If I won the lottery I would get a personal masseuse. I don't know if all my tension comes from years of dance and going about my daily life with resistence to my muscles. Probably. Sometimes I wish I could go about things differently like others do, where they don't feel the need to stretch all the time. It's like a drug- I feel better when I do it. But I'm not addicted, am I?
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Secondary
I love easy, comforting foods. Today's lunch was tasty and simple to make: 1/2 a butternut squash (baked with olive oil and a little water in the pan, finished with butter, sea salt and black pepper) with a purple yam and banana rice-milkshake. I'll make something with spinach for dinner to complete the secondary color triangle. Maybe I got too many sugars and starchs in, but a little sugar can be comforting, no? And I need a little comfort after being stabbed by my acupunturist no less than 40 times today. Thank goodness he's giving me a break until Monday. I took my second ballet class in a week and I feel good, despite being a little sore. My nails are holding up, having done them probably a week ago now. I worked a little on some more feather hairpieces for selling at the Astoria Music Now! music festival and open-air market this Saturday and have practiced singing and dance and worked on music for upcoming shows. I should be feeling accomplished but I always feel like it's not enough, like I should be doing more now that I'm not working.
I guess I get nervous when I stop for a second. In this dark and quiet room I pause and think of all that's going on around me in this city- so many people running around and doing things that maybe I feel if I stop and rest I'll not only be missing out but time is ticking away and before I know it, it will be past my bedtime and I'll feel that I didn't do as much as I could have. I need to learn to slow down a little.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
the language of egg corns
I love language and can be a bit of a stickler when it comes to using correct grammar. (I also get this from my mom.) I'm sure I make my share of mistakes but I aim for using grammar correctly whenever possible. A pet peeve of mine is when a place of business has misspellings in their signage: ice tea instead of iced tea, butter roll instead of buttered roll...it's everywhere. When I baked at Rice in Curry Hill I enjoyed the task of writing in chalk on the A-board on the sidewalk every morning, featuring any specials we might have for breakfast. My boss wanted me to write "Healthy Breakfast at Rice" at the top and I could change up the rest. I was stubborn and decided to write it grammatically correct and change that healthy to healthful. The sassy guy who ran the place most mornings was quick to tell me it sounded strange, but I held my ground until my boss told me to change it back. Oh well, lost that battle.
I was checking on the correct usage of the word adieu in a previous post, having seen it written as ado in the past and wondering which one was correct when I came upon this article: http://www.statemaster.com/encyclopedia/Eggcorns
People use language all the time that's incorrect but becomes correct by common use, and I find this fascinating. Don't you?
I was checking on the correct usage of the word adieu in a previous post, having seen it written as ado in the past and wondering which one was correct when I came upon this article: http://www.statemaster.com/encyclopedia/Eggcorns
People use language all the time that's incorrect but becomes correct by common use, and I find this fascinating. Don't you?
vows to myself
Without the daily activity of work, I must put myself to work. So without further adieu, I vow to create something new daily- whether it be a song, a hair accessory, an item of clothing to alter, something to eat that I've never made before, a home improvement, or ?
I will also try to go to bed earlier. Early to bed, early to rise is what my body wants me to do, so I must listen. I do perform late at night in clubs and bars so there will be times that I won't be able to make this happen, but on the days that I don't, sleep is the answer. It's tricky, too, when you have a night owl as a husband but I'm going to set my alarm not only to wake me up but to call me to sleep. Let's see if it works. Tonight's test: 10pm alarm.
I will also try to go to bed earlier. Early to bed, early to rise is what my body wants me to do, so I must listen. I do perform late at night in clubs and bars so there will be times that I won't be able to make this happen, but on the days that I don't, sleep is the answer. It's tricky, too, when you have a night owl as a husband but I'm going to set my alarm not only to wake me up but to call me to sleep. Let's see if it works. Tonight's test: 10pm alarm.
Cooking- thanks to Mom, Jane, Cesar, and Veronica (with props to Mike)
I love food. I probably got this from my mom, who enjoys to be decadent when it comes to food(picture a 3 year-old in her mother's kitchen, finding a stick of warm butter on the counter...oh no, mom's coming! what to do? pop the whole thing in your mouth, of course! mom says, 'what's in your mouth, Janice?' and all you can do is smile, melted butter oozing from the corner of your mouth) yet who on the flip side instilled in me the necessity of a well-balanced meal at every meal. She went through her health food phase (I remember walking down the aisle of the musty-smelling shop listening to The Tide is High by Blondie and looking in all the dry food bins of different grains and colors, then spinning the rack of seed packets beside them) but never cut herself off from a pint of chocolate Haagen Dazs and a chug of extra rich milk almost daily during her pregnancy with one or all of my brothers. Through it all she managed to keep her slim figure (good genes combined with youth and lots of running around chasing kids). I only hope the same fate will be mine when the time comes to have my own little one(s).
I love to make food. I also got started with this thanks to mom again- she let me help her make and bake anything she was working on in the kitchen. We probably made chocolate chip cookies a hundred times but it never got old. I kept the flow going when opportunity arose- my first job working as a barista at The Grind in Oakhurst, CA expanded as the shop did, first with an ice cream parlor addition and then a kitchen in the back. I jumped at the chance to try something new so I happily built up my forearms to scoop hard-packed ice cream in the summer and my biceps to whip eggs as the cook's assistant.
I was very aggressive when it came to work, something that suprised my fellow high school classmates.
This quiet girl who barely says two words to anyone she doesn't know well talks up the owner, Jane, of the only hip cafe in her quiet little tourist town at age 15. Jane tells her she and her husband only hire kids who are 16 and older but the girl coerces them to hire her by her sheer persistence. I can still see Jane shaking her head and smiling. And so this girl learned to make the perfect espresso shot and the trick to making a good milk foam. She popped chocolate covered espresso beans and drank coffee and revelled in the aroma. Harmony and Melanie and Ronnie all thought she was trying to impress the boss by mopping the floor so thoroughly, but really, she enjoyed the work.
It continued on in college when she got a job at Noah's Bagels as a sandwich girl. When Tatum quit (she herself this pint-sized badass with a gravelly voice, probably in her mid-twenties) she again coerced her boss, Cesar, into thinking it was somehow a good idea to train a 19 year-old dance student to bake bagels (not hand-rolled unfortunately- wish I learned that skill- but it still took a lot of steps to make a good bagel from its frozen state). She had to get up when her roomates were still partying and carried keys to the place. She always considered herself a morning person but is 3:30am really morning? Had to tell herself it was or else she'd have a little panic attack...somehow if a friend said 'you work so late!' she'd look at them like they were cross-eyed. She enjoyed the quiet of the mornings and having the place all to herself, allowing her to work at her own pace and listen to the entire Pink album of Sunny Day Real Estate on repeat while I seeding bagels. She was proud of her Popeye arms and her battle wounds- inch-long, thin scars all up the knife edge of her forearms from the baking racks.
Again and again she talked people into believing in her abilities, trusting then that even though she didn't have experience she would learn quickly and eagerly.
Veronica believed in her when she decided to quit waiting tables and try her hand at pastry cooking. A feisty Argentinian femina with long black hair wearing baggy chef's checks cinched with a belt over her petite frame met her in the bar area of Marseille and talked to her about her experience: did you go to school for cooking? no? well, good, I believe in experience over lessons any day. V had the girl make something in the basement kitchen as a test; I think it was her fruit ceviche in a chocolate cup. Much later they were reminded of that first day and she said the girl's hands were shaking but she did a good job. She was hired and learned how to temper chocolate (something I'm still not a pro at) and make caramel and tuiles and clafoutis. She kept a notebook of her daily work following Veronica's lead and it quickly became covered in batters of different sorts. More battle wounds to be proud of.
These jobs were cut short for various reasons- moving, not enough pay, yada yada yada- but she somehow kept going back. It's not easy work and you have to deal with agressive cooks in the kitchen...the biggest hurdle with that situation no matter how you handle it is the fact that you're one of the few females in the kitchen, like it or not. Ask Anthony Bourdain- the kitchen, depite what Betty Draper may tell you, is a man's world. The girl started off dealing with this meekly. She put her head down and got to work. Veronica's style was fierce- she would whip her head around and scream at anyone who made a low comment, and the girl admired her for it. Sometimes it was a little to aggro for her taste and V didn't seems to have many friends in the kitchen, but she didn't really care. She just wanted to make her chocolate peanut butter tart shell and no one was going to get in her way in making it perfect. The tried on her style but realized it wasn't hers. Yelling at the guys just shook her up and made her angry. She tried to go along with their style but the language didn't fit well in her mouth and in the end she was most comfortable when laying low and doing her thing. Cooks came and went and that's when she met her buddy Mike, a line cook and sous chef who would make her tuna with sesame seeds one night when things got slow and foie gras on another night. I'm sure she gained a few pounds at that place. I mean, someone needs to taste the caramel ice cream to make sure it turned out tasty, right?
In between it all I worked with many a kid, starting with my brothers and then neighborhood kids, assisting during jr. high and high school at the elementary school as a class, and various teaching and nannying along the way. It has been a ping pong match of sorts- kids- food- kids- food...the last run was kids for a good stretch...will food be next? No matter what I still have a kitchen at home, even though it is too small for what I try to accomplish in it. It's laughable, really- I become a quiet storm in there, unable to make only one thing at a time (I'm a compulsive multi-tasker at heart and working in any part of a restaurant aids in this compulsion). I dare you to try to enter the kitchen when I'm making something- George has tried and only winds up ducking out. It's a little dangerous in our little city kitchen: last night alone I had a plate of seasoned bread crumbs balanced on the toaster oven, a dish of egg wash teetering on the edge of the sink, stacks of eggplant in various stages of being cooked on our little slip of a counter and the stove top and the trash can lid (ahh! I want more counter space!!) but of course I don't stop there- I had a nagging need to finish rolling my matcha truffles and at the same time baking off the rest of my carrot souffle. I'm a basketcase. And it's time for lunch.
I love to make food. I also got started with this thanks to mom again- she let me help her make and bake anything she was working on in the kitchen. We probably made chocolate chip cookies a hundred times but it never got old. I kept the flow going when opportunity arose- my first job working as a barista at The Grind in Oakhurst, CA expanded as the shop did, first with an ice cream parlor addition and then a kitchen in the back. I jumped at the chance to try something new so I happily built up my forearms to scoop hard-packed ice cream in the summer and my biceps to whip eggs as the cook's assistant.
I was very aggressive when it came to work, something that suprised my fellow high school classmates.
This quiet girl who barely says two words to anyone she doesn't know well talks up the owner, Jane, of the only hip cafe in her quiet little tourist town at age 15. Jane tells her she and her husband only hire kids who are 16 and older but the girl coerces them to hire her by her sheer persistence. I can still see Jane shaking her head and smiling. And so this girl learned to make the perfect espresso shot and the trick to making a good milk foam. She popped chocolate covered espresso beans and drank coffee and revelled in the aroma. Harmony and Melanie and Ronnie all thought she was trying to impress the boss by mopping the floor so thoroughly, but really, she enjoyed the work.
It continued on in college when she got a job at Noah's Bagels as a sandwich girl. When Tatum quit (she herself this pint-sized badass with a gravelly voice, probably in her mid-twenties) she again coerced her boss, Cesar, into thinking it was somehow a good idea to train a 19 year-old dance student to bake bagels (not hand-rolled unfortunately- wish I learned that skill- but it still took a lot of steps to make a good bagel from its frozen state). She had to get up when her roomates were still partying and carried keys to the place. She always considered herself a morning person but is 3:30am really morning? Had to tell herself it was or else she'd have a little panic attack...somehow if a friend said 'you work so late!' she'd look at them like they were cross-eyed. She enjoyed the quiet of the mornings and having the place all to herself, allowing her to work at her own pace and listen to the entire Pink album of Sunny Day Real Estate on repeat while I seeding bagels. She was proud of her Popeye arms and her battle wounds- inch-long, thin scars all up the knife edge of her forearms from the baking racks.
Again and again she talked people into believing in her abilities, trusting then that even though she didn't have experience she would learn quickly and eagerly.
Veronica believed in her when she decided to quit waiting tables and try her hand at pastry cooking. A feisty Argentinian femina with long black hair wearing baggy chef's checks cinched with a belt over her petite frame met her in the bar area of Marseille and talked to her about her experience: did you go to school for cooking? no? well, good, I believe in experience over lessons any day. V had the girl make something in the basement kitchen as a test; I think it was her fruit ceviche in a chocolate cup. Much later they were reminded of that first day and she said the girl's hands were shaking but she did a good job. She was hired and learned how to temper chocolate (something I'm still not a pro at) and make caramel and tuiles and clafoutis. She kept a notebook of her daily work following Veronica's lead and it quickly became covered in batters of different sorts. More battle wounds to be proud of.
These jobs were cut short for various reasons- moving, not enough pay, yada yada yada- but she somehow kept going back. It's not easy work and you have to deal with agressive cooks in the kitchen...the biggest hurdle with that situation no matter how you handle it is the fact that you're one of the few females in the kitchen, like it or not. Ask Anthony Bourdain- the kitchen, depite what Betty Draper may tell you, is a man's world. The girl started off dealing with this meekly. She put her head down and got to work. Veronica's style was fierce- she would whip her head around and scream at anyone who made a low comment, and the girl admired her for it. Sometimes it was a little to aggro for her taste and V didn't seems to have many friends in the kitchen, but she didn't really care. She just wanted to make her chocolate peanut butter tart shell and no one was going to get in her way in making it perfect. The tried on her style but realized it wasn't hers. Yelling at the guys just shook her up and made her angry. She tried to go along with their style but the language didn't fit well in her mouth and in the end she was most comfortable when laying low and doing her thing. Cooks came and went and that's when she met her buddy Mike, a line cook and sous chef who would make her tuna with sesame seeds one night when things got slow and foie gras on another night. I'm sure she gained a few pounds at that place. I mean, someone needs to taste the caramel ice cream to make sure it turned out tasty, right?
In between it all I worked with many a kid, starting with my brothers and then neighborhood kids, assisting during jr. high and high school at the elementary school as a class, and various teaching and nannying along the way. It has been a ping pong match of sorts- kids- food- kids- food...the last run was kids for a good stretch...will food be next? No matter what I still have a kitchen at home, even though it is too small for what I try to accomplish in it. It's laughable, really- I become a quiet storm in there, unable to make only one thing at a time (I'm a compulsive multi-tasker at heart and working in any part of a restaurant aids in this compulsion). I dare you to try to enter the kitchen when I'm making something- George has tried and only winds up ducking out. It's a little dangerous in our little city kitchen: last night alone I had a plate of seasoned bread crumbs balanced on the toaster oven, a dish of egg wash teetering on the edge of the sink, stacks of eggplant in various stages of being cooked on our little slip of a counter and the stove top and the trash can lid (ahh! I want more counter space!!) but of course I don't stop there- I had a nagging need to finish rolling my matcha truffles and at the same time baking off the rest of my carrot souffle. I'm a basketcase. And it's time for lunch.
Chops
Work makes you lazy. I know that sounds like somewhat of a contradiction but hear me out. You foggily wake up, stretch, drink coffee, watch the weather and In The Papers, take a shower, get dressed, get ready and get going, all to prepare your mind and body for work. You might like your job sometimes but it's not without it's stresses and you vow to never take it home with you but you usually do and then you find yourself staying up too late (again) in hopes to have accomplished something in your day that you truly enjoy. You wind up watching the tail-end of American Idol and fall asleep on the couch.
I find that in my busy-ness I become lazy when it comes to my art. I bought myself a creative-work desk, telling myself I would be more inclined to tackle that bag full of sewing projects sitting in my closet once I got it. I leave my bass out instead of hanging it up on the hook mounted on the wall, telling myself I'll run through some el jezel songs and write a new one when I get home. I have a drawer full of paints and paper and feathers and rhinestones, all calling my name, wanting me to make something out of them. I gotta eat, so I go home and make 'kitchen sink whatever' so that I can use up all the leftovers, but that recipe for carrot souffle is still sitting in the recipe holder, giving me Bambi eyes.
Summer vacation took forever to get here and now it is here, thank the stars above. Since I work as an independent contractor of sorts I won't get paid until I've been rehired somewhere, and that hasn't happened yet. But I'm not too worried about it. Actually, I'm conciously ignoring it. And so my summer began with a lag, me trying to shake off the remaining school year without looking back. Every day is different, so that's a start. I'm not in a pattern yet of honing any chops consistently but I am doing at least one creative thing daily. My body is a little angry because it functions best when I give it a pattern of waking- eating- exercising- doing but I console it with a little bit at a time, showing it what is to come.
And so, since I do best with deadlines, I am giving myself some. I will create posts about each creative outlet separately and update them based on my achievements. It took me a month to motivate myself to do something like this but better late than never, right?
Now, time to start honing.
I find that in my busy-ness I become lazy when it comes to my art. I bought myself a creative-work desk, telling myself I would be more inclined to tackle that bag full of sewing projects sitting in my closet once I got it. I leave my bass out instead of hanging it up on the hook mounted on the wall, telling myself I'll run through some el jezel songs and write a new one when I get home. I have a drawer full of paints and paper and feathers and rhinestones, all calling my name, wanting me to make something out of them. I gotta eat, so I go home and make 'kitchen sink whatever' so that I can use up all the leftovers, but that recipe for carrot souffle is still sitting in the recipe holder, giving me Bambi eyes.
Summer vacation took forever to get here and now it is here, thank the stars above. Since I work as an independent contractor of sorts I won't get paid until I've been rehired somewhere, and that hasn't happened yet. But I'm not too worried about it. Actually, I'm conciously ignoring it. And so my summer began with a lag, me trying to shake off the remaining school year without looking back. Every day is different, so that's a start. I'm not in a pattern yet of honing any chops consistently but I am doing at least one creative thing daily. My body is a little angry because it functions best when I give it a pattern of waking- eating- exercising- doing but I console it with a little bit at a time, showing it what is to come.
And so, since I do best with deadlines, I am giving myself some. I will create posts about each creative outlet separately and update them based on my achievements. It took me a month to motivate myself to do something like this but better late than never, right?
Now, time to start honing.
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