Oddities and Obsessions

The bright, vegetal flavor of matcha is reminiscent of the satisfyingly rich, bitter notes of pure dark chocolate. Both of which are an acquired taste. Over time, my taste buds began to crave the grassy notes of the finley milled Japanese green tea powder.

Considering that it's an expensive treat, I've kept it out of my cookies, cake and bread batters (which often require a bit too much then I'd like to spare) and have reserved it for a vanilla rose marshmallow latte, salad dressing & orange blossom tapioca.

As the snow fell like confectioners sugar from the sky yesterday (dusting the ground with glittering flakes), I was inspired to make my way to the stove and whip up a batch of whole wheat pancakes for lunch. I quickly realized that I was out of syrup and thought that a touch of powdered sugar would do the trick.

And then the jar of matcha whispered my name. Just like that I found myself sprinkling delicate sugar from one hand and matcha with the other onto the warm pancake (some powder melting into the pancake to deeply flavor the whole wheat and other bits lingering on top for color).

I've been trying to convince my sons that ramen is good for them. They're both living on their own. They are serious about eating healthily and keeping to a budget. They keep down their costs by avoiding processed foods and fast food joints. They shop at Costco and buy in bulk.

Which is why I've been trying to get them to think about ramen. A package costs under $1.00 and if you make your own soup and add farmers' fresh vegetables, you'll have an economical, nutritious meal.

The problem is when they were kids they ate lots of Cup O'Noodles and Instant Ramen with hot water flavored with artificially flavored soup packets. In no way am I talking about that.

Tracking down a better kind of ramen takes a small amount of work. The local supermarket may only have Top Ramen which is ok but not preferred. If you live in an area with Asian markets, you'll find a wider selection of brands. In Los Angeles, we have Chinese, Vietnamese, Japanese, and (my favorite) Korean markets where there are so many choices there's a ramen aisle.

I am not now nor have I ever been a Girl Scout...mostly for the simple reason that I grew up on the upper west side of Manhattan and it just wasn’t a thing that we did. It wasn’t ever a viable option. I also felt that there would be only one reason to join and that that reason would designate me a traitor. I would not have joined to perform tasks to learn life skills or help humanity, I would have joined to have access to the greatest cookie in the world: The Thin Mint.

About 6 months ago, my boyfriend and I were meeting some friends of his for dinner and drinks at a local restaurant. We were laughing and drinking and having a great night out when he leaned over and apologized for being a bit delayed (he’d been working in Long Island on a restaurant mural and missed an earlier train). He said, “But I brought something to make it up to you.” and opened his bag to reveal the trademark green box.

Without missing a beat- barely even taking a breath- I grabbed my coat, threw money on the table and announced our immediate departure. I did it unconsciously. I could think of nothing but tearing open the plastic sleeve, eating everything inside and basking in the chocolate mint haze that I’m always left in, post cookie feast. I’m a simple girl.

Last night as I was walking out of the 1 train on Christopher Street headed home, I saw out of the corner of my eye an elderly woman with a walker who was asking where to find the PATH train to New Jersey. As I passed, I overheard someone tell her that she had to circle back to 14th Street to connect. Knowing that was wrong and headed to the PATH myself, I looped back and stepped in telling her it was in fact in the other direction, that I was headed that way, and would she like to go with me.

As we very slowly crossed Christopher Street dodging shoppers, drag queens, and people hustling to and fro various holiday celebrations, she told me that we were destined to meet and that I was her "angel sent from heaven." She went on to tell me a string of rambling tales including one about her evil landlord, who was trying to cheat her out of money. The conversation kept getting nuttier as she bounced from topic to topic. She told me that her now deceased husband had contracted polio in La Isla Mujeres "doing the Hemingway thing" and that Mrs. Roosevelt ("not FDR") had offered her a job in Washington, DC; but she did not want to live there. She said that she had been homeless (which I believed) and that her people were aristocracy from Latvia (it was plausible). At one point, she started yelling and screaming about the "Fascists" and I thought to myself, "What I have I gotten into and what am I going to do with her?”