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Happy Mother’s Day! Screw cooking. Start sipping.
Those clever folks at Papyrus must have had me in mind!
As we enter the season of Hallmark holidays — those inauthentic, soulless, made-up occasions we all scoff at, but will curse our nearest and dearest for overlooking — please accept this gentle Mother’s Day reminder, and be sure to send a heartfelt card, a lovely plant or a case of champagne to all the deserving mothers, grandmothers, wives and daughters in your life.
If you don’t have any of the aforementioned, feel free to rouse yourself from your sofa-induced stupor and send the champagne to me. One bottle per hour of labor seems appropriate. Mine went on for approximately 18, and I still recall every agonizing, nauseating, humiliating second as if it were yesterday — unflattering fluorescent lighting, insufficient quantities of narcotics and random interns in me to the elbow. What a day that was!
Astute reader Lora Robins sourced and sent along the lovely slattern-inspired Mother’s Day card pictured above, which features the touching inscription I lifted for the title of this post. Thanks, Lora! I was so moved, I went straight to the liquor cabinet, retrieved the ingredients for my favorite champagne cocktail, popped the bubbly and started the party early!
So without further ado, here’s my recipe of choice for this year’s day of recognition and relaxation. As I dislike excessively sweet drinks, I use far less sugar than is usual in a champagne cocktail. Most recipes call for a cube per drink, but I just use a suspicion of simple syrup instead, though sometimes I skip it altogether, as the Grand Marnier is quite sweet. You’ll do as you like.
The Slattern’s Champagne Cocktail
Into each flute, pour:
1 tsp simple syrup (more or less to taste)
2 dashes Angostura Bitters, or similar
1 ounce Grand Marnier
Slosh the ingredients around to mix, then fill each flute with the ice-cold, dry champagne of your choice. I like Gruet from New Mexico. It’s tasty enough to drink on its own, but not so expensive that it you feel guilty mixing it with something. Garnish with a festive orange slice, maraschino cherry or both.
Let the wild rumpus begin!
You’re from away, aren’t ya?
Your guide to vacationing in Maine this summer
Eat in or take out!
It was recently brought to my attention that in my last post, Welcome to New York! Now get out of my way, I may have come across as a bit, how shall I say, strident. Some might even say elitist or xenophobic. I don’t know, I’ll leave the choice of adjective to you. In any case, in the interest of fair play (and as part of my ongoing commitment to tourist safety), I’m taking the quite possibly unprecedented step of rebutting myself on this one with some advice for New Yorkers who plan to visit the great state of Maine this summer. Why? Well, for one thing Maine has fairly “relaxed” gun laws, and those objects you see bisecting the rear windows of pickup trucks are not golf-club racks.
Welcome to New York!
Now get out of my way.
Tourists II by Duane Hanson.
It’s ART, folks.
Like virtually every member of my extended family, many of you, I’m sure, maintain a firm “no New York” policy when it comes to vacation travel; however, for the intrepid souls who are considering venturing forth to the metropolis now that the tourist season is officially upon us, I have some advice. First-timers should pay particular attention. This is insider stuff you won’t find in any guide book, no matter what the cover claims.
Disclaimer/qualifications: Please note, I am not a native New Yorker, but a transplant. Most of the people who live here are. I have, however, resided in the city continuously since 1989 and in that time have called both Manhattan and Brooklyn home. Over the years, I have cultivated more than a passing acquaintance with the city’s museums, restaurants, bars, emergency rooms and (better) trial attorneys, so when I tell you this is inside stuff, you can believe it.
First let me say, welcome tourists. You may think New Yorkers are brusque, standoffish, even rude, and you may be right, but please know we do appreciate your visits, and more importantly the dollars, euros, pounds and yuan you spend, give away and are unlawfully relieved of from the moment you arrive until the second you leave. You are our piggy banks, our income stream, our cash cows, and we know it. So when we jostle you on the street, shove you into a subway car, or scream at you to get the fuck out of the way at the top of the escalator at Saks, think of it not as rudeness, but as our way of saying “howdy friend!” We are like the nippy border collies whose sole aim is to ensure the safety of the herd. If on occasion we have to take a chunk out of your ankles, rest assured it’s for your own protection and well being.
Imagine the sheep with little fanny packs and you get the idea.
Via ourworldofdogs.com.
Since we are on the subject of herding, I’d like to offer a few tips for safely navigating around the city while you are here. If I may.
GET THE LEAD OUT. PLEASE.
On the sidewalks, especially on weekdays, you must get out of first gear. This is particularly important if you are strolling en masse as a family or friendly group of fifteen. Like an interstate highway, the streets of New York have a minimum speed at which it is safe to travel. Unless you’re blind, wheelchair-bound or towing an oxygen tank, this applies to you. As a group, New Yorkers are hopelessly late, massively over-scheduled and chronically underfed, all of which makes us rather cranky and subject to fits of pique, so you’d be well advised to keep it moving. Dawdling, shambling, shuffling and strolling will get you injured. It’s not that difficult. Think of it as a matter of pride — do you really want to eat the dust of a scrawny little old lady in three inch heels as you shamble along in your Sauconys? Alright then.
STAY OFF THE SUBWAY UNLESS YOU KNOW HOW TO USE IT
Though safe for travel at most hours of the day or night, the subway is the native’s domain. We rely on it to get to work or cross-town meetings on time when traffic is hopelessly snarled (which is every day), if it’s raining and there are no cabs, or when we’re low on funds. As such, we are seldom at our best below ground. So if you take nothing else away from our little chat, please remember this: Step into the subway car and continue to the interior. Do NOT step in, stop and gaze in wonderment at the vast expanses of space, the lounging street people or the guy wearing the tinfoil hat, hip waders and a thong. There is nothing more infuriating than having the subway doors close in front of us because some rube is pondering whether to turn left or right, or worse, is completely oblivious to the six people trying to force their way past him. We will shove, curse and elbow you if need be, and by the way, we know the difference between tourists and natives. Like Joe Pesci in the deep south, most of you do not blend.
.
Ride with pride. Via destination-store.com.
TRAVEL SAFELY
On one of these. Sure they’re ridiculous, but they’ll get you anywhere you want to go and keep you securely above both the ground and the fray. We love them for just that reason and would thank you for riding on them if we had time to chat and you weren’t careening down Broadway ten feet above our heads.
CLUSTER IN YOUR SPECIAL AREAS
It’s for your own good. There are certain corners of New York City where people who live here never go: the Statue of Liberty, the Empire State building and Times Square are the most notable. If you visit any of these wonderful sites, you are unlikely to be shoved by angry office workers, berated by frustrated shoppers or otherwise hassled by the natives, because we aren’t there. Believe me, my neighbors and I will walk ten blocks out of our way to avoid Times Square, not because we don’t like you, but because trying to move along 42nd Street is akin to swimming through cold molasses, and as mentioned, we are generally in a hurry. And cranky. The only New Yorkers you’ll see in these locations want to sell you something, and as such have a vested interest in being accommodating and pleasant. As Fran Lebowitz observed of Times Square, “We built it for you.” Too true.
Party on. It’s all yours.
Via Trip Advisor.
There is one place it’s entirely safe to visit, where you will see New Yorkers in their natural habitat and need not worry about your pace or placement: Central Park. It’s the only area of the city with enough space to accommodate all of us and all of you, where we tend to slow down and relax, to stop and smell the roses as it were. So take a carriage ride, rent a boat or photograph yourselves at the Angel Fountain to your hearts’ content. But please, keep it moving on the paths.
Slattern Bright and Dark
Carbohydrate deprivation at the ragged edge of sanity.
Oh goody, salad AGAIN!
Courtesy Nick Saltmarsh @ flickr.com.
It’s been two weeks since a barbecued potato chip, a buttery baked potato or half a chocolate cherry cheesecake found its way to my plate. Beer is but a distant memory, and wine is scarcer than, well, bread and potatoes. The numbers on the scale are slowly falling, my jeans are showing signs they might one day loosen their vise-like grip on my southern hemisphere, and my ass no longer hits the sofa a full minute before the rest of me — it’s probably more like 30 seconds, though it’s hard to remember to count when you’re collapsing from hunger and exhaustion. Nonetheless, visions of filmy summer frocks and strappy tank tops skitter merrily before the mind’s eye, and I have even entertained the occasional mad thought of frolicking sarong-less on the beach come August. Yes indeed, I am on my way to becoming a diet success story.
Provided I don’t kill someone first.
Anybody really, but I would have to say that the person with a large chocolate eclair in hand is in far greater danger than say, somebody sipping a blameless cup of nasty green tea. I don’t even want to think about what I might do for a Singapore Sling at this point. Consider yourselves warned.
Why is this woman smiling? Well it’s not because she’s had a decent meal in recent memory.
Life on the straight and narrow, I am finding, has all the charm of hard time at Betty Ford with catering by Gwyneth Paltrow. Now I know why she always has that pinched look — she’s hungry every goddamned minute of every god forsaken day. By all appearances the only things Gwynnie’s filling that gob with are mung beans, lettuce shards and air. This is not a meal plan that brings out the best in anyone, I can assure you. It certainly does, however, bring out the thoracic skeletal structure. I, unfortunately, run no such risk.
Now I have lost and regained enough weight to insulate the skeletons of at least four or five brand new, well-fed adults in my lifetime. The dieting process is nothing new, but let me tell you it does not get easier with age. Still, if like me, you embark upon a dietary clean-up with optimistic goals of achieving glowing health, physical perfection and emotional equilibrium by embracing a healthier regime, you are setting yourself up for disappointment and frustration. Better, in my view, to accept that replacing the foods you like with healthy, non-fattening items will be about as pleasurable as a mandatory NPR marathon. Sure it’s edifying and makes you feel all superior and plugged in at first, but after about three hours you know you’d rather be watching the Stooges while working your way through a two-pound bag of Oreos, a bag of Doritos and a case of Coronas.
So in the interest of full disclosure, I would like to disabuse you of a few of the myths surrounding weight loss.
1. Salad is filling.
It is not. Not even a little. You could spend three days at an all you can eat salad bar and you’d still be jonesing for a breadstick. Sure you can eat all the greens you like, but who the hell wants to eat a plate of greens instead of a burger and fries?
2. Salad is satisfying.
It’s about as satisfying as it is filling. Unless of course it’s covered in bleu cheese, croutons and hangar steak. THAT is a meal.
Courtesy of the high dieter. Perfect.
3. Diet/low fat treats are a good replacement for regular treats.
Probably the biggest load of bullshit since Bill Clinton straightened us out about Monica. In fact, to take the comparison one step further, eating one Skinny Cow is about as satisfying as giving an unreciprocated blow job. In my experience all one Skinny Cow leads to is another Skinny Cow, and pretty soon you’re sitting in front of the freezer, bloated and sick, with nondairy stains all over the front of your dress and an empty ice cream sandwich six pack clutched in your sticky hands.
4. After a week or so you’ll stop craving sugary treats/potato chips/cheese doodles/french fries.
Oh ferchrissakes, as my sainted Grandpa Harvey used to say, if that was the case we’d all be slender. You will never pass a bakery or a McDonald’s without feeling an adrenaline rush that is not unlike a great whacking jolt of ECT, or so I am told.
5. You can have a few drinks and still lose weight.
Really? Does anyone buy that? Here’s how it works, children. One glass of wine leads to another glass of wine (see above, Skinny Cows). Two glasses lead to three and so on, and eventually you’re lying on the living room floor with a pint of Phish Food and a serving spoon, wondering if it’s too late to order in a pepperoni pizza which would be delicious with that bottle of chianti you’ve been saving for company.
6. Whole grains taste better than refined ones.
Sure they do. If you like eating mealy cardboard. There’s a reason white rice and bread were historically reserved for the wealthy — they taste better. That Ezekial bread you’re chomping on requires toasting and at least half a cup of butter to be even remotely palatable, whereas a warm hunk of a crusty baguette delights the tastebuds all on its own, completely naked and utterly nude. Add a suspicion of salted butter and a dollop of cherry jam, and you have what I used to think of as breakfast.
7. Skim or low fat milk is acceptable in coffee.
I’m not even going to dignify that with a response.
So why do it? Why not just embrace your God given right to be ample? Well, it’s costly to buy new clothes every year and depressing to have to gaze at yourself in a changing room mirror for more than ten seconds. And looking like the Michelin man in a bikini is more upsetting than you might think. So when you’re waffling on your diet or feeling tempted by the pastry cart, try this:
Would you pass me a carrot stick please?
“I did NOT have musical relations with that disco band”
Confession can be good for the soul, man
Our Father, the King via mattstone.blogs.com
Forgive me Father Elvis, for I have sinned. It’s been thirty-five years — give or take — since my last confession, and as such I can’t really tell you how many times I’ve slipped or exactly what I’ve done. Given the timeframe we’re dealing with here, it’s probably safe to assume I’ve committed all of the seven deadlies at least once, though I’m pleased to report I’ve been almost completely mortal sin-free since we last spoke. True, I’ve been a little lax on the blasphemy front, but otherwise I think I’m pretty solid.
What’s that? Specifics? Well OK, if you insist.
Rack ’em and stack ’em. We don’t need no iPod. Via vinmag.com.
I’d just like to begin by saying that I started out really well. The Sixties were chockablock with great music, and my parents were young and hip. We even had a big old stereo with lots of records – Yourself, the Stones, the Kinks, the Beatles, Little Richard, Chuck Berry, a little soul, a smattering of R&B. The usual. Tasteful, interesting stuff. Hard to say how I strayed from the garden path.
I guess I’d have to say my most frequent transgressions have been the singers who can’t sing. It started innocently enough with Bob Dylan: Mr. Tambourine Man, Blowin’ in the Wind, Highway 61 — you remember, don’t you? He’d scratch that guitar and wheeze into his harmonica and we all thought it sounded, well not exactly good, but cool. By the time we got to Blonde on Blonde, everybody was hooked. From there it wasn’t much of a trip to buying Neil Young records. Hell, after that, Tom Petty sounded just fine, and Bono seemed kind of smooth. I know it looks bad (and sounds even worse), but in my own defense, I’d like to point out that that Robbie Robertson album was a one-shot deal and I never even considered buying anything recorded by Bjork. That’s got to count for something.
What’s that, sir? More? Yeah, there’s more, and since we’re both already here, I guess we should talk about the Eighties. You know, it wasn’t all New Wave pablum. I did go to several Ramones shows, and I saw The Pretenders more than once. I also seem to recall an Eric Clapton/Muddy Waters double bill, but the details from that particular night are a little hazy. I know you’ll understand where I’m coming from on that.
Not even a SNIFF of this in my past. Via electronic80s.blogspot.com
Pardon? Depeche Mode? Aw c’mon man, I was living in England at the time and given the omnipresence of Top of the Pops it could have been a lot worse. You do remember Culture Club? How about Rick Astly? Never even got near either one. No, I think my little flirtation with New Wave hardly even qualifies as venal.
Of course, I can’t say the same for the chick singers. Though I’m more than a little ashamed to admit it, I did buy Sheryl Crow’s first album, but it was a Grammy winner and even though it contains that uber-stinker Strong Enough, there’s also Leaving Las Vegas and a couple of other reasonable efforts, though I can’t really recall them at this point. How was I to know she’d go all save-the-planet and start dating Lance Armstrong? And remember, I have always been a big Patti Smith fan, which I’m thinking should counterbalance that unfortunate Sheryl Crow business.
Stand back! via antiquiet.com
There is one thing I do need to get off my chest though. That’s right, you guessed it: Stevie. Not Wonder, Nicks. I bought a Stevie Nicks record in college for reasons I still don’t understand. Maybe it was the adenoidal warbling (bad singers — see above) or the platform shoes. Hell it might even have been the twirling. All I can say is I am really really sorry, and I have already repented in my heart and at length, so I hope you’ll go easy on me. I mean, we’ve all got our guilty pleasures, right? Grilled peanut butter and banana sandwiches ring any bells? How about In the Ghetto?
Yeah yeah, I know we’re talking about me now. Listen, I realize it looks bad, Sir, but before you hand out penance, I’d just like to remind you that I have a deep and abiding love for the high quality stuff — Nirvana, the Foos, Lenny Kravitz, Elvis (no the other one, Costello. Loved the country album. I know, right? Who’d a thunk?)…Oh, well thanks. I try to stay current.
Act of contrition? Really? I know my record is hardly unblemished, but doesn’t my consumption of tasteful, worthy music count for anything? OK, OK, no need to shout. Let me get a pen. Alright, shoot.
Three Half Breeds — Cher! You don’t fool around, do you?
Three Lost in Loves — Air Supply? I’d hardly have thought they’d be on your radar, but it’ll be good and painful.
Twice all the way through We Built This City — Tough to listen to Grace Slick doing that, but you’re driving this bus. It’s harsh, but I can handle it. Check.
So, we done here?
A fate worse than…well I don’t know what.
WHAT?! Piano Man!?! You have got to be kidding me! Quite possibly the worst song from the worst album ever recorded. Just the mention of it gives me an earworm. If I listen to it even once, it’ll be stuck in my brain for a week. C’mon, anything but that. Please?
Alright, alright, I’ll do it — relax. And no, you do not have to assign the entire record. I mean it’s not like I tried roller disco, or bought Guns ‘N Roses tickets or anything.
Pardon? Six weeks from now? Couldn’t we stretch it to six months? I’ve got Punch Brothers tickets coming up and Sir Paul’s supposed to be playing in the City again. Of course, I’ve also heard Fleetwood Mac may be touring…I’ll see you in June.
Kitchen Slattern 