This is too a blog

Yesterday featured another cameo in my sixth period class by Fucking Asshole. He must be a busy guy, because this was only the second time he showed up. Half an hour late, as it is so gauche to be on time to a party your sixth period class.

I asked for his late pass. "Who'm I gonna get a late pass from, I was walking around the halls?" He quite reasonably asks.

Still, I don't let him in without one. "You have to let me in. I'll come back with a security guard. You'll see."

"Get some fucking Clearasil you adolescent elephant man," I think, but manage to hald my tongue this time. I go back to teaching my otherwise lovely class.

"That's the kid you cursed at last time, right," a grinning young man asks, beside himself with delight. I recall nothing.

Ten minutes later, Fucking Asshole is back.

"I'm coming in, I'm tired of walking around, I wanna sit." He sits in a random seat, and I call security. I write a referral to the dean. ("unbelievably insubordinate" makes it in there.) I wish I were a nun and this were 1950 and I could whack some sense into him with a yardstick, or send him to the priest for some real discipline.

Security never comes, I teach the rest of my eerily silent class (are they hating him? Awed by his ballsiness? He's sitting there, again no books or bookbag in sight, playing a videogame.). I do my best to ignore him and finally the period ends.

"Security never came, dummy," he says by way of adieu.

"What did you say?" I ask (Why, oh why do I not have thwacking rights?)

"You want me to repeat it?" And he leaves.

Score another for Fucking Asshole.

Although al di la’s Anna Klinger has a recipe that is way more delicious, and although I had a chef give me a talking-to about the important role that butter plays in the deliciousizing of edibles, here is my (easier, lazier, healthier) humble interpretation of:

Beet Poppy Seed Pasta

2 16 ounce cans of sliced beets, drained
1/2 cup fat free ricotta

3 tablespoons butter, melted

Salt and black pepper to taste

1 package egg noodles

2 ounces Parmigiano-Reggiano, or more to taste

4 teaspoons poppy seeds

1. Mash the beets with an old-fashioned potato masher (or process in a food processor) to a chunky consistency. Add salt and pepper

2. Prepare noodles according to directions on package.
3. Portion the noodles out. Pour the melted butter over each portion, put a dollop of the ricotta over each portion, grate Parmigiano- Reggiano over each to taste, and finish each plate with a large pinch of poppy seeds. Serve immediately.

Serves 4.

Yum!

You know that chemically-treated paper that has replaced carbon copies in brave-old 21st century bureaucracies? It seems the assistant principal in charge of the budget at my school is unfamiliar with how it works: pressure from above creates duplicates of what you've written on the underlying, special paper. It seems too that he had something to say about the UFT Lobby Day I went to last week. The day I had to fill out one of those chemically-treated forms in triplicate in order to attend. I got my (yellow) copy back this morning, and faint but still legible in the upper left-hand corner I read his angst-filled missive:

"We pay teachers to rally? Will many more follow? This is insane."

And then he signed his name.

I can't be sure, but I'm pretty sure he was writing to the principal, as she signed off on it. I am fairly certain it was not intended for me to read. (Or was it…)

Pros: 

Pretty, despite being shot with a digital camera.

That cute kid from The Hours is in it.

I wanted to take a nap in Mary Kay Place's house. 

Cons:

Kevin Corrigan has a blatantly New York accent, though the flick is set in Indiana. 

The love of a good woman cures what ails Casey Affleck.
Steve Buscemi didn't write it. 

Here is the Times review that piqued my interest about Little Dishes, a new restaurant in the old home of The Cornbread Cafe. I was excited to finally go, and we got there super early (the place is tiny and doesn't take reservations). Immediately impressed with the flawless service, and pleasantly surprised to find an old favorite, Altos Las Hormigas Malbec, on the wine list, I looked forward to a delicious parade of tiny dishes. Sadly, things started to go south as soon as they trotted out precious single slices of that fancy wood-oven bread with a crust so sharp it hurts my mouth.

Daltron and I ordered an assortment of the small stuff: sardines (WAY too marinated and vinegary. Why are you trying to disguise the lovely sardine-iness, Little Dishes?), fried cod cakes (bland), baby octopus over fennel salad (overdressed), an unpleasantly buttery heap of swiss chard, and a pretty good wedge of iceberg with cheesy dressing and above-average black olive spaetzle. The best thing I ate were two oysters (one of each of the varieties offered last night).

Counterintuitively, our dining companions (the Galvinatrix and Matty A) thoroughly enjoyed their meals, and they ordered "Big Dishes": the lamb shank and the cod special. Perhaps the old rule of thumb - appetizers are always the tastiest part of a meal - gets flipped on its head when the restaurant specializes in the small stuff.

I think I can safely say we were all disappointed that Little Dishes really stands by its name when it comes to dessert. We demurely ordered two - the ginger cake and the lemon biscuit with fruit compote. When the itty-bitty portions arrived, I felt like my mommy had hinted at a "treat" in my lunchbox, and noontime revealed it to be nothing more than one of those boxes of raisins so small you can barely wrench it open with your little eight-year-old hands.

I hate when food disappoints.

A happy, unrealted coda: Big Nose Full Body was still open when we left the restaurant, and we scored two bottles of Cantina Zaccagnini and a $10 bottle of the Altos Malbec.

They even tell you in the movie: it’s no Dog Day Afternoon.

Plus, they name check NYC DEPT of Ed Chencellor Joel Klein. That’s enough to turn a girl’s stomach.

I hate hate hate hate hate the book I am reading for book club. The title of the post is lifted from the Publisher’s Weekly review of the thing.

Still, being a good little  book club member, I can’t just not read it. First of all, I bought the damn thing. And I just don’t want to be a book club slacker. That’s so lame.

But the only way I am able to get through it is to treat myself like the lab rat that I am and nibble a little cheese and wine (or beer and peanuts today) with each page.

Only eight more chapters to go! (And eight more days till book club). The subject of raki comes up a lot in the book, as it is set in Turkey. Perhaps the best way to enjoy it is sloshed on the stuff. I must investigate further…

Incidently, the amontillado was a crashing disappointment. I will, however, keep it around for cooking purposes.

(Nothing like cooking to keep you aware of the arrow of time.)

It all caught up to me today: the endless stretch of school days between the February and April breaks most of all. Tomorrow and Friday are Parent Teacher conferences, and rather than succumb to encroaching illness, I decided to head it off with a pre-emptive day to recover. (I think George Bush would be proud that he’s rubbed off on me).
I decided to check out the new Union Square Trader Joe’s, which at 11 a.m. on a Wednesday was packed, but with the bustling energy of a holiday. Everyone was bumping into each other, but everyone was also smiling, delighted to wander around in a daze. Nobody had a list - that would have been foolhardy. Instead, we turned each corner unsure what treasures the next aisle would yield.

Slivered almonds!

Bargain basement luna bars!

Weird salsa!

Smashed bananas!

Jars of papaya!

There was even a long line of people patiently waiting for samples of lemon tart. I skipped that, happy to head straight to the checkout, where $31.40 got me a backpack full of stuff I didn’t know I needed.

We read Poe’s The Cask of Amontillado in my ESL class today. I remember reading (and hating) it in high school myself, but I decided to give it a second chance.

It’s a creepy tale (shocker) wherein a sherry varietal (the amontillado) serves as bait for the vain victim, who thinks-who-he-is when it comes to wines.

It was around 9:30 in the morning as we read the tale together, but I found myself curious about the amontillado itself. Here is the Wiki entry on the stuff:

Named after the Montilla region where this style of wine originated in the 18th century, an amontillado sherry begins as a fino, fortified to approximately 13.5 percent alcohol with a cap of flor yeast limiting its exposure to the air. A cask of fino will be reclassified as amontillado if the layer of flor fails to develop adequately or is intentionally killed by non-replenishment or additional fortification. Without the layer of flor, amontillado must be fortified to approximately 17.5 percent alcohol so that it does not oxidize too quickly. After the additional fortification, amontillado oxidizes slowly, exposed to oxygen through the slightly porous American or Canadian oak casks, and gains a darker color and richer flavor than fino.

I think I have a new thing that I want to try.

Yesterday I saw The Libertine. Johnny Depp, who plays the Earl of Rochester, starts off looking like a ghoul and ends up looking like a tin-nosed bagel-face with a shmear of jelly poking through the cream cheese.

This is the first movie with Monsieur Depp that I’ve seen since I broke up with John Cusack (my movie boyfriend since 1997) because he hasn’t been aging well, and deciding to transfer the ardor onto Johnny.

The Libertine was not the best way to begin our new relationship. I was glad I wasn’t going out to eat afterwards.