On Solitude

I've been thinking a lot about solitude and so, recently came across this article (http://chronicle.com/article/The-End-of-Solitude/3708). Why are we so terrified of being alone?

I definitely cannot say that I am untouched by the occasional feeling of loneliness, but I am honestly working on it each day. After my mom died, some deep-rooted belief of mine was shattered--a belief that everyone who is in your life will continue to be in your life until the end of time. This idea may sound ludicrous, but until you lose someone, to understand seems ludicrous as well.

Because of the experience of losing someone close to me, I began to practice enjoying solitude every day. A common misconception is that solitude equals loneliness. This is not so; solitude is the act of being alone, while loneliness is what occurs when one grieves that solitude, as Deresiewicz stated in his article. Therefore, being alone does not imply that one is lonely, but only without the company of others.

This summer is probably the most solitary one I have ever spent, but it has also been one of the least lonely. When I first arrived in Walla Walla for the summer, I was worried. I was certainly not working 40-hour weeks, which my contract stated I would be (there are only so many hours of French film one can consume per day before crying "uncle!"). There were fewer people around than I had expected. The gym, climbing gym, and student center were open for very limited hours of the day. This meant I had a lot of time left on my hands to fill up each day.

Like I said, I was skeptical. I would feel great till about 6 pm, powering through my research, working out, eating lunch, and napping. Then the evening hours hit and with them the realization that I had no one with whom to share them. It was a sad realization, and resulted in a mild dose of depression and self-pity, until I remembered what I had been practicing every day.

I started making a list of things I wanted to learn to cook and/or bake. Fuck the fact that I was living alone and could only consume one quarter of what every recipe yielded, I would make it anyway. Instead of simply eating my meals, I began thoughtfully creating them. I went out and bought a harmonica at the local toy store and messed around on it for twenty minutes every night. I went out alone to the local art walk. I spent hours alone at various (ok--all three in Walla Walla) coffeeshops poring over the NYTimes crosswords (I owned Monday-Wednesday, but during the second half of the week would have to find something else to do). I chatted up baristas, strangers, and latte neighbors. I went on evening walks by myself through the residential neighborhood behind my apartment building, quietly listening to the dinner clatter of families inside their homes. I wrote.

And you know what? I survived. I head home in two days. Not that any one place is necessarily less "solitary" than another, but at home I have my family, friends, and city. But I remind myself that everything--even the family, friends, and city--is ephemeral. Beyoncé had the right idea in "Me, Myself, and I":

"Me, myself and I

That's all I got in the end

That's what I found out

And it ain't no need to cry

I took a vow that from now on

Ima be my own best friend."

This post is not intended to renounce family, friendship, or love. Quite the contrary. But I do think we need to stop texting everyone in town when we are at lunch with a friend, just to make sure we won't be alone after lunch is over. Go do stuff on your own for once. You'll be okay.

Y Tu Mama Tambien: Thoughts

Unless you've seen this movie, you probably don't want to read ahead. Then again, if you're already following this blog... be my guest.

So I watched this movie for the first time last night. I remember when I was twelve or thirteen, it was the thing to do. All my girlfriends would gather around a found copy of the movie, watching it hungrily, but somehow, I was never present at the sleepovers where this activity ensued. So the next day, when I heard them giggling about the scandalous content, I was obviously intrigued. Somehow, years passed and I forgot about the sexy movie altogether.

Until last night. Netflix thought I'd enjoy it, I clicked on it, and an hour and forty-five minutes later, it was over.

I really loved it. Yes, it was steamy. Yes, Bernal and Luna are beautiful. But I realized I was glad I had put off that movie till now. I could see past--well, not completely past--the pervasive sex and into the layers Cuaron (director) had created.

"Y Tu Mama" is widely classified as a 'comedy' or 'teenage drama.' After seeing the movie, I beg to differ. It is true, it has its funny parts and it is truly a dramatic story about two teens, but at the heart of this film is nothing less than the task of confronting imminent death, and what that will make us do. Cuaron crafts the story so that we do not know Luisa's secret until the end, after the events of the summer have taken place. But Cuaron inserts moments into the film that seem so out of place for an "older-woman-takes-two-younger-guys-on-the-road-trip-of-their-lives" kind of movie, that you begin to wonder.

There are still many questions stewing in my mind. Did the boys' friendship end because of their sexual encounter? Did they sleep together? Does it even matter? Were they angry with Luisa for having put them in that situation, and, when they learned of her death, did they feel relief? I am not frustrated by these questions, but I like that they stay with me. The film was realistic. It brought up (and discussed!) the conundrums of life, death, sex, and friendship in a wholly unpretentious manner. It was also impossible not to notice the excessive traveling shots that juxtaposed Tenoch's Mexico and the Mexico of the peasants and fishermen.

While aesthetically pleasing, raunchy, and fun, "Y Tu Mama" is about the fragility of human life and the repercussions of sex; it can bring us closer together, but also pull us farther apart.

Step Brothers

This was one of the least funny things I have ever seen. But how can you go wrong with Will Ferrel? That's what I thought, too. The first fifteen minutes were full of promise, but the rest of the film quickly dissipated into awkward improv, very reminiscent of one of those Varsidy Nordic shows where sketch after sketch is painfully unfunny (sorry, crew). The premise of this crap is that two 60-something people meet, fall in love, marry, and realize they both have 40-year-old loser sons living at home. Not necessarily in that order. At first, of course, the two guys (Will Ferrel and John C. Reilly) despise each other, but slowly, they realize they are basically the same person, which inevitably leads to a close friendship. Then a bunch of stupid shit happens, their parents divorce, and they decide to "grow up" in order to get their parents back together. I suggest "The Parent Trap" as a fantastic (and sane) alternative.

Fear

This started out as an overly frank list of the things that I was most afraid of. Now it is a bit on how much I dislike flowers (sometimes). The worst are those carnivorous flowers. Every time I see one, I want to look inside and see if it has managed to entrap a fly that is most likely partially decomposed by the time I stick my nose near the plant. This leads to odd behavior (in the eyes of others) as if I even get so far as to stick my nose near the plant to satiate my curiosity I soon and inevitably hop backwards, fearing for the safety of my nose. Other times I fear non-carnivorous plants, like lilies. They smell too strong and since I was a child I always imagined their rancid exhalations filling up my living room until finally every member of my family quickly and silently dropped dead. But then again, there were a lot of events, imagined by myself, that would lead to the death of mom, dad, and brother (cat wasn’t yet part of the family and mom still was). Lilies are toxic (whether they’re ingested or not—it doesn’t matter). Even if to eat one were the only way to die I would probably find myself shoving the dewy petals past my teeth, the same feeling in my chest I experience as when I don’t trust myself around guard rails that aren’t quite high enough.

Chocolate fudge, baby

Easiest thing ever. I kid you not.

Ingredients:

12 oz. chocolate (recipe called for chips, but my dear soon-to-be roommated mailed me a POUND of dark Trader Joe's chocolate the other day, so I just broke the bar into bits)

14 oz. can of sweetened condensed milk

Combine chocolate and condensed milk in a saucepan, stirring frequently as they combine together over medium-low heat. When the mixture is smooth, pour into a greased pan (I have no pan so I used tupperware) and let it cool. That's it. Really.

Vanilla Sky: another rant

I wanted so badly to enjoy this movie. The only reason that I can think of is that I had put off watching it for years (eight years, to be exact), just because it never seemed to be the right time to watch it. (You know, there is a right and a wrong time to watch movies.)

Vanilla Sky seeks to explore the painful narcissism of the main character, the search for endless youth and power, and to quench our thirst for the question: What is happiness? I shouldn't have expected for Crowe's film to answer my questions on happiness. After reading "Nichomachean Ethics" by Aristotle in an Ethics course last year, I gave up trying to understand others' interpretations. If Aristotle failed to explain it, Crowe's efforts were a long shot.

So Vanilla Sky sucked. Don't watch it unless you have incredible patience and are very quick at figuring out convoluted plots. And if you are like me and are quite bad at figuring out convoluted plots, don't worry--all is explained at the end by a creepy Ms. Marple-cartoonish man in a suit on top of a high rise. At least you get to end the movie feeling like a complete idiot for not having had the slightest idea of what was going on. Director shouldn't make movies amidst an existential crisis.

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In other news, I went and bought myself a harmonica at the ol' Inland Octopus (one of the best places in Walla Walla, guys). It cost me $5.99 plus tax, so I did not feel too bad about the very real possibility of never learning the craft.

But here I sit, sweating in my third-floor apartment, just having eaten rancid butter (hey, it tasted like bleu cheese, I thought it was delicious, okay?) working out my mouth. I just figured out "Clementine" and will sit here half the night to perfect it if I must.

Tomatoes, Cheese, and Basil

Chocolate and peanut butter, chocolate and bananas, chocolate and mint, hell--chocolate and anything--make great food pairings. A particular trio has been haunting my summer cooking, and I decided it was time to write about it: the love triangle of tomatoes, cheese, and basil.

Baked Parmesan Tomatoes

(forgive the quality; I do not own a real camera)

My number one favorite dish that accommodates all three ingredients is the typical Caprese salad. I prefer to dice my ingredients rather than set them in slivers as the Italians do. The more balsamic vinegar, the better. It isn't right until each bite produces a wince. Other options for this trio are pasta sauce, bruschetta, and baked parmesan tomatoes as pictured above.

Ingredients:

(serves 4)

4 tomatoes, sliced

however much grated parmesan you like

salt and pepper

fresh basil (I also sprinkled on dry basil--either works)

olive oil

Preheat oven to 450. Place the tomatoes on a baking tray, cover them with all the ingredients, pour a bit of olive oil on top, and put them in for about 15 minutes. It's great as a side dish, but as I currently live alone and thus engage in somewhat odd eating habits, it makes a pretty damn good dinner altogether.

Who is she? I am in awe of her and I am frightened by her. She has a habit of sighing very loudly. Often these sighs elicit a response of surprise (the scared rabbit kind). Sometimes I think we’re in the way of traffic, or that I’m about to step on something alive/disgusting. Her sighs are so loud, so striking, not like any sigh I’ve ever heard before.

“What?!” I asked her earlier today, as her sigh had once again hit me by complete surprise.

“I’m just so happy.”

“Oh.”

Earl Grey: Liquid Luv

If you know me, chances are you've followed my growing obsession with Earl Grey teas. It began with nothing more than drinking it once in a while. Sometimes it was all I could find in the cupboard at my house, and so I settled. One day I realized how exquisitely sensuous, strong, and ambrosial it was. I began wanting to smell the bergamot-infused magic wherever I went. Soon enough, I myself wanted to smell like it. A friend introduced me to Earl Grey cupcakes and I was hooked. I make these at least once a month, so hopefully you are lucky to be in the vicinity on the sacred date.

Ingredients:

1/2 cup unsalted, softened butter

1 cup sugar

1 1/2 cups flour

2 1/4 teaspoons baking powder (I use soda and it's worked fine)

3/4 teaspoon salt

1/2 cup milk (I steep a bag of the tea in hot milk to get a more intense flavor and color in the batter)

1 bag of Earl Grey tea

Preheat oven to 350. Beat butter, sugar, then add eggs. Dry ingredients: mix them all, rip open a tea bag and toss it in. Steep one tea bag in hot milk, remove tea bag, and pour milk into the butter mixture as you mix in the dry ingredients. This usually makes 10-12 cupcakes. Bake 15-25 mins.

Lemon Buttercream:

1/2 cup unsalted, softened butter

2 cups icing sugar (I use confectioner's sugar)

a bunch of lemon zest (mmmm)

2-3 tablespoons lemon juice

1 tablespoon honey

Mix dat shit. Spread over cooled cupcakes.

In other Earl Grey news, I have found a way to stay cool in these 100 degree days: homemade iced Earl Grey tea latte. It's so easy to make, but I'm still experimenting to get the perfect amount of flavor in my blend. To prepare, steep 1-2 tea bags in boiled water, then pour over ice. Add vanilla extract (syrup would probably taste better, but not something everyone has in his or her household), milk of choice, and honey to taste.

And yes, I'm totally serious about the title of this post.

Cake Boss: "What Am I Gonna Do Now?!"

I've always had a soft spot for bakeries. And last summer, when I spent 35 hours a week working in one, I got to see more of what it was all about. The bakery I worked at was nationally-ranked and renowned, praised for both the mocha and the macaron. There was plenty of drama: there were fuck-ups, there were cakes dropped, missing orders, and nightmare customers--all things that Buddy the Boss deals with on a daily basis. But as a barista and retail worker, I was not in the "elite," the people who were responsible for the magic that was pastry creation. The realm of bakers was a whole different world...

Not only were they required to arrive at the bakery two hours before the rest of us (putting their clock-in time around 4 am), but they also stayed later, worked odd hours, worked special orders, and all the rest. When I was employed by the bakery, I definitely garnered an appreciation for the people "in back." Watching "Cake Boss," a reality show set at Carlo's Bake Shop in New Jersey, reaffirmed my veneration of the profession.

Whereas I usually veer far, far away from reality television, "Cake Boss" is sweet indulgence, and not remotely guilty. Though the episodes tend to get repetitive in their recurring themes of near-disasters, sibling rivalry, the incredible flexibility of fondant, as a viewer you have to recognize that this is what real life is. Let's just say Carlo's Bake Shop is lucky to experience the amount of excitement they do.

a roulette table cake that was obviously for a mafioso gathering masquerading as a 'social reunion'

Buddy's creations range from custom-orders for bridezillas, to flowerpots for family, to rotting flesh for zombie enthusiasts. Buddy's team shows remarkable deftness and skill in their ability to take on whatever is thrown at them. The scariest part, to me, is the delivery of every cake. You know it will be safe, but the tiered towers are each so painstakingly created that you feel as protective of them as do Buddy and his team. I appreciate the emphasis on the importance of family, as this adds a relatable element to the television show. Buddy lost his father at the age of 17 and since that day, his main mission in life is to make his father proud. And honestly, I think he's doing better than most of us...

The Black Dahlia: A Rant

In between hours of pause-and-play watching of most of Duvivier's filmography, I sometimes like to treat myself to something a bit lighter. Due to the availability of free internet (thank you, belkin) in my still-bare apartment and the fact that I live alone, I tend to lure myself to sleep every evening with a session of Netflix.

Last night I watched "The Black Dahlia." It looked promising, at least visually, but alas--turned out to be a disaster (Grade: C-/D+). First of all, what in the what was happening? The movie was confusing as all hell, beginning with the very opening riot sequence (apparently it took place at an earlier time in the heroes' lives...who knew? Not I...). Then there were all the subplots...why? Lee and Bucky (Aaron Eckhart and Josh Hartnett, respectively) are boxers-turned-policemen, but sometimes they still fight rigged fights (?) for some reason or other. The plot painfully tries to follow the personal and professional mayhem that takes over the two men's lives after they are commissioned to solve the mystery of the Black Dahlia.

For a film called "The Black Dahlia," surprisingly little of it had anything to do with the murder of Elizabeth Short. When Bucky finally discovered the location of the murder (because location is more important than murderer, duh), all I could think was "does this mean it's almost over??!" And Hilary Swank...really? Until I had spent fifteen minutes browsing explanations online, I had not an inkling that she was supposed to be a dead ringer of the deceased Short. What was that accent? She seemed to alternate between a drunk Creole prostitute and a member of the Irish upper-crust. Either way, I found myself caring less and less for our tortured Bucky as the movie progressed.

Another major quip I had with the plot were the sexual diversions. Not only were they diversions for our hero, but also for the audience, and not in the "ooh, a sex scene!" way. Here is a man, plagued and consumed by a gruesome murder case and the equally grisly death of his partner and friend, and all he can do is go out and sleep with women. Granted--one of these women is the oozing Scarlett Johansson, whose ginormous breasts distracted me even further from any chance I had at following the plot. If the title of the film was to reflect anything about the plot, it should have been "Hartnett Furrows His Brow and Has Sex."

Alright, I loved the noir conventions, long-gone from present-day cinema, including, but not limited to the transitions from scene-to-scene. All this Perry Grant business has got me appreciating the use of the obsolete swipe in all its forms, as well as the overbearing presence of post-coital smoking.

Note to director Brian de Palma: pearls, antiques, and lace do not make a film. At most, they make a hauntingly beautiful still, but not a movie.