So, yeah...

I obviously haven't been blogging in a while. Over a month, in fact. Something clicked when I started thinking about what I want to do in 2008. I realized I want to write more, but not just for my blog. I want to write bigger and better, dedicating more of my energy to submitting to magazines. Maybe even working on a larger project that's both quieter and more demanding than blogging and magazines, writing a book. So I realized something had to give and that something, for now, is this blog.

After two and some years of always thinking/worrying about what my next post is going to be about, after dedicating entire weeknights or even weekends to put together a post that, quite frankly, not a lot of people read, I decided that I've done it and I'm done with it. I've tried it, I've had my ups and downs with it, I've written posts that I'm really proud of and posts that I'd go back and delete if I was that kind of blogger. Some posts even helped lead to a freelancing gig which has lead to a permanent staff position with a magazine I really like and respect and really, what more can you ask than that?

And you know what? So far it feels great. After sitting in front of a computer all day at my regular job, I can come home and not sit in front of a computer all night if I don't want to. I can cook! I can bake! I can watch TV! I can have dinner with friends! I can work out! So many not-really-exciting-but-
exciting-for-me-because-let's-face-it-I've-been-blogging
-for-over-two-years-and-I-have-low-standards-for-what-
I-consider-exciting activities!!!

Notice what wasn't on that list of activities I can indulge in now that I'm not blogging? Writing. The funny thing is with all this new time on my hands I haven't exactly gotten around to doing the things I gave up blogging for in the first place. But we're now, what, 3 weeks into the new year? I can enjoy myself for a while, right? Plus, have you seen the new American Gladiators? It's pretty awesome.

Some people started blogging a long time before I did and are still going. I think that's great. Some people didn't blog nearly as long as I did before giving it up. I laugh in their faces. And I'm not saying I'm giving it up for a good, anyway. Just for now. Who knows? Maybe after three months or six months or a year I'll be clamoring to bust out a bunch of new posts on the latest pop culture shenanigans. I still haven't finished blogging about making all 125 (127?) recipes in Giada De Laurentiis' Everyday Italian even though it's been, um, quite some time since I started that project. So maybe when that happens I'll have to blog about it for closure and, you know, evidence. (If a virtual text few people read actually counts as evidence that I finished a project.)

The point is: I may pick this back up again, I may not. Who knows what the future holds besides God and Kanye West? In the meantime, here are a few of the things that I'll be doing/reading/consuming/eating whilst not blogging:

Reading Project Rungay - The best way to keep up with Bravo's addictive reality competition and enjoy the witticisms, snark and dead-on fashion critiques of Tom & Lorenzo. Project Runway's 4th season may not be its best (Oh my dear Lord, Ricky has to leave), but this blog makes it a lot more enjoyable.

Reading Janet Xone - With Miss Jackson's latest album, Discipline, hitting shelves on February 26th, this is really the best way to know about all the news, performances, reviews and stories concerning Janet. And if you haven't checked out her latest video for "Feedback," click here. Watch it more than once - it grows on you, especially once the killer choreography kicks in.

Eating Aromatic Noodles with Lime-Peanut Sauce - Part of the reason I've put Giada's Italian cookbook aside is because I picked up fellow Food Network host Ellie Krieger's latest book, The Food You Crave. So far the Pumpkin Muffins, Energy Bars, Baked Onion Rings with Ranch Dip, Vanilla Hot Chocolate and Whole Wheat Pancakes with Strawberry Sauce have all been great and healthy (another New Year's resolution). I loooove me some Asian peanut sauces because I basically love anything with peanut butter, so I'm thinking this recipe from Ellie will make me silly happy.

Using my new Netflix account - I just started my subscription and finally watched 2005's An Inconvenient Truth. Next up is the new, Oscar-nominated documentary No End in Sight. I'm going to be so smrt, s-m-r-t!

Reading Spook: Science Tackles the Afterlife by Mary Roach - After reading Roach's Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers, I've been dying (no pun intended, especially because it's not a very good pun) to read her follow-up. If she explores the soul with as much humor, eye-opening research and intelligence as she did corpses, then the wait will have been worth it.

Rooting for Atonement at the Oscars - I just saw it and am hoping it wins something big, even though I haven't seen There Will Be Blood yet. Seriously, this adaptation of the Ian McEwan novel (which I really liked) is gorgeous, well-acted and, to employ a cliché, heartbreaking. Knowing the general rule that the movie is never as good as the book, I was surprised to fall in love with this movie so much. Even though it drags in the middle (just like the book), I couldn't help but completely buy into the whole production. And it has James McAvoy looking adorable and delivering a fantastic performance? Done and done. Dear Striking Writers, The Oscars better take place so I can see Mr. McAvoy in a tux. Sincerely, Me.

Well, that's it for now. Enjoy.

Take care.

Goodbye?

The Preacher and the Teacher

Novels are dead! Readership is down! No one likes books!

The Virginia Quarterly Review had a very good essay a while back about how "the death of the novel" is an old cliché, so I won't opine here. I was, however, reminded of this for two reasons. First, I just finished Tom Perotta's latest novel, The Abstinence Teacher. And second, Camille Paglia, that lover of literature, that Amazon of the arts, declared in her most recent Salon column, "I don't care about any novels published after World War II." Say wha?

One of the supposed reasons for our country's supposedly declining interest in novels is our supposedly hyped-up attention spans. So, although she can devote an entire book to poetry, I guess it's no surprise that with her mile-a-minute mind and hectic life of teaching, public speaking and raising a son with her partner, Paglia might not have the attention span or time for novels. You'd think that our mosquito-on-speed lifestyles would actually make the usually shorter form of poetry more popular, but it has as much do with accessibility as with length.

Another alleged reason for the novel's alleged death is the medium's lack of relevance. Yet, major authors such as Jay McInerney and Don DeLillo both wrote "important" 9/11 novels, but did anyone besides their most rabid fans read them? I've heard people blame the fact that, even if a novel is tackling a relevant current event, novels by nature take so long to produce that the topic is already outdated by publication. But then, didn't audiences stay away from the two 9/11 movies (a medium generally considered more accessible), even with their great reviews and Oscar nominations, because it was too soon?

Tom Perotta seems to have found the right moment for his latest novel. After the evangelical Christian voting surge tipped the scales in the 2004 presidential election, Perotta told the New York Times he wanted to find out more about these people. Who are they, besides their religion? How did they organize for and respond so passionately to the election? He's tackling a current events issue with his usual, accessible, page-turning style.

Even better for Perotta, though the book is released three years after the fact (which isn't too shabby, actually), we're still in the middle of public religious debates - church vs. state, creationism vs. evolution, Project Runway vs. Top Chef (Bravo is my God), etc. Plus, the 2008 election is right around the corner and, even if religion doesn't play as big a role as in 2004, we still have supposedly progressive Democrat candidates who blame their religious upbringing for opposing gay marriage.

So this could have been a great time for a novelist, hot off the best-seller-turned-major-movie-adaptation Little Children, to explore religion's role in public lives. The Abstinence Teacher does just that...kind of sorta.

The story follows Tim, an ex-alcoholic/druggie/rocker turned born-again Christian. After his wife divorces him, Tim tries to stay clean, help raise his daughter (mostly by coaching her soccer games) and move on with his life thanks to the local church group, the Tabernacle of the Gospel Truth, and its leader, Pastor Dennis.

In the same "sleepy" suburb we have Ruth Ramsey, an atheist Sex Ed teacher who responds to a student's question about oral sex with a list of the STDs you can contract from it but finishes with "some people like it." Oopers! The Tabernacle hears of this and, even though they've only recently set up shop in the town, insist that the school teach abstinence instead. Caving to pressure and media scrutiny, the school officials agree and Ruth is forced to teach a curriculum she doesn't believe in.

When Ruth then witnesses Tim leading his soccer team in prayer after a big win, a team that includes both of their daughters, she creates even more of a public spectacle by grabbing her daughter and yelling at Tim. The two adults then begin a strange, interesting relationship, sometimes prickly, sometimes affectionate.

All of this is fine and good, with Perotta's usual astute observations and humor. Ruth imagines returning the Sex Ed curriculum back to her own: "In her mind, it played like a Hollywood movie, Michelle Pfeiffer standing before an audience of earnest, good-looking teenagers, rolling a condom onto a cucumber as triumphant music swelled in the background." A dated pop culture reference, sure, but appropriate for a forty-something woman.

The problem is that after luring the reader at first with multiple chapters about Ruth, Perotta clearly prefers writing about Tim. He devotes chapter after chapter to Tim's new marriage and his relationship with Pastor Dennis, slipping in one chapter here and there on Ruth. Isn't she the title character? Isn't this book supposed to be about her?

Also, even though Pastor Dennis is set up as Tim's spiritual guide and mentor, he's also almost the antagonist to Tim, constantly prodding him to behave against his natural instincts, to reject himself and find God. It's a complicated, tumultuous relationship. Again, Ruth doesn't fair as well. She's up against Joann Marlow, the beautiful, blonde abstinence advocate in heels and pearls who, in a presentation to the students regarding the new curriculum, makes abstinence seem both sexy and realistic. Even though Ruth and Joann have some tense, funny battles, Joann is nowhere near as realized as Ruth, Tim or even Pastor Dennis. Isn't she Ruth's foil? All we know is that she's religious and therefore a virgin. But considering Perotta devotes so much time to exploring the contradictions of human nature, is Joann who she says she is? And is it really so easy for her?

I wish that Ruth's story was as fleshed out as Tim's, but for Perotta to do that he would have had to give her an equally developed, sympathetic antagonist. It's telling that Perotta is able to humanize a character like Pastor Dennis. Dennis, after all, received his call from God while working as a top-notch, electronics-obsessed Best Buy employee. Perotta vividly draws the religious character who also happened to have lived in our mainstream, materialistic world. Joann, for all we know, has never had a spiritual crisis, never regretted a decision she's made, never doubted herself or, more importantly, her beliefs. Isn't that the person Perotta was trying to write about? Isn't her story of doubtless faith just as worthy (if maybe not as dramatic) as Dennis'? Perotta is usually so good at both satirizing and respecting his characters, he could have had a lot of fun and insight with her instead of just using her as a plot device. If he wanted to focus more on Tim, Pastor Dennis and both men's influence on their town, then maybe he should have called the book The Abstinence Preacher.

I'm not sure the book will be considered an important piece of "relevant" art - it's neither challening nor controversial, and probably won't be considered as anything more than a perfectly good book. Perotta gets all his usual details right - the stifling suburbia, the contrast between public personae and private doubts, the sacrifices necessary to live the way we think we should. I just wish he had been as curious about one of his most important characters as he said he was going to be. It's ironic that in a novel about abstinence-only education programs, he left out some of the most imporant stuff.

Also check out: Cradle to Tears.
And: Dear Filmmakers of The Road.

Eat, Pray, Hype

"I haven't been this excited since Bono was here."

And so began Oprah's Eat, Pray, Love-fest. Friday's episode was all about Elizabeth Gilbert's memoir detailing her travels to Italy, India and Indonesia to rediscover herself. I have to say, as a writer, hearing anyone get that excited over an author is pretty exciting. Hearing it from Oprah freakin' Winfrey, who has talked to every author from Cormac McCarthy to Jane Hamilton, is pretty impressive.

Sure, Oprah gets excited for just about anything. (Ladies and gentlemen, today we're talking about hummuuuuuuuuus!!!) There's a fine line between enthusiastic and hyperbolic. Her fans see the former, her critics the latter. When talking about a relatively spiritual memoir like Gilbert's, it's hard to walk that line (it's somewhere between the pasta and the preciousness). But combining the overblown with the ethereal seems like an Oprah specialty, as opposed to, say, Tyra Banks, who eats overblown for breakfast. (Now with more fiber!)

So it was great to see Oprah dedicate a whole hour to an author not because Eat, Pay, Love is her new Book Club choice (that would be Gabriel Garcia Marquez's Love in the Time of Cholera) but because she was just so damn excited to talk about it. (Even if, strangely, they made no mention that it's being developed as a movie starring Julia Roberts.)

According to Oprah, "Women have been carrying it everywhere. I've seen it on planes, buses and trains." Buses? Yeah, I think I saw Oprah on the 49 Western yesterday with her Trader Joe's bags. But the book has already been incredibly successful. However, a lot of the reviews, even positive ones, were hesitant to rave. The New York Times observed how charming Gilbert's prose is while rightfully criticizing how easily her problems tend to get fixed (she asked the universe for a divorce and - poof! - her husband, until then stubborn, signed the papers). And Slate's Katie Roiphe couldn't rave about it before going on and on about how horrible the book sounds and how, of course, she would normally never read a book like that.

That, most likely I presume, being Chick Lit. The label is ridiculous in this case. Yes, it's a woman's memoir, and yes, there's some cutesy descriptions about how eating pizza is really empowering! (Which I happen to totally agree with.) But Gilbert is an incredibly charming, qualified writer, having been nominated for three National Magazine Awards, the PEN/Hemingway Award, the National Book Award and National Book Critic's Circle Award. If a man wrote this book, this whole paragraph wouldn't be necessary. God forbid a female author write something both spiritual and funny, profound and cute.

So, luckily, she was perfectly open, modest and down-to-earth with Oprah about her journey, her epiphanies and her success. She's the kind of person who can throw out phrases like "word salad" without coming off flaky and can discuss a journey devoted entirely to making herself feel better without sounding guilty or entitled. (For an example of how she explains - nay, make that celebrates, and kind of awesomely - her story's inherent selfishness, check out the E,P,L F.A.Q.)

One mistake I think Gilbert and Oprah both seemed to make was confusing someone relating to the book with someone experiencing the exact same thing Gilbert did. When talking about her late-night breakdowns in her bathroom, Gilbert looked at the audience and said, "Who among us has not met our bathroom floor tiles at 3 a.m.?" Um, me? I read your book and haven't met my tiles at 3 a.m. Do I count? Oh, wait, are we also including being drunk? No? Nevermind then.

But Gilbert flat-out admits that she didn't write this book for anyone else, and that's maybe the most "rock star" (Oprah's words) thing about her. Unlike so many reviews about the book and interviews with Gilbert, this was one whole hour without the author having to justify, defend or apologize for her lucky circumstances (such as affording the travel thanks to her publisher's advance). She might not be the literary equivalent of Bono. (Who is, then? Dave Eggars? Chuck Palahniuk?) She's not even a rock star. She's a really good writer. And that's just as exciting.

(Thanks to Oprah.com for the pics.)

Also check out: Cradle to Tears.
And: Update: Oprah Rips Frey a New One.

Cradle to Tears

When reading Cradle to Cradle, William McDonough and Michael Braungart's manifesto for eco-effective living, I went through multiple phases of emotion. For a book that spends 156 pages describing everything that's wrong with environmentalism - including both companies that avoid it altogether and those that practice yet still do harm - and then only 29 pages explaining how to do things right, it was still surprising how discouraged, angry and despondent I felt - toward Earth-screwing corporations, toward deceitfully Earth-saving practices that end up actually as Earth-screwing, and towards the authors themselves.

Since nothing makes a depressive feel better than sharing their negative feelings, let's walk through those phases together, shall we?

1) Alarmed Paranoia. I, like most sane, aware people nowadays, am trying to incorporate more environmentally-friendly practices into my daily life. (Without, you know, rearranging my life too much, of course. Hey, it's amazing I actually get to work on time as it is - I can't unplug every single appliance, you know?) So the first section of Cradle surprised me with its cynical take on modern, "effective" environmentalism, even on the first page.

First, that comfortable chair you are sitting on. Did you know that the fabric contains mutagenic materials, heavy metals, dangerous chemicals, and dyes that are often labeled hazardous by regulators - except when they are presented and sold to a customer? As you shift in your seat, particles of the fabric abrade and are taken up by your nose, mouuth, and lungs, hazardous materials and all.

The authors then go on to deconstruct computers, carpets, shoes, electric hand mixers, water bottles, hair dryers and baby toys. Lesson: don't buy or touch anything even remotely synthetic.

2) Angry Discouragement. OK, but what if I buy all-natural products, like, say, my clothes? Granted, most organic clothes still haven't evolved beyond burlap sacks in both style and comfort. But hey, I watch Top Model and Project Runway and I will make it fierce and I will make it work! What do you say, authors?

If several billion people want natural-fiber blue jeans dyed with natural dyes, humanity will have to dedicate millions of acres to the cultivation of indigo and cotton plants just to satisfy the demand - acres that are needed to produce food.

Plus, apparently indigo contains mutagens! So the authors warn, "change your jeans, not your genes." Ha ha! Punny! But it's hard to laugh at puns through clenched jaws, especially when I'm breathing in all these toxins from my dangerous, mutagenic clothes. Damn you, Levis!

3) Wide-Eyed Horror. What about recycling? That's good, right? Um, no. "Just because a material is recycled does not automatically make it ecologically benign," the authors explain. Forcing materials into longer lifetimes and into uses they weren't meant for means spending more money and energy than if they were just discarded (which they will be at some point anyway). Plus, you have to add chemicals and all sorts of crap to the recycled material to make it usable again. So in chapter one, I was told my computer is dangerous, but I can't just turn to my handy, Leonardo DiCaprio-approved journal, either.

Because it was not designed with recycling in mind, paper requires extensive bleaching and other chemical processes to make it blank for use again. The result is a mixture of chemicals, pulp, and in some cases toxic inks that are not really appropriate for handling and use...allowing an even higher proportion of particles to abrade into the air, where they...can irritate the nasal passages and lungs.

Toxic inks? Are you kidding me? Why, Mother Nature, why? Why do you hate me? Here I thought writing was the lowest-maintenance hobby because it just required a pen and paper. A pen and paper that are killing me.

4) Quivering Mass of Tears/Curled into Fetal Position.

So then there's..

One study of household contaminants found that more than half of the households showed concentrations of seven toxic chemicals that are known to cause cancer in animals and are suspected to cause cancer in humans.

And...

Allergies, asthma, and "sick building syndrome" are on the rise.

Oh, dear God...and...

Some industrial chemicals produce a second effect, more insidious than causing stress: they weaken the immune system.

For the love of...and...

Legislation establishing mandatory standards for indoor air quality is practically nonexistent.

Sweet Jesus. But, somehow, I came upon a...

5) Sliver of Hopefulness. Upon reading the last chapter's title, "Putting Eco-Effectiveness into Practice," I thought I finally could discover what I can do to protect myself and those I love by making better choices. Except, of course, the authors are an architect and a chemist, so the solutions are really for those who design products and buildings. So then I, the consumer, am left helpless, knowing I can't make better choices until I have better options to choose from. And, as the authors made explicitly clear in the first 90% of the book, there aren't very many good options right now. So...

6) Back to Quivering Mass of Tears/Curled into Fetal Position.

So now I will curl up onto my toxic couch, wrap myself with a hormone-altering blanket, watch my TV that's killing both my brain cells and my sperm with radiation, and contently log out. Cradle to Cradle's one positive contribution is reaffirming my lazy procrastination, as now I know that I can't really make a difference until someone else does first.

Also check out: WWED?
And: A Whore Among Flowers.

Dear Filmmakers of The Road

What's up, boyeeez? I'm writing this letter to discuss your adaptation of Cormac McCarthy's best-seller/Oprah pick/Pulitzer Prize winner that actually lives up to the hype about a father and son traveling through a barren, post-apocalyptic land. Yes, I know it's not news anymore that you're making this, and I know the book didn't just come out, so this may seem a little late. But from what I can tell you've barely gotten started, so you still have time to incorporate my ideas. And lest you get the wrong idea by my writing you a letter for basically my own amusement and assess your entire careers based on a few IMDB entries, let me just reassure you, I'm not crazy! Got it? Awesome!

First off: who the hell are you guys? Let's see...Joe Penhall, you adapted Ian McEwan's Enduring Love, which I thought got mixed-to-good reviews until I saw one comment thread on the IMDB message boards titled "Worst book-film adaption ever?" Ouch. That's got to hurt, even a little. But you have worked with Daniel Craig twice, which leads me to believe that you might have good taste and might even try to cast him as the nameless, ageless Father, but more on casting later.

Moving on to you, John Hillcoat, Mr. Director. Let's see, you directed an 80's documentary about INXS and something called Digital Hardcore Videos. Rock and porn? Seriously? But you also directed The Proposition starring Guy Pierce and some obscure 1996 movie with Rachel Griffiths, so that means...nothing. Or something. I'm not sure. I'm still focusing on the rock and porn 1-2 combo and what that means for this movie and, well, humanity in general.

But let's face it: you're both random choices. I mean, geez. At least the Coen brothers are adapting and directing the other upcoming McCarthy adaptation, No Country for Old Men.

In fact, it looks like Hollywood actually may not be screwing up NCfOM, with its stellar filmmakers and pedigreed cast. Of course, they did take seriously sexy actor Javier Bardem and make it look like he smooshed his face into a brick wall. That may be so we, the audience, don't focus on how sexy he is. But then, all I'll be thinking about is how I'm being deprived of his sexiness, which will bring up all of my deprivation issues I thought I had worked out in years of therapy like how this one time? My mom? Made a batch of Rice Krispie treats the first day of my sugar-free week for a 5th grade science project so I couldn't eat them and by the time Sunday came they were all eaten which just, like, symbolizes my whole childhood, ya know?!?!

Sorry. Digression. Still not crazy!

Anyway, let's talk about a few points, shall we? First, that Variety report said you guys were waiting for the right script and star. Seriously, don't even think about Tom Hanks/Da Vinci Code-ing this thing just for international interest. The Road is gritty and austere, reeking of flesh and disease. If you pop in some Shiny Pretty Movie Star, the whole world McCarthy created would become just a backdrop to SPMS' squinty, steel-jawed Acting. You can already hear the James Lipton's affected whisperings of "Oscar" and "credibility." Go with the right guy, no matter what. I'm not going to give you suggestions because, due to the character's lack of distinguishing external characteristics in the novel, you could go 50 different ways. Just don't screw it up, k?

(And, despite what I said before, Daniel Crag would probably not be a good choice as he looks like he's probably eaten a few people himself to get where he is in Hollywood. I'm not sure we'd ever doubt his survival skills).

Also, I swear on the career grave of Keshia Knight Pulliam, if you take fucking Dakota Fanning and put her in a pair of Osh Kosh B'Gosh overalls to pass her off as a precocious five-year-old(-ish) boy, I will find you both and I will break you. (Not crazy!) Again, go with the right boy. You'll probably have to pick an unknown (not too many famous male kiddies, luckily), so take your time and get it right. This kid will have to get through some pretty scary scenes - babies roasting on spits, cannibalism and maybe even (gasp!) unshaven women - so make sure he's tough enough. Maybe lock him in a room with Donald Trump for five hours and see how he holds up. That would drive even the hardest of us absolutely insane.

And finally, respect the source. That seems so simple and obvious, right? Why would someone love a book so much they wanted to turn it into a film only to then arrogantly think they can make the story better somehow? But it happens all the time. The Road is already cinematic, and the story is much like its characters: no extra fat or gristle on its lean frame. So don't go adding backstory, don't insert information because you think the audience is too stupid to keep up, don't spell it all out. So, I guess, don't just respect the source. Respect us, too.

OK, I think that may be it. See? Just a simple document of ideas. No reason to be scared. Unless you screw up this movie. Then you should be scared.

Sincerely and maybe just a tad crazy when it comes to one of the best books I've read all year,
Me

Also check out: Babies Are the New God.
And: Update: Oprah Rips Frey a New One.

Babies are the New God

If you name your first book God is Dead, you might be a young, brash writer brimming with big ideas, or a one-note gimmick suffering from a desperate need for attention any way you can find it or you might just suffer from elephantine cojones. Luckily, in the case of Ron Currie, Jr., it's the first and last options. (Okay, with maybe just a healthy dollop of attention-baiting thrown in for good measure.)

In his compact novel-in-stories, Currie's vision is big and darkly funny. In interviews he has said that the spirit of his book closely follows a line from The Brothers Karamazov: "If God is dead, then everything is permitted.”

Fittingly, Currie has taken his idea and run with it. In the introduction, God takes the form of a Dinka woman who pleads with Colin Powell - yes, that Colin Powell - to help her. Currie imagines Powell in spiritual crisis who studies Samuel L. Jackson movies to be more intimidating. When an assistant apologizes after questioning whether Powell is black enough (hmmm, where have we heard that one lately?), Powell responds with "apology accepted. Bitch-ass." Then, after a stunning monologue, Powell calls the unnamed U.S. president a "silver-spoon master-of-the-universe motherfucker" to his face. If only, you know? If only.

With the title as its own spoiler, God is killed in the Sudan. Word of his death spreads around the world thanks to the pack of feral dogs who eat God's decaying body and are then blessed with the ability to communicate to humans. The rest of the stories deal, however directly or indirectly, with the ramifications. While the whole book is one giant "what if" for the future, Currie lets us know that maybe it's not that far in the future. To fill the void, adults start worshipping their children. Teenaged boys with no parental supervision turn cynical and violent. Warring populations kill innocent civilians in their quest for idealogical dominance. Where, oh where, does Currie get his crazy ideas?

Well, according to his acknowledgments, Currie started working on these ideas when he was in the Zoetrope Workshop. Honestly, it felt like it, too, which is neither a critique or a compliment. A lot of the stories, especially the first one, sound as if they originated around a bong or in a bar after a writing workshop. (Or, maybe in Currie's case, both?) "Dude, what if God was on Earth, like, right now?" "Yeah. And what if he was actually a woman?" "Yeah, like a snobby blonde lady who shops too much." "No! No! Like, some other woman. Like a Dinka woman." "Dude, you just said Dinka."

But that youthful courage to just go for it is exactly what's so refreshing about the book. Titles like "Interview with the Last Remaining Member of the Feral Dog Pack Which Fed on God's Corpse" are what made me unable to put down the book after catching it in Borders' Original Voices section. And luckily, Currie's prose stands up to his ideas. His descriptions land perfectly between the feminine (i.e. flowery, unending) and masculine ("muscular," clipped). He develops characters while keeping the action moving forward. And if some of the ideas don't work, as is the case with most story collections, then the ones that don't are still fascinating.

Hopefully, Currie didn't blow his creative wad on his first collection. I eagerly await his next book, whatever it may be about, eagerly anticipating how his work grows more sophisticated yet still blustery and in-your-face. We could use more fiction like that.

Also check out: Just Wondering.
And: My Love is More Like Vodka.

Random Thoughts: The Devil and Miss Stone, 300-Pack Abs, and Akon's Vibe

Some pop-culture-related nuggets that have been floating around in my head:

- Last summer I posted my positive review of The Devil Wears Prada to Blogcritics and got some feisty comments. “It’s not as good as the book!” “It glamorizes unhealthy female body image!” “There’s no conflict!” To which I say: no, yes and kind of. Now that I’ve rewatched it on DVD and also read the book, I still want to praise Meryl Streep, Emily Blunt and Stanley Tucci. What Lauren Weisberger, the book’s young author, couldn’t understand was that her boss could be both a bitch and a brilliant woman who is incredibly good at her job. It is too bad that the heroine deems slimming down to a size 4 (from an elephantine size 6) as a major accomplishment, and yes, the boyfriend is lame (he’s an aspiring chef and he’s complaining about her schedule?), but overall, the film is still entertaining fluff.

- In the spirit of re-thinking, or amending past reviews: my love, or should I say my really like, for Janet Jackson’s 20 Y.O. has sufficiently waned to wonder what exactly is wrong with it. I know it’s underwhelming, and I know I’m tired of her obsession with sex, but what else is there? It didn’t hit me until I listened to the chorus of “Show Me” for the 800th time: “Show me, ‘cause actions speak louder than words.” No shit? I mean, she’s forty, and this is what she’s learned? A cliché that’s older than she is? Since the whole album is based on how she’s a forty-year-old woman who still looks/feels/acts like a twenty-year-old, I had to ask: should a forty-year-old want to think like a twenty-year-old? How is that a good thing? If it means trite “insights” like that, then guess what? It’s not.

- Why are songs that are about how inspiring music is so uninspiring themselves? I was reminded of this when listening to Joss Stone’s new CD and her song “Music.” It’s so laid-back it’s practically asleep. I mean, the song is fine, I guess, but if music is really so awesome then why is its tribute so comparatively boring? It reminded me of Leela James' "Music" (even these titles are boring) which I found equally odd – all about how amazing music is, yet so underwhelming itself. Which made me think about Lauryn Hill’s “Superstar” which at least had good lyrics but was still a mid-tempo chill-out that embodied her own accusations: “everything you drop is so tired.” Ironically, Hill guest-raps on Stone’s “Music.” It doesn’t help.

- What is up with AfterElton.com’s horrible book section? They feature only four items right now – scratch that, make it three, as they actually repeat the same link twice. And the big feature is an interview with Augusten Burroughs from May 2006! Their other sections like movies and especially TV are chock-full of articles, columns and recaps. Granted, if the site is about how gays are portrayed in the media, then I guess TV probably has a bigger impact than literature, but when Bookslut features new interviews with Edmund White and Andrew Holleran in the last two months, you have to wonder who’s asleep behind the wheel at AfterElton.

- In his gorgeous new Italian cookbook, Jamie's Italy, Jamie Oliver recommends a local treat: drizzle really good olive oil over really good vanilla ice cream and sprinkle with sea salt. I tried it. I think I need better olive oil.



- I love how, in his new interview in Vibe, Akon basically admits over and over again that he lies whenever he feels like it, leading one to believe that you probably shouldn't believe anything he says. And yet, somehow, I don't think that will affect his career at all.



- And finally...I finally saw 300. There’s a minor hubbub in the gay community over its portrayal of the villains in the movie. I was doubtful going in, but now I kind of agree. Frank Miller, who’s historically inaccurate graphic novel the movie is based on, clearly has some (probably unconscious) prejudices that he needs to work out. His heroes apparently have to be white and very heterosexual, virile, macho and hirsute who live to sleep with only women (again, historically misleading) and kill people. His villains, on the other hand, are be-jeweled, manicured, effeminate RuPaul clones who stage massive orgies with lesbians, trannies and hunchbacks. It’s not just offensive for the stereotypes and negative associations he’s passing on to young straight men everywhere (as if an R rating is keeping out the teens), it’s lazy, outdated shorthand to contrast the “other” from the straight, white, male protagonist.

I wonder if it would bother me less if I really enjoyed the movie, but I hope not. As it was, the special effects were cool, the Abercrombie & Fitch models - I mean, the cast - looked good in leather briefs and capes, but I didn’t care about any of the characters.

(Thanks to AfterElton for the pic.)

Also check out: If She's the Devil, Then Hell Must Be Fabulous.
And: What Do I Call Her If I'm Not Nasty?
And: Soul Sisters: Amy Winehouse and Joss Stone.

Square One

I realized that as I have been attempting this project of cooking my way through Giada De Laurentiis' Everyday Italian, I never really fully explained the book or how it's broken down. There are six main chapters, and each one is then divided into sub-chapters. They are:

Everyday Antipasti: Fresh From the Pantry, Everyday Seafood Starters, Everyday Frittatas, Tricolore, Olives and Olive Oil, Bread and Sandwiches, Prosciutto, Roasted Peppers

Everday Sauces: Everday Tomato Sauces, Everday Pestos, Everyday Classic Sauces

Everyday Pasta, Polenta and Risotto: Fresh From the Pantry, Everyday Stuffed Pastas, Everyday "Sauceless" Pastas, Everyday Indulgences, Leftover Pasta, Everyday Polenta, Everyday Risotto

Everyday Entreés: Everday Grills and Sautés, Everyday Cutlets, Everyday Roasts, Everyday Stews and Sauces, Everyday Leftovers

Everyday Contorni: Everday Stuffed Vegetables, Roasted and Baked, Quick and Simple, Everyday Salads

Everyday Dolci: Everyday Fruit, Everyday Creams and Puddings, Everyday Cookies and Cakes

Yes, I realize this list raises some questions. Aren't "fresh from the pantry" and "everyday indulgences" both oxymorons? Why is there a whole chapter on sauces and then "Stews and Sauces" in the Entreé chapter? Or did she really mean "soups" instead of "sauces," as that is a more accurate description of that sub-chapter? Why even bother with any other part of the book when you have a section devoted entirely to creams and puddings?

All good questions, my friends, but we must save the answers for another time, as I have something even more important to get to.

What is up with the food photography on the Food Network website?

Not that I want to bite the hand that feeds me, as most of my food pics are courtesy of the website, but it's just so weird. The food shots on the show can literally be mouth-watering, as are the pics in Giada's book. So why do so many of them just not get it quite right?

Let's take a look at this one for Pizza al Spaghetti:



Is it a) an alien b) a turtle or c) an alient turtle? Those straggling noodles look like tenctacles ready to come to life, reenacting War of the Worlds with alien pasta pods and spaghetti legs. Not that this is such a great dish to begin with, but if you look closely you can see where they cut out a wedge. Clearly they were aiming for the cross-section view, so why not go for it? They could have arranged five or six wedges decoratively on a platter to showcase it as a party snack. Not that you'd find it at my party, but nevertheless, it would still make it somewhat more attractive.

And there's this weird proclivity toward extreme close-ups, like this:



Granted, it's still a mound of grilled pineapple with Nutella sauce and hazelnuts, so you can't really go wrong. But this looks like some big landfill of discarded fruit and chocolate and the whipped/mascarpone cream looks like popcorn. A more sparse, minimal setting of just one or two pineapple slices drizzled with the toppings would have been much more elegant and effective.

The same is true of this shot of Fusilli with Tuna and Tomato Sauce:



Why so close? It completely renders the ingredients unrecognizable. See that random little chunk of meat in the upper left corner? Oh yeah, that's the tuna, I guess. If they had just pulled away a little bit, you'd see a rich red tomato sauce flecked with green capers, neon lemon zest and nuggets of meaty tuna. This close and it's like the Discovery Channel digging inside some underground pasta colony where they're crawling all over each other to mate with the queen.

On the other hand, this shot of Spaghetti with Tomato Sauce and Olives doesn't really do the dish justice, either:



It's so far away it looks like any other undistinctive spaghetti-and-tomato-sauce dish. There's no character, nothing special. If they had gotten in a little closer (but not too close), you'd see the purple and green and black of plump olives and maybe even the red pepper flakes sprinkled throughout. From this far away, the dish, while perfectly pleasant, has no texture, which is exactly what makes it special.

Sometimes they do get it just right, like with this Spaghetti with Arugala Pesto and Shrimp:



Close enough to see the vibrant green sauce coat the noodles, topped by perfectly plump shrimp, yet not so close as to render the dish generic. This looks simple and beautiful and it makes me want to try the dish, which is really the whole point of the Food Network accompanying its recipes with photos in the first place.

The same could be said of this shot of Panna Cotta with Fresh Berries:



Fresh, bold berries floating atop pillows of cream. Sure, the glasses are a little too dainty-grandma-at-a-tea-party for my taste, but hey, it's still purty.

I don't know if the inconsistency is due to photographers who don't really understand the recipes they're taking pictures of, but there's so much good food photography out there, I would think the Food Network would want to stay on top of this. After all, it could mean the difference between someone trying their recipe or Googling to find another one.

Just Wondering

Have you ever walked through a bookstore and picked up something interesting only to have a stranger lean over and offer "That is such a good book"?

It's happened to me once or twice and, while there's absolutely nothing wrong with it, I'm not quite sure what to make of it. I mean, has anyone ever said to themselves, "Hmm, this looked kind of interesting, and that guy with the lazy eye and sweaty pits said it was great. I guess I should buy it!" I mean, it's not exactly arrogant of a stranger to think that I, a stranger to them, should care about their opinion. But, that being said, why should I care about their opinion? Who are they, anyway? Granted, I'm reading much too far into it. It's probably just a genuine affection for the book expressed in an environment that promotes affection for books. Or it could be a pick-up line.

I mean, the same could be said of me writing this blog. I offer a lot of opinions - why should anyone care? With so many opinions out there now, is an online stranger any more reliable than some guy in a store? In a way it is, because one could conceivably file through my archives and decide whether or not my opinions are worth paying attention to. Not so with Mr. Sweaty Pits Man (why sweaty pits? And what if they are actually attractive? Does that trigger some sub-conscious agreeableness on the recipient's part?). For all you know, he might be striking up a conversation because he thinks you'd make a great sacrifice to appease Abithwa, the Bong God.

It reminds me of a time I worked at a high-end kitchen retail store and was ringing up an elderly gentleman. At the next register stood two beautiful women in their late twenties. He had been flirting with them as they stood in their parallel lines and both reached their respective cashiers at the same time. He plopped his merchandise on the counter in front of me and I began to ring it up. As he continued to crack jokes about the high-priced cookware to his giggling audience, I grabbed the chipotle raspberry barbeque sauce.

Elderly Man: "Have you tried that?"

Me: "Yeah." (Typical retail lie: say you tried it and loved it.)

Elderly Man: "Would you recommend it?"

Me: "Well, actually, it's great with-"

Elderly Man: "Ah, who cares?" (swatting his hand at me as if shooing a fly away)

The girls laughed at the cantankerous old man and he was eating it up. I was stunned into silence; I had never been set up like that by a customer before. He kept joking to them - "Who cares what some young kid thinks? I don't even know the guy! " - and they kept giggling. I don't know if they were laughing at him, with him, just being good sports or what. I just know that I had been used and made fun of just to get some girls young enough to be his granddaughters (or wife if this were Billy Joel) to smile at him.

But still.

Part of me was like, "Oh, gee, fuck you. If you don't want my opinion, fine, then don't ask for it." And part of me was like, "You know what? The man is old, he probably has like an eighth of a second more to live and he just needed an ego boost to distract him from his knee/hip/liver/kidney/lung/prostate/bladder/spleen/colon/heart ailment(s). And, really, why should he care about my opinion?"

Well, why should he care? Why should I care about someone else's opinion? In my own, long-winded way, it comes down to this: what, really, is the role of the critic in today's society? When people flock to The Da Vinci Code after every single movie critic hates it and people run out to buy James Frey's A Million Little Pieces (yes, I am bringing that up again) even after it's revealed to be a hoax, who's opinion holds any influence? I mean, besides Oprah, of course. Just because someone gets paid to opine, or published his opinions online, doesn't mean he's any good or any more authoritative.

Obviously it comes down to personal responsibility. Who you choose to listen to is your choice...as long as you listen to me. And Abithwa, the Bong God.

The Guts

Since I started cooking my way through Giada de Laurentiis' Everyday Italian, I've made over twenty dishes but hadn't even cracked the sauce or vegetable chapters yet. Plus, that means I still have about 95 recipes to go, and at my rate of about one per week it will take me two years to get through all of them. With that in mind, I feel like, after all my attempts at some of the peripheral dishes like White Bean Tuna Salad and Citrus Biscotti, I'm starting now to get into the guts of the book.

Marinara Sauce: As promised, I finally made Giada's basic marinara sauce, which I could then use in a myriad of other dishes. This worked out pretty well. With prep and cooking, it takes about an hour and a half to make what's supposed to yield 8 cups of sauce. Chunky and slightly sweet with carrots, onions and celery, it still felt a bit watery when ladled over spaghetti. And I could barely taste the garlic and surmised that two cloves might not be enough for 2 quarts of sauce. It also would have helped had I seasoned the vegetables better before adding the crushed tomatoes, but overall this easy recipe actually produces about 6 cups of a B+/A- sauce. With this made, I could then move on to...

Tuna with Tomato Sauce: I know, I know. Canned tuna with pasta? Gross. But bear with me here. If you don't like tuna, this probably won't change your mind. But if you do, tuna simmered with marinara, capers, lemon zest and parsley is a fresh change of pace from the usual pasta dishes. Granted, this, along with the following recipes, probably amounts to peasant food, where Italian grandmothers tossed whatever they had in their pantry into a pan and then had to figure out what to do with leftovers. But this is peasant food in the best sense: quick, resourceful, easy and cheap. You could easily feed a family with this tasty, inexpensive dish.

Tomato Sauce with Olives: Could this title be any more boring? It doesn't even do the dish justice. It should really be called Spicy Olive Basil Sauce, because that's what it is. A mixture of pitted and halved olives are sauteéd with olive oil and red pepper flakes, then simmered with the marinara and fresh basil. I didn't have any fresh basil so I used Trader Joe's Chopped Basil - fresh basil packed into a mini-ice cube tray and then frozen. You pop out the cubes directly into the sauce and they defrost into strands of fresh leaves. How handy is that? This simple, boringly titled recipe actually packed a lot of flavor, producing a spicy, chunky sauce (even the marinara seemed thicker two days after I made it), and even my sweetie, who doesn't like olives, was pleasantly surprised. With this recipe made, I realized I could now make...

Pizza al Spaghetti: More like "Crap al Spaghetti." Or, how about "Pain in the Ass al Spaghetti"? Whoa, whoa...where did that come from? Well, pardon the hostility, but this is really the first recipe that really, truly didn't work for me. I know, the title alone sounds pretty nasty, but I told myself that this project would make me try things I would otherwise avoid, and trying new things is good, right? Turns out, not so much.

You take leftover pasta (and the olive sauce provides a chunky, spicy base) and mix it with eggs and cheese. Then here's how you cook it: you pour half a cup of olive oil into a frying pan, pour in the pasta mixture and spread it out so it's a flat disc, cook it so it forms a crust on the bottom, then invert the mixture onto a plate and slip it back into the pan to cook the other side. Except there was way too much oil and when I flipped it over onto a plate (which fit the pan perfectly), hot oil came streaming out the sides. Um, what? First of all, this would be difficult enough as it is to execute smoothly, but I really didn't need hot oil splashing my arm.

Then I noticed the online version specifies only 1/4 of a cup of oil, which brings me to my question: why pay $30 for the book when the free online versions are revised, improved variations of the same recipes? I feel like a chump. Anyway, the result wasn't even like pizza, it was more like "pie al spaghetti," with a soft, tender filling between two barely-crusty edges. Cut into wedges, it was decent finger food, but I'm way too bitter about the experience to say anything nicer than that (not that there's anything nicer to say, anyway). This was the first big disappointment in the book (and yes, that counts even Polentagate 2006, which was more my fault than the book's). Sigh...

Torta di Pasta: This is a much better use for leftover pasta. It's basically the same as the Pizza al Spaghetti, except there's no flipping involved. You cook one side on the stove, then simply pop the whole pan as is into the broiler to cook the top. The eggy, cheesy filling puffs up and browns, and once cooled, it's cut into wedges to be served as a side dish or snack. With the parmesan cheese and 1.5 teaspoons of salt, this was a little too salty for me, and Lord knows I love me some salt, but otherwise I will definitely keep this in mind next time I have pasta-filled-tupperware lurking in my fridge.

Speaking of guts, I'm also trying numerous brands of whole wheat pasta to see if any of them don't taste like chewy cardboard. I'll let you in one the results once I've sampled enough varieties (I'm at 3 so far). But when you make five different pasta dishes in one week, altogether using about two pounds of pasta (I halved some of the recipes), you end up with one very angry colon. Oh well. No one said this would be easy. And now I have the burn marks to prove it.

And if you're wondering about the food photography I'm using, courtesy of the Food Network website, well, we'll get to that in another post.

OK, I had burn marks.

Ok, ok, they weren't really burn marks so much as some temporary pink stripes on my hand and arm.

But it still hurt.

Mission: Delectable

When your cooking idol tells you what to cook, you do it, right? Right. So when Giada De Laurentiis told me, in person, to my face, to make her Raspberry Tiramisu, I was scooping out the mascarpone before she finished signing my book. I found the perfect occassion to make it when Mother's Day came up a week ago. In case it didn't quite work or wasn't quite enough, I also whipped up another batch of Espresso Brownies, which have quickly become my go-to dessert for entertaining and chocolate fixes. (In case making Raspberry fuckin' Tiramisu wasn't gay enough, now I'm having chocolate fixes. Great. What's next, runway coaching the girls of Top Model?)

Raspberry Tiramisu - Giada must think of this as one of her signature desserts. Not only is she pushing it at book signings, it's the only featured recipe on her website and her popping one the powdered-sugar-dusted raspberries into her (cavernous) mouth made the cover of her second book. I can understand why she's so into it - for tiramisu, it's fairly simple, yet automatically looks both fancy enough for company and complicated enough to make said company think you worked harder on it than you actually did.

However, while I definitely liked the recipe, I wouldn't say I loved it. In fact, out of the seven desserts I've made of hers, there are at least five others I'd make again before this one. Everything was about it is...fine. Grand Marnier mixed in with both the layer of raspberry jam and the layer of whipped mascarpone? Sounds awesome, but in the end was just...there. The layers just didn't come together for me the way they do in traditional tiramisu, mainly because the mascarpone, even folded into whipped cream, was way too heavy for what's trying to be a ligher alternative. The slight crunch from the ladyfingers should have contrasted with the fluffy mascarpone filling and the bursts of raspberries layered in between, but in the end it felt like dressed-up raspberry shortcake. Again, not a bad thing, and it did get raves from my family, but with all the build-up - I mean, it was recommended by none other than Giada herself; this was the recipe she had recommended above all others! - it didn't live up to expectations (which, in all fairness, may have been trumped up unreasonably).

After making the tiramisu, with an entire pound of mascarpone cream folded into whipped cream, I swore off desserts for a while. Since I left my family's homemade Mother's Day brunch with a bag of leftover berries, I naturally made...

Fresh Fruit with Cannoli Cream - Right, because taking the filling out of a cannoli shell and plopping it onto some berries doesn't count as dessert? I wish. But I've been eyeing this recipe ever since I bought Everyday Italian and I now had the chance to make it. All I had to do was fold some ricotta cheese into whipped cream with a dash of cinnamon and I was set. Sprinkle some sliced almonds on top (but take care not to burn them, like I almost did) and you've got one satisfying dessert. Plus, since you're eating fruit, you can convince yourself you're being somewhat healthy.

Fresh Fruit: $4.95 Ricotta Cheese: $2.95 Self-Delusion: Delicious.

With those creamy sins tucked into chilled tupperware, I made a few stabs at actually cooking something for dinner.

Roasted Chicken with Balsamic Vinaigrette - With summer almost upon us, I thought I'd squeeze in one roasted entreé before it gets too warm to use the oven. I don't think this is exactly an Italian dish, or even Italian-American. Instead of always recreating Italian recipes for us modern, ADD home cooks, Giada sometimes, as she explains on her show, chooses to incorporate staple Italian ingredients into regular American stand-bys. Here, she uses balsamic vinegar in a chicken marinade. That part was fine. It was after the chicken baked that I had problems. In the online version, it says to simply place the roasting pan on the stove-top, add chicken broth and boil while scraping up the brown bits on the bottom to create a flavorful sauce (technically a gravy, actually). In the book, however, there's no chicken broth; you pour the remaining marinade into a saucepan and scoop off excess oil (which was hard as it was 75% oil). I then boiled the sauce down to a thick paste rather than a syrup that I could barely spread on the chicken, much less pour.

Oh well, I wasn't expecting to cook 125 recipes perfectly every time anyway. I garnished the moist, tender chicken with some lemon zest, served it with a baked sweet potato and spinach and I was happy. And pretty healthy, too. However, I had to turn to Giada's second book to really make a healthy dish that was perfect on a sunny spring day.

Grilled Chicken with Basil Dressing - Marinate the chicken in olive oil and crushed fennel seeds, grill, and then serve with a basil/olive oil/lemon dressing, like pesto without the Parmesan and pine nuts (although, again, the online version is different - what's up with that?). Done. That's it. Grilling chicken is so fast and easy, and if done correctly (not that hard), produces beautifully tender, juicy meat. Love it. Serve with grilled zucchini and yellow squash, plus some brown-buttered corn with basil, and I was a happy man.

Last time I blogged about cooking I said I'd attempt Giada's marinara sauce next, which hasn't happened. I had made a lot of pasta dishes at that point and wanted to take a break. Plus, I'm thinking of trying whole wheat pasta again, but I've had bad experiences with it (chewy, tough) so I'm hesitant to go back. But it's healthier, and there's no way I can get through a book that practically worships starch without trying some alternatives.

If the whole wheat pasta doesn't taste good, I'll just top regular noodles with some cannoli cream. That makes everything healthier.

Spaghetti, Chocolate and Half a Tart

One of the very first lessons Julie Powell learned when tackling Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking was that "simple" is not the same thing as "easy" (think about tying your shoe vs. a prostitute. See? Not the same thing.) As I make my way through the recipes of Giada De Laurentiis, I'm learning the same thing. That's why I have to break down my latest dishes into two separate categories.

Simple and Easy

Lemon Spaghetti - This definitely qualifies as both. All you really need is a box of spaghetti, olive oil, Parmesan and two lemons. Cook the pasta, make a little sauce/dressing with the rest of the ingredients, add some fresh basil (because everything is better with fresh basil) and you're done. Seriously, that's it. Spring on a plate. So make that simple, easy and cheap, too, because all together this dish costs less than $10. Not only that, it lasted me a long time (one pound of pasta for one person? Um, what's up, carb-a-thon?) and by adding some broccoli and grilled chicken, I had an easy one-dish meal.

Espresso Brownies - OK, so Miss Giada may be doctoring up a brownie mix here, but hey, everyone needs a shortcut here and there, right? Right. Just like how I couldn't find instant espresso (seriously, Jewel, I'm not asking for imported Chinese cinnamon here) so I used instant coffee instead. So I guess these were technically Coffee Brownies, but whatever. The point is...they're awesome. Adding chocolate chips and instant coffee to the mix, then smearing a creamy coffee vanilla glaze over the top - ugh, stop me now, before I go into a chocolate coma via mere memories.

These are so densely rich, and yet I ignored Giada's advice to cut them into little bite-sized squares. Because men don't eat bite-sized anything, right? I mean, I had to counteract the fact that I was indulging a girly chocolate fix by at least eating manly, brick-sized portions, right? Oh well, I guess if you're going to indulge, why hold back? Hence the title of this blog: everything in moderation, including moderation.

Simple...but not so Easy

Spaghetti with Garlic, Olive Oil and Red Pepper Flakes - Simple, classic Italian flavors, a straightforward recipe - what could go wrong? First of all, it says to saute the garlic in the olive oil, and then "remove and discard the garlic." Um, she wants me to actually take garlic out of a dish? Blasphemy, no? So, OK, I tried, but since Giada warned me not to overcook the garlic, I instead over-compensated and undercooked it, and the garlic flavor barely infused the oil. And when you're working with as few ingredients as this, you want as much flavor as possible. Next time, I'll just leave the garlic in.

Second, I read the part where you save some of the pasta's cooking water to add to the oil, helping create more of an actual sauce. Yeah, well, I forgot that until I was already draining the pasta, so I barely got even the two tablespoons the recipe recommends.

Third, well, this wasn't so much a mistake as a future adjustment. Giada adds her own twist to the recipe by adding some fresh parsley, basil and mint at the end for flavor and color. I would have added more, because with just one tablespoon of each for a pound of pasta, the red pepper flakes easily overpowered the herbs. Still, add some grilled chicken and you have a simple, spicy dish.

Apricot Crostata - Who looks at a recipe where you actually have to make pastry dough by hand and thinks it will be easy? Me, that's who. Me and, um, (fill in name of famous French pastry chef). I saw the minimal ingredients, skimmed through the recipe and thought nothing of it. When, in fact, you're creating a dough, balling it up, flattening it out into a disc, chilling it for an hour, then rolling it out again to the right thickness, adding some jam in the middle and then folding over the edge to create a rustic, handmade yet expertly crimped Italian fruit tart.

I over-rolled it, creating, what I thought, was a much-too-thin dough. I also used orange marmalade instead of the apricot or raspberry jam that Giada recommends. The marmalade was thicker and therefore heavier than jam, thus endangering my precious, delicate dough. However, everything worked out in the end, as the crust was crumbly and buttery, with the aroma of grated lemon zest floating through my kitchen. The recipe says it serves eight, but I don't know who she's kidding. In my family, this would barely serve four. And we're not pigs or anything, we just want more than a thin sliver of our dessert.

The brownies and crostata are from Giada's newest book, Giada's Family Dinners. Yes, even though I'm nowhere near finishing all of her recipes from Everyday Italian (my original plan), I simply couldn't resist. I guess I'll now be making my way through both books. And while I love finding new Italian desserts, I really need to keep the sweets in check, so I'll be focusing on the recipes that really prove a chef's worth: marinara sauce. I used to make my own tomato sauce from scratch and did a pretty damn fine job, so we'll see how it compares. Bring it, Giada.

How an Author Got Lazy, Got Caught and (Maybe) Got Away WIth It

There are so many things wrong with this story I don't know where to start. Kaavya Viswanathan, a 19-year-old sophomore at Harvard, is being accused of plagiarizing another novelist's work for her own brand new novel, How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild, and Got a Life.

Apparently, there are 29 passages that almost exactly match passages found in Megan F. McCafferty's 2001 novel Sloppy Firsts and 2003 novel Second Helpings. The Harvard Crimson has examples here. An investigation by both authors' publishing companies has begun (they were tipped off by an anonymous fan of McCafferty).

Viswanathan admits to having been a big fan of those books in high school, yet has the nerve to dismiss any similarities between the books as "unintentional and unconscious." She then goes on to explain, "I wasn't aware of how much I may have internalized Ms. McCafferty's words."

According to a New York Times profile, Viswanathan had completed a large novel about Irish history while still in high school. Her parents hired her a specialist in college applications, and when the specialist read Viswanathan's work, she was so impressed she passed it on to the William Morris Agency. The Agency lead to an agent which lead to a book packaging company which lead to her publisher, Little, Brown. By the time she was 17 she had a two-novel deal for $500,000 based on four chapters of the novel and an outline. A movie based on Opal Mehta is already in the works.

It seems some people have theorized that this is the result of "cryptomnesia," where one's brain incorrectly attributes rememberd information to the wrong source. I understand this idea (I occassionally attribute a previous conversation to the wrong friend) but it seems like a stretch to apply it here.

Even if she's talented, smart and hard-working enough to get into Harvard, that doesn't mean her writing talent is worth half a million dollars. I don't know everything about the publishing industry, but half a million dollars for only two books by an inexperienced teenager does not make any sense to me. Even before these plagiarism allegations came out, this deal made no sense.

Everyone is "inspired" or "influenced" by other artist's work. But to say any similarities (and these go beyond similarities, these sentences are word-for-word copies) are "unintentional and unconscious" isn't going to fool anyone. Cryptomnesa? 29 times (and that number seems to be growing)? I don't think so. Luckily, McCafferty's publishers at Crown, a division of Random House, described it more accurately as "literary identity theft."

Oh, and apparently future editions are going to have the "similarities" taken out or edited. Plus, Harvard doesn't seem to care as this is concerning "non-academic work". So let me get this straight: Viswanathan doesn't suffer any consequences at school, the book will still be published (and now with a lot more publicity that is helping her - and McCafferty's - sales), she's still pocketing the half a mil (unless she gets sued and loses) and the movie is, at this point, still being made. While it's too early to tell what the outcome of this situation will be, it seems like she'll do pretty well no matter what.

(On somewhat of a side note, I understand that a college sophomore with a huge book deal makes for an interesting profile, but I hope this will encourage the NY Times, with its national audeince, to broaden its scope. The incestuous, insular nature of New York and Ivy League schools (both with each other and in their own circles) is just plain annoying. There are plenty of young, talented writers with book deals in this country who actually write their own material that are worthy of the coverage, publicity and hype Ms. Viswanathan received. Rea Frey of Columbia College, my alma mater, wrote a well-received book while graduating as the valedictorian - where's her profile?)

My Love Is More Like Vodka

I'm trying to think of a love song that I like. I know it's cool right now to like some love songs in an ironic way, pumping your fist in the air and shouting "Yes!" when something by Journey plays on the bar jukebox (could that trend please run its course by the way? Journey, like most things, was much cooler - or, at least, a notch above hellacious - when everyone wasn't shoving down your throat how post-ironically "cool" they are now). But I can't even think of a single, straightforward, sentimental love song - one without a minor chord progression or melancholy lyric - that I really enjoy.

So, although I didn't know what to expect, I wasn't optimistic about reading Mitch Albom's The Five People You Meet in Heaven. I had heard from various sources that he was sappy and sentimental, two characteristics I don't normally respond to, whether in music or literature, without cringing.

Granted, many of these opinions were voiced by fellow fiction writing majors at Columbia College, where it was normal to despise any popular literature, even if you hadn't read it. So I was surprised when, halfway through his novel, I was thoroughly enjoying Albom's story.

It doesn't give anything away to say the five people you meet in heaven are actually the five people Eddie, our protagonist, meets in heaven. Albom starts at the end of Eddie's life and works both forward and backwards. He explores what happens to Eddie after he passes away in a freak amusement park accident and flashes back to various stages in Eddie's life, beginning with his birth and using subsequent birthdays along the way to anchor the pivotal moments in his life.

Of course, the five people - each of whom had influenced Eddie's life while they were alive - all have something to teach Eddie. A cynic might find these lessons cloying or even preachy, but you know what? I bought it. I fully believed that these people would exist in real life and that their lessons, while maybe not completely original, are worthwhile.

While Eddie could just have been the cantakerous old man stereotype, Albom layers him with shades of vulnerability, naivete, joy, pain and pride. Even the coldest cynic would appreciate the sweet highs and stifling lows of Eddie's life-long romance with his wife, Marguerite.

I once heard a psychiatrist explain that a troubled, unsatisfying relationship between a man and his father is part of the "male psyche." That is, it's a given that all men, regardless of race or class, have to deal with. Albom carefully explores both sides of the rocky relationship between Eddie and his father, revealing the bitterness, petty grudges and mutual failed expectations that so often form the unspoken pain men carry against their fathers or sons for decades.

My opinion might be biased since I could relate so easily to Eddie's problems, from his resentful attitude towards his father to his inner regrets about life choices. Maybe I overestimated Albom's story-telling finesse? I don't think that's the case due to my eye-rolling after reading this:

"Love, like rain, can nourish from above, drenching couples with a soaking joy. Bur sometimes, under the angry heat of life, love dries on the surface and must nourish from below, tending to its roots, keeping itself alive."

Excuse me? Love is like rain? Did he really write that? And, okay, if he came up with something like that on his first draft, then fine, but to keep it in the final copy? This is worse than high school poetry.

In the next paragraph, just in case I didn't quite get the picture, Albom describes tension between Eddie and his wife by explaining that "the water of their love was hidden beneath the roots."

If anyone ever told me that the water of my love was hidden beneath my roots I would punch him in the face. Next thing I know, he's going to tell me to water my spiritual garden so the rainbow of my soul can shine on the dew-drop that is life.

There's more of that, too, by the way; I just don't have the heart to force any more of it onto you. This is the problem that I have, both with sentimental literature and sentimental love songs: if the feelings they're addressing are so precious, fleeting and unique as to justify a whole book or song, then any little inauthentic detail punctures my focus and before I know it, I'm on the floor laughing.

Luckily, I took a few deep breaths and opened up the book again. Despite some lazy writing, there is a well-earned sweetness to Albom's story, a compliment I don't normally dole out. While beginning in the present day, Albom's tale feels both old-fashioned and timeless. This is a book you pass down to your children.

Unless they like Journey. Then you're too late.

Literary Gold!

(Blogger update: This piece was chosen by the editors of Blogcritics as a Pick of the Week April 26-May 2. I'm flattered!)

Some artists creates something that is actually a direct response to another artist's work - think how Liz Phair's Exile in Guyville was a song-by-song reply to the Rolling Stones' Exile on Main Street. Similar occurrences have been happening recently on the literary scene. That is, instead of coming up with a completely original premise (if that even exists anymore), an author writers a book, usually non-fiction, as a response to another author's book. Typically, the book provoking a reaction is a best-seller. Because why take the time to craft an entire book as a response to another book no one read in the first place?

Some examples include:


Think: Why Crucial Decisions Can’t Be Made in the Blink of an Eye by Michael R. LeGault. This directly addresses Malcolm Gladwell's best-seller Blink: The Power of Thinking Without Thinking. Think's cover blatanly echoes Blink's spare, clinical design. Even the subtitle seems to be an unsubtle bitch-slap to Blink's premise. The whole approach feels counter-productive: wouldn't you have to read Gladwell's book first so you know with what LeGault was disagreeing? Way to go LeGault - your book is not selling nearly as well as Gladwell's and you're actually promoting his book with your own. So could you write a book explaining why my blog is bad for people? That would sure help me out a lot.


Be Honest - You're Not That Into Him Either by Ian Kirner. I like the title of this response to the hugely popular He's Just Not That Into You by Greg Behrendt and Liz Tuccillo. I always thought the "He's just not that into you" catchphrase from Sex and the City (where Behrendt was a story editor) was a touch snarky. Instead of wasting your time trying to "understand guys" (an ineffective, almost offensive generalization that's up there with figuring out "what women want"), Kirner focuses on what the female reader wants for herself, a goal much more attainable and desirable.


Japanese Women Don’t Get Old or Fat by Naomi Moriyama and William Doyle. It seems Mireille Guiliano's French Women Don’t Get Fat was either so popular or so provocative (or both) that it spawned two bandwagon-jumpers. The second is Mediterranean Women Stay Slim, Too by Melissa Kelly and Eve Adamson. The point of all these books is basically: American women, you're all fatties. Apparently, every non-American woman is holding the key to eating healthy in her size 2 jeans. The answer seems pretty obvious, ladies: move...to another section of the bookstore before you cry or hit someone.

I've been searching for that book inside me, the one that only I could write. Maybe I should take a hint from these books (even if they don't sell a fraction of their source material) and write my own reaction book...

Donny & Donnie & Donny. That's right, Julie Powell. You may have used your year-long pseudo-apprenticeship with Julia Child as the basis of your book Julie & Julia, but I'm going to bask in the mentoring glow of not one but two famous Donnie/y's: Donnie Whalberg and Donny Osmond. (Unlike Julia Child, they may not be technically "dead," but they are definitely not famous anymore - isn't that the same thing?) Over the course of a year, I can learn the funky choreography and ripped-jeans style (including the bound-for-a-comback rattail) of ex-New Kid on the Block bad boy Donnie while studying the former TV/pop singer Donny's 100-watt smile. I'll be a body-rockin' pop star with Chiclet teeth that makes Justin Timberlake look like Joey McIntyre (Joey who? Exactly).

Oslo & I. Marley & Me may be about the world's worst dog, but I don't have the world's best dog - or any pet, for that matter - to respond to John Grogan's book. I do however, have a squirrell that joins me when I eat on my back porch. Living in the city, he's so comfortable around humans that he walks right up as if expecting his own Eggo. I named him Oslo because he's urban and a little worldly - I can tell by his eyes that he's been a few places and seen a few things. Follow our hilarious hi-jinks as he: runs up and down a tree! Appears nervous! Gives me rabies! Of course, after I've learned everything Oslo, in his infinite squirrell wisdom, has to teach me, a tear will be shed and inner peace will be realized. I smell a Pulitzer...wait, that's just the rabies talking.

The Da Vinci Solution. I'm breaking the mold and replying to a fiction book. Don't waste your time putting any more cash in Dan Brown's overstuffed, gold-plated pockets. I'll cut right to the chase and offer the answers to whatever this high-fallutin' "code" is so you don't have to actually read his book (I know you don't really want to, you just want to keep up at cocktail parties). Think of it like Cliff Notes by an author who hasn't read the real book, which doesn't need Cliff Notes to begin with. Deal?

All right! I'm off to rock the best-seller charts. Who knew it could be so easy?

(P.S. Dear Dan Brown - I know, based on the sales of your book, that you have a deal with either God or Satan, so if you read this, please don't hurt me. Sincerely, Donny...um...Osmond. Yeah, that's the ticket. Donny Osmond.)