Merry Christmas, readers. (Note: if you are looking at this, I am considering you a reader).
Tis' the holiday of giving, receiving, spending time with family and... eating and drinking. Perhaps even more so than Thanksgiving. My Italian father, with an intense love and knack for cooking, basks in the glow of opportunity to stuff his family (uncomfortably) full for one evening and one day, beginning Christmas Eve. Being Italian, we part-take in the Feast of the Seven Fishes on Christmas Eve. We have been doing this for as long as I can remember and each year the feast grows- not in the number of people who attend, but in the number of different dishes served. (The number of people who attend has actually dwindled over the years, causing me to question the actual, real appeal of this meal to others.) I am not sure exactly what seven fishes are traditionally present at such a feast- it is our tradition to improvise and place our orders with the cook, who rarely fails to serve more than one delectable version of a dish. For instance, this year my brother asked for crab. Crab cakes and warm lump crab meat with melted butter were present on our Christmas Eve table. Shrimp? This year they came deep friend, coconut coated, scampiied, and cold with cocktail sauce. Fried flounder and fried calamari also appeared among the spread. But there is one dish that trumps all the other concoctions and it is served first. Angel hair pasta with allege gravy. What is this allege gravy and how do you pronounce it, you ask? Phonetically: a-lee-j. What's in the name? Tomato sauce, some Italian spices, and anchovies.
Yes, anchovies. I know, exactly, the crinkled expression on your face as you re-read the word "anchovies." And yes, your vision is correct- those tiny, hairy, extremely potent, very fishy fish that make your eyes water if eaten alone (I do not recommend this). But, used in tomato sauce, they can be solely credited for the resulting coalescence of delicious sauce that my family and I look forward to once a year, all year long. And let me clear something up- the sauce isn't ridden with sunken chunks of revolting anchovy fish. Rather, the anchovies sort of melt into the tomato sauce, flavoring it in a less than powerful, salty type of way. Whatever though, it's awesome.
Our feast requires days of preparation and almost an entire 24 hour period of deep-frying. A deep-fried fog clouds our one-story ranch for about three hours prior to our meal. It is painful. Often, I need to take leave and stand outside, or open a window to breathe by. My eyes sting intensely. And though we devour this meal in about 30 minutes (if we take our time), it's totally worth it. It's not just about the food- it's the only 30 minutes of the year that the four of us sit down together at the same table without complaints. I would like to think that this is what everyone looks forward to, even more than my father's gourmet cooking.
But, I also do not want to kid myself. The food is fabulous and the drinks flow like water from the tap. This year, I promptly got drunk before the meal began, which made consuming an abundant amount of salty food all the more better (and me at the table all the more entertaining). The meal is also followed by my father's infamous Italian knot cookies (and this year, cheesecake!). In the morning we wake up to scrambled eggs, potatoes, coffee (and this year, giant cinnamon buns!) All day long we snack on leftovers and other holiday goodies, like candy. We start drinking early. Now it's time for some lasanga and ham.
Yeah, Christmas is definitely all about the food.
Friday, December 25, 2009
Saturday, December 5, 2009
That time I went to Ohio and supported a client's drug habit...
When I hear Ohio, I think yellow. Sometimes, bright orange.
I traveled to Ohio at the end of this week for a case. I was somewhat excited to meet the woman I was interviewing because she sounded like a cute, old lady on the phone, who would serve tea and cookies in her little apartment by her little Christmas tree and warm fireplace. I had hopeful prospects to schedule two more interviews on my trip, one with the adoptive stepfather and one with the crushed fiance. I arrived in Ohio in the early evening and rushed to complete the site visit shortly after I checked into my hotel. I re-scheduled the woman's interview for the following morning to leave myself a gap of time before my departing flight the next day, figuring I may be giving 2 more interviews.
I should have known this trip was going to be screwy when my flight had a layover in Philadelphia. It takes 14 minutes to fly from Baltimore to Philly- why the layover? Why not just go directly to Ohio? Oh, because not everyone on the plane is going to Ohio? Why the hell not?
The plane I was on for those 14 minutes was so small that all carry-on items had to be checked. I tried to think of myself as a wealthy traveler on a private jet, but this day dream lasted maybe 18 seconds- broken by the scene of one-seat rows, the fat man belching in front of me, the engaged 12 year old sitting across from me, and the resounding reminder that I could not order a $5.00 travel pack of almonds or an $8.00 cocktail because I was traveling on an Ohio per diem. Come to think of it, I'm not sure that such amenities were even an option on this particular flight.
Well, if this plane crashed, only about 16 unimportant people would die.
During my layover in Philly, I left messages for the stepfather and fiance. I was really pushing to interview the stepfather, as I figured he had helped raise the person I was researching and therefore had played a prominent role in her life, in who she was. I would later learn that he did all of the above and more-but would be thankful that he did not return my calls or respond to my letters. Let's just say he is a sick, fucked up individual who may be at the heart of blame for his stepdaughter's tragic demise. And it would not have been safe for me to be alone in a room with him.
Upon landing in Cleveland, I turned on my phone and was overjoyed to see I had a message from the fiance. He would have time for an interview either that evening or the following day! Perfect- I could get my rental car, check into my hotel, and do a site visit before dark. Then I could get dinner and relax in the luxury of my king-size hotel bed and watch TV and sleep peacefully knowing that I had two interviews tomorrow. Right? Wrong.
I called back the fiance and left a message. I got my cobalt (which was cool because I always liked the cobalt but I had never driven one) and made it to my hotel in 30 minutes. Excuse me- motel. MOTEL? Yes, I was being put up in a MOTEL behind DENNY's. Well, at least it was only one night.
The unfriendly, unhappy, rather large teenage girl with a really cheap highlight job pulled out a map and showed me how to drive to my room. Drive to my room? Oh, boy. As I drove, I noticed there were literally no cars in any of the parking spaces, except the parking space aside mine. I pulled up and parked next to the only other car in the lot- a pickup truck- and entered my room. I was relieved to find that it was not cock-roach infested nor were the sheets stained and hairy, but immediately noticed the audible, rhythmic creak of mattress springs resonating from the other side of the wall. Someone moaned. I had a site visit to make.
Driving to the site, I realized I was in the bad part of Lorain, OH, and became nervous. I locked my car doors- it was apparent I was white. I parked in a liquor store parking lot, took a deep breath, grabbed my camera, got out of my car, and quickly snapped a few shots. Thugs were looking my way and a few honked from their rides. Quickest site visit ever.
It was growing dark, I was growing increasingly tired and hungry, and the fiance still had not called back. I drove around and found a grocery store that looked safe (I saw a white person go in) and purchased a few snack items to have while I watched television and fell asleep in my motel room. I was settling into my bed and started thinking it would probably be a better idea for the fiance to come to a meeting room at my motel (if they had one) or for us to meet in a public place. I knew the fiance lived close by the site and was therefore one of the bad-part-of-towners; I was a young girl alone, without her pepper-spray.
Figuring I would not see him until daylight tomorrow anyway, I began to relax and snack and turned on the tube. Then my phone rang. It was him- he wanted to do the interview tonight- he had no mode of transportation- I was going to his place. I hoped I wouldn't die.
He had moved since the incident and was now living in a nicer part of town. He answered the door and he was white. Okay, relieved. (As I write, I'm beginning to think of myself as somewhat racist).
He showed me into a room where he had set up two chairs side by side, behind a coffee table covered in papers, news articles, and photographs. I began the interview, which I cannot go into for confidentiality purposes, and became calmed as I realized I was not going to be raped and murdered (which may have happened had I interviewed the stepfather). The fiance provided a lot of useful information and insight but kept harping on how depressed he was since his fiance "did this to him," how evil his fiance's mother is, and how he and his fiance were both ex-drug addicts. He reassured me that he no longer used drugs; he had been clean for years.
During the interview, I realized the apartment was covered in photographs of his fiance and the news articles were articles about her death. Did the apartment always look this way or did he set this up just for me, for sympathy points?
He knew I was interviewing the mother in the morning and warned me she would have terrible things to say about him. She would tell me he was to blame and he was addicted to cocaine. And that she was an evil liar.
As the interview wrapped up, he initiated small talk, asking unrelated questions. He wanted to know how I was finding my way around Ohio, if I knew where I could find myself something to eat, how I liked my hotel, and if I needed anything. I thought this was nice and that he was lonely, so I politely engaged in small talk. Then he asked for $20.
...
He showed me a paper he had received from a recent psychiatric hospitalization for depression. It listed three medications he needed to help him feel better. He told me he was afraid that if he didn't take them, he would turn out like his fiance. He needed $20 and had no one around to help him out.
Stunned, sympathetic, naive, and unable to ever say no to anyone, I gave him $20. He showed me the note his fiance left at the site.
I thanked him and hurried out, feeling $20 more broke and 20 times less wise. There was a good chance he fooled me into giving him money for coke.
Well, that was over and behind me. I couldn't take back my money. Plus, maybe he really was using it to buy anti-depressants to feel better. One thing was for sure either way, he was definitely using it to make himself feel better.
He called me about 9 PM that night, to tell me something else about the case. I wondered if he was high.
I met the mother the following morning, as planned. She was not a cute old lady- she was a recovering alcoholic and she was raw. Her bleached blond hair was tied up high in a pony tail, which she told me gave her a headache. Her apartment was freezing (there was no fireplace, though there was a Christmas tree) and she chain-smoked and cursed like a sailor during the interview, while her step-grandson ran around in his underwear. She bad-mouthed the fiance, like he had said she would, and gave me more reason to believe that I had indeed given him $20 to buy coke. I liked her. Raw=honest. Upon leaving though, she was surprised to learn that I was not from Ohio. She told me she could not tell I wasn't a regular Ohio hillbilly. I no longer liked her or Ohio.
I raced to the airport and caught an early flight and got the hell out of Ohio. The fiance called me three times and wanted to know what the mother had said about him. I said "nothing terrible." He said I was very professional and easy to talk to and thanked me for the money, which he had since used to purchase his pills. I told him I hoped he felt better and to take care.
What the fuck, Ohio?
I traveled to Ohio at the end of this week for a case. I was somewhat excited to meet the woman I was interviewing because she sounded like a cute, old lady on the phone, who would serve tea and cookies in her little apartment by her little Christmas tree and warm fireplace. I had hopeful prospects to schedule two more interviews on my trip, one with the adoptive stepfather and one with the crushed fiance. I arrived in Ohio in the early evening and rushed to complete the site visit shortly after I checked into my hotel. I re-scheduled the woman's interview for the following morning to leave myself a gap of time before my departing flight the next day, figuring I may be giving 2 more interviews.
I should have known this trip was going to be screwy when my flight had a layover in Philadelphia. It takes 14 minutes to fly from Baltimore to Philly- why the layover? Why not just go directly to Ohio? Oh, because not everyone on the plane is going to Ohio? Why the hell not?
The plane I was on for those 14 minutes was so small that all carry-on items had to be checked. I tried to think of myself as a wealthy traveler on a private jet, but this day dream lasted maybe 18 seconds- broken by the scene of one-seat rows, the fat man belching in front of me, the engaged 12 year old sitting across from me, and the resounding reminder that I could not order a $5.00 travel pack of almonds or an $8.00 cocktail because I was traveling on an Ohio per diem. Come to think of it, I'm not sure that such amenities were even an option on this particular flight.
Well, if this plane crashed, only about 16 unimportant people would die.
During my layover in Philly, I left messages for the stepfather and fiance. I was really pushing to interview the stepfather, as I figured he had helped raise the person I was researching and therefore had played a prominent role in her life, in who she was. I would later learn that he did all of the above and more-but would be thankful that he did not return my calls or respond to my letters. Let's just say he is a sick, fucked up individual who may be at the heart of blame for his stepdaughter's tragic demise. And it would not have been safe for me to be alone in a room with him.
Upon landing in Cleveland, I turned on my phone and was overjoyed to see I had a message from the fiance. He would have time for an interview either that evening or the following day! Perfect- I could get my rental car, check into my hotel, and do a site visit before dark. Then I could get dinner and relax in the luxury of my king-size hotel bed and watch TV and sleep peacefully knowing that I had two interviews tomorrow. Right? Wrong.
I called back the fiance and left a message. I got my cobalt (which was cool because I always liked the cobalt but I had never driven one) and made it to my hotel in 30 minutes. Excuse me- motel. MOTEL? Yes, I was being put up in a MOTEL behind DENNY's. Well, at least it was only one night.
The unfriendly, unhappy, rather large teenage girl with a really cheap highlight job pulled out a map and showed me how to drive to my room. Drive to my room? Oh, boy. As I drove, I noticed there were literally no cars in any of the parking spaces, except the parking space aside mine. I pulled up and parked next to the only other car in the lot- a pickup truck- and entered my room. I was relieved to find that it was not cock-roach infested nor were the sheets stained and hairy, but immediately noticed the audible, rhythmic creak of mattress springs resonating from the other side of the wall. Someone moaned. I had a site visit to make.
Driving to the site, I realized I was in the bad part of Lorain, OH, and became nervous. I locked my car doors- it was apparent I was white. I parked in a liquor store parking lot, took a deep breath, grabbed my camera, got out of my car, and quickly snapped a few shots. Thugs were looking my way and a few honked from their rides. Quickest site visit ever.
It was growing dark, I was growing increasingly tired and hungry, and the fiance still had not called back. I drove around and found a grocery store that looked safe (I saw a white person go in) and purchased a few snack items to have while I watched television and fell asleep in my motel room. I was settling into my bed and started thinking it would probably be a better idea for the fiance to come to a meeting room at my motel (if they had one) or for us to meet in a public place. I knew the fiance lived close by the site and was therefore one of the bad-part-of-towners; I was a young girl alone, without her pepper-spray.
Figuring I would not see him until daylight tomorrow anyway, I began to relax and snack and turned on the tube. Then my phone rang. It was him- he wanted to do the interview tonight- he had no mode of transportation- I was going to his place. I hoped I wouldn't die.
He had moved since the incident and was now living in a nicer part of town. He answered the door and he was white. Okay, relieved. (As I write, I'm beginning to think of myself as somewhat racist).
He showed me into a room where he had set up two chairs side by side, behind a coffee table covered in papers, news articles, and photographs. I began the interview, which I cannot go into for confidentiality purposes, and became calmed as I realized I was not going to be raped and murdered (which may have happened had I interviewed the stepfather). The fiance provided a lot of useful information and insight but kept harping on how depressed he was since his fiance "did this to him," how evil his fiance's mother is, and how he and his fiance were both ex-drug addicts. He reassured me that he no longer used drugs; he had been clean for years.
During the interview, I realized the apartment was covered in photographs of his fiance and the news articles were articles about her death. Did the apartment always look this way or did he set this up just for me, for sympathy points?
He knew I was interviewing the mother in the morning and warned me she would have terrible things to say about him. She would tell me he was to blame and he was addicted to cocaine. And that she was an evil liar.
As the interview wrapped up, he initiated small talk, asking unrelated questions. He wanted to know how I was finding my way around Ohio, if I knew where I could find myself something to eat, how I liked my hotel, and if I needed anything. I thought this was nice and that he was lonely, so I politely engaged in small talk. Then he asked for $20.
...
He showed me a paper he had received from a recent psychiatric hospitalization for depression. It listed three medications he needed to help him feel better. He told me he was afraid that if he didn't take them, he would turn out like his fiance. He needed $20 and had no one around to help him out.
Stunned, sympathetic, naive, and unable to ever say no to anyone, I gave him $20. He showed me the note his fiance left at the site.
I thanked him and hurried out, feeling $20 more broke and 20 times less wise. There was a good chance he fooled me into giving him money for coke.
Well, that was over and behind me. I couldn't take back my money. Plus, maybe he really was using it to buy anti-depressants to feel better. One thing was for sure either way, he was definitely using it to make himself feel better.
He called me about 9 PM that night, to tell me something else about the case. I wondered if he was high.
I met the mother the following morning, as planned. She was not a cute old lady- she was a recovering alcoholic and she was raw. Her bleached blond hair was tied up high in a pony tail, which she told me gave her a headache. Her apartment was freezing (there was no fireplace, though there was a Christmas tree) and she chain-smoked and cursed like a sailor during the interview, while her step-grandson ran around in his underwear. She bad-mouthed the fiance, like he had said she would, and gave me more reason to believe that I had indeed given him $20 to buy coke. I liked her. Raw=honest. Upon leaving though, she was surprised to learn that I was not from Ohio. She told me she could not tell I wasn't a regular Ohio hillbilly. I no longer liked her or Ohio.
I raced to the airport and caught an early flight and got the hell out of Ohio. The fiance called me three times and wanted to know what the mother had said about him. I said "nothing terrible." He said I was very professional and easy to talk to and thanked me for the money, which he had since used to purchase his pills. I told him I hoped he felt better and to take care.
What the fuck, Ohio?
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