eg-blog

Jam Session (2) -- Bowls of Cherries

2009-07-27T18:40:00.000-07:00

After yesterday's success, I decided to forge ahead with a batch of cherry preserves. The blueberry jam set really well but the sugar sort of overwhelmed the fruit. Since I bought bing cherries rather than sour cherries (which are purportedly better for jam) and since I wanted to try to make jam sans pectin, I looked around on the Interweb for some recipes and found a couple of variations of cherry jam with creme de cassis (I almost made cherry chocolate preserves, but then thought otherwise).

So I started with six pounds of cherries.

My friend the Angel (this week, the Jam Angel) suggested that I get a cherry pitter. I did a little research and found this fabulous Oxo model at Williams Sonoma:

It also works as an olive pitter (which will save my fingers next time I make a batch of Caponata). I was totally fascinated by the cherry pitter (you can tell I'm easily amused).

First you insert the cherry in the little opening above the chute:

Then you squeeze the handles, and a little metal implement punctures the fruit and pops out the stone:

That last one looks a little naughty.

Anyway, the magic pitter made fast work of the cherries:

I ended up with 2 big bowls of cherries:

My kitchen (and my white shirt) looked like the aftermath of a slasher film.

According to the recipes, you need to chop or mash the cherries, so I tried out my food mill (which I bought years ago to make Italian chopped chicken liver, but never used ....). I got a good workout milling the fruit, but I'm not sure how effective it was.

Instead of following the Cert-O recipe (and wanting to try to make the jam without pectin), I looked through my 1964 edition of the Joy of Cooking (and the various blog recipes). I had about 10 cups of cherry mash, which I layered with about 7 cups of sugar in my trusty Le Creuset pan:

I squeezed in some lemon juice:

... and then left the mixture to sit for 6 hours. When I opened the pot after 6 hours, the cherry mash looked like this (the cherries had plumped up a bit):

I brought it to a boil (see, it sort of does look like lava):

and then threw in half a cup of Creme de Cassis at the end (and I ended up using a little pectin). It tastes really good, but at the moment it's a bit syrupy -- if all else fails, it will be tasty on ice cream or in yogurt (or maybe even on roast duck). The jars just came out of the canner, and I heard some promising lid pops from the kitchen. I guess jam making really is a science. I need to read up (and observe the Jam Angel in action).

Anyway, my little stay-cation is over and it's back to the rock-pile tomorrow. I still want to make green gage plum jam and fig preserves this summer, so stay tuned (and I need to pull out the ice cream maker, as well).

The EG Chronicles: Jam Session (1)

2009-07-26T12:04:00.000-07:00

Ambitious lass that I am, I have two goals for the summer -- to learn how to make jam and to make home-made ice cream. Maybe it's because my job uses up lots of left-brain energy (so I unwind with creative pursuits -- cooking, writing, making handbags, knitting).

Maybe it's the current state of the economy -- a throwback to my mom's tales of the 1930s. According to family lore, my Grandma Eva (mom's mom) started her own business during the Great Depression, making rose petal jelly in her apartment. I have good memories of Grandma's home-made pickles, from childhood. Grandma -- no-nonsense gal that she was -- did her own canning, cooking and preserving without the benefit of Williams Sonoma and its many gadgets.

My friend the Angel

is slightly jam obsessed (he goes wild at the green market all summer and then makes jams and treats for his friends -- he recently gave me some favvulous gooseberry curd).

I have made jam and marmalade a couple of times in the past -- with my mom (up in Connecticut) and with my friend Hali and her kids (when we picked vats and vats of strawberries up near her farm in Canada). The Canada trip was about 8 years ago, and my arms have finally recovered from stirring the strawberry jam, so I figured it was time to give it a go.

Making jam in the city is a minor challenge. In my Martha Stewart fantasy, I have a huge professional country kitchen. The reality is a fairly cramped New York apartment kitchen. Part of my fear of making jam had to do with all the quasi-scientific aspects of the process -- pectin, sterilizing, boiling, etc.

It was hard to track down

liquid pectin in Manhattan (but I managed to score some on a recent trip to Westport).

Because of all the rainfall in the northeast this summer, blueberries are abundant (and relatively cheap). Since it was impractical to get to a farm, the farm came to me (via FreshDirect.com) -- 9 quarts of blueberries. There are also some cherries (a preview of my next post).

I also had to track down Mason jars (also a mild challenge in the city -- even in a city of foodies). Luckily, a local hardware store had them in stock, and even delivered. I assembled the other tools (a wide mouth funnel, ominous looking jar lifters, a 31 quart canner). Of course, the cats had to investigate everything (before I sterilized it all):

Now it was time to get to work! I turned on the NPR (Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me) and put on my I am EG apron (a gift from the Angel).

First, I pulled out the 13 quart Le Creuset cast iron pot (just like Grandma's!):

It's difficult to lift, even when empty.

Then, I washed 9 pints of blueberries:

and measured out 14 cups of sugar -- enough to fill my salad bowl (the dentist is going to love my new hobby):

At this point, I stopped to sterilize the jars -- I washed them and then put them in boiling water:

By this point, Wait, Wait Don't Tell me gave way to the ubiquitous Jonathan Schwartz (and his obsession with Frank Sinatra). Perfect soundtrack to crush some berries with a potato masher:

The berries and the sugar and some lemon juice and cinnamon went into the giant pot and then it was time to stir, and stir,

and stir.

My friend Hali (and the Cert-O pectin people) said to wait until the jam comes to a rolling boil to add the pectin. It's funny -- when I was reading the directions from the Cert-O package, I sort of fantasized that they had been written by someone like this:

In reality (from my friend Kathy at work -- she was a food engineer at one point -- and Better Off Ted), they probably look more like this:

Anyway, I wasn't sure how I'd know when it was ready, but about 15 minutes in, the jam turned a bright pink color and sort of erupted and bubbled up (like blueberry lava -- too fast for me to capture a photo). At this point, I stirred in the pectin.

And then ladled the jam into the jars:

And put the jars in the canning bath to boil:

Since I had about 20 minutes, I went to check on Gizmo (passed out in front of the air conditioner).

As I finished taking the jars out of the canning bath, Jonathan Schwartz was on to a best of Broadway phase, so the final soundtrack was Zero Mostel singing "If I Were a Rich Man" from Fiddler (sort of reminded me of Grandma) -- and then Ethel Merman singing "Anything You Can Do I Can Do Better" from Annie Get Your Gun (I chuckled that unlike Annie Oakley, I can make a pie -- and now I can even make blueberry jam).

Et voila -- the finished product! As I've been writing this, I have been listening to the sound of the lids popping in the kitchen (a good sign that the jars are actually properly sealed). Now off to bake some blueberry muffins with the leftover berries. Bon appetit.

Good Morning Angels

2009-06-27T21:15:00.000-07:00

Two icons of my childhood passed away last Thursday -- two very different people who had an imprint on my life in the 70s and 80s.

Charlie's Angels premiered in 1976, when I was in 5th grade. I guess it was pretty groundbreaking in those days to build a show around "three little girls who went to the police academy" (even if they grew up to solve their cases in skimpy outfits, evening gowns and bikinis!). The women in most of the TV shows of my childhood were stay-at-home moms (or stay-at-home moms who sang in pop bands, wore frilly blouses and purple velvet bell bottoms, and drove funky painted schoolbuses). Even if Charlie's Angels was pure Aaron Spelling, it was still fairly cutting edge. But I was 10 -- I didn't care about feminism. I wanted hair like Farrah! I was a chubby dark-haired bifocal-wearing Jewish girl on the Upper East Side (where you really couldn't chase baddies in a bikini), but I wanted those wings (even if it was basically impossible to achieve that look with my baby-fine hair).

After a long, valiant and dignified battle against cancer, Farrah passed away on my mother's 81st birthday, and when I called mom to chat about it, her remark was -- "Farrah, the hair." My mom endured my pre-teen experiment, buying me a curling iron and rollers (I think this was before the advent of hair mousse) -- to no avail. Thankfully (if not for Princess Diana, at least for my hair), Lady Di came on the scene by the time I got to middle school -- by then I didn't need the glasses, and the Shy Di hairstyle was a good look for me.

In her final interviews, Farrah remarked that she always felt that she wasn't taken seriously as an actress because she was beautiful. What's really interesting to me is that in the thirty years since the debut of Charlie's Angels, I feel like women have made a lot of progress in being taken seriously as professionals, without giving up their individuality (although that progress goes in fits and starts). When I got out of law school, I worked at a law firm where I wasn't even allowed to wear a pantsuit (I had to wear conservative skirt suits and panty hose -- and the partners looked uncomfortable if you wore anything other than grey, navy or black). I got a disdainful look from one of the partners when I caved and finally wore a (grey wool) pantsuit to a client meeting during a massive snowstorm. Thankfully, things have loosened up quite a bit. While I still wear suits to work on occasion, there's definitely more room for personal expression (although I haven't worked up the courage to go sleeveless like Michelle O). I wonder if Charlie's Angels influenced Hillary -- the doyenne of the "Sisterhood of the Traveling Pantsuits" is about the same age as Farrah.

Michael Jackson is a different story. The Jackson 5 burst onto the scene in 1969, when I was in nursery school. I have strong memories of watching them sing and dance on TV (including the Jackson 5 cartoon). This was the age of the variety show. And I remember watching Michael grow up on TV. Off the Wall was the soundtrack of my middle school dances and camp socials. MTV was new and cool when I was in high school, and I have vivid memories of the premiere of "Thriller" (Thriller came on the radio when I was washing the dishes tonight, and I am proud-- if slightly embarrassed -- to confess that I still remember the entire Vincent Price rap). I couldn't find my copy of the album among my CDs or old cassettes, and then I realized that I had owned the LP (which is probably somewhere in my parents' apartment!).

But around the time I got out of college, Michael Jackson's life took a weird turn -- the pet chimp, the marriage to Lisa Marie Presley, Neverland, the llamas, the hyperbaric chamber, the endless plastic surgery. I travelled quite a bit in my twenties and wherever I went in the world, Michael Jackson was a huge star -- England, China, Thailand, Australia ... When I was living in Thailand during the summer of '93, Michael Jackson had to cancel some concerts there and it made the national news for days. He was also a genius (artistically, commercially).

During that time, I always thought he was eccentric, but then he would create a brilliant song or video (for example, the morphing faces in "Black or White"). He was odd and troubled, but what a talent! But when he faced the allegations of child molestation, I drew the line and stopped buying his music. Even though he was never convicted, I felt as if he had crossed a line -- and his troubled childhood was not an excuse. He was just totally lost. And -- after the trial --every time I heard one of his songs, I had sort of a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I still followed stories about him in the press, but he fell out of my consciousness until they announced the planned concerts in London. I was in the UK when they announced it and it was huge news.

I logged onto CNN on Thursday afternoon to check for news about Farrah, and I was absolutely shocked to see an alert that Michael Jackson had suffered a cardiac arrest. I have to say, when he turned 50 last year, I had a hard time imagining him growing old -- so I can't say it was a total surprise, but it was definitely a shock. One of my colleagues came into my office to chat about the news. By the time I left the office, Twitter had reported that he had died.

And then -- Billie Jean popped into my head. I found myself listening to Michael Jackson on my iPod on the way home (and all my friends had similar experiences -- the Angel said everyone at the gym was listening to Michael Jackson as they worked out -- and most of my friends were sharing memories of Michael Jackson on Facebook). Beyond the fascination with how he died (and my obsession with the inevitable conspiracy theories, weird related stories and international responses), I realized I've been mourning him a bit over the past couple of days. His music was the sound track of my youth. And listening to all his various hits brought back really lovely memories (and watching his videos online was really moving). Everywhere I go, they've been playing his songs. Hearing them again is bringing back the joy I experienced when I heard each song for the first time. Time has given me some perspective on his struggles and his pain.

His life was quite tragic -- but he was a pioneer. He was one of the first African-American artists to cross over into mainstream music and culture in a manner that transcended or broke down racial divides. To some extent, he paved the way for Oprah, Tiger Woods, and even Obama. Although it will take some time to sort through the mess of his later years and the drama surrounding the end of his life, I think he'll be remembered for his significant and pioneering impact on American pop culture -- and that iconic lone glove.

Lest you think I'm totally maudlin, there is a reason for this moonwalk down memory lane. When I last blogged, I was gearing up for the big high school reunion. I have to say, it was really pretty anti-climactic (and actually very nice). I found a fabulous 60s style gold sheath dress and -- after a bit of effort -- paired it with a melon colored J. Crew cardigan (my homage to Lady O!). And my hair even cooperated (and -- finally -- was decoupled from any identifiable celebrity hairdo!). Three observations:

1. Watch "Romy and Michele's High School Reunion" before your next high school gathering (maybe it influenced the selection of the gold dress)!

2. High school would have been much more fun with an open bar (I had two blueberry martinis, which were good icebreakers, until I realized I was a little drunk -- I had violated my friend Dan's two-martini rule, which I'll share some other time); and

3. Everyone seems to have mellowed a bit.

I reconnected with a couple of good friends that I had lost touch with. I had a lovely chat with one of my high school crushes (now married). I was less intimidated talking to all the cute guys (who are mostly lawyers and finance types, like me). Perhaps I channeled my inner Farrah! Yes, there was some of the old cliquishness and drama, but it seemed like people were pretty settled in their adult lives, and actually just plain happy to see old friends. And everyone has been through lots of "stuff." Maybe all the drama and uncertainty with the economy (which has even affected some of my classmates from the Upper East Side prep school) has made us appreciate the value of spending time with old friends. And it was pretty surreal to Tweet from the school library. The funniest thing about this reunion -- which one of my classmates noted online was that there were many wedding rings and few spouses. I don't know if people just really wanted a night out without their kids -- or if they realized that reunions are really not so fun for spouses or partners -- but it was a good night. I eschewed the "after party" for Sichuan dumplings and a catchup with my best friend from high school (who now lives in London) -- which was really the best reunion.

Good night Angels ....

Old EG, New Trix

2009-04-21T20:04:00.000-07:00

Although I consider myself a life-long student, it's been awhile since I've been in school. I think I mentioned that I'm a technology lawyer. On sort of a whim, I signed up for a distance learning grad course in information security this semester (one week to go). Now, I'm by no means a techie. I was a bit of a math geek in high school (and I'll get back to the subject of high school in a bit) but -- like many girls of my generation -- I lost interest in math sometime around senior year of high school. I tried a week of calculus in college and ended up in tears before dropping it in favor of Physics for Poets. School has changed a lot since then.

My grad class is comprised of about twenty or so students (mostly techies of sorts) located literally all over the world. I have written on information security issues in the past, but I knew I needed a bit of a deeper grounding in the subject to have credibility with my techie clients and peers. The course was advertised as non-technical but I knew I should have been worried when I opened the textbook to find equations, diagrams, and greek symbols. Instead of lectures, we had powerpoint presentations (in fact, the whole course was conducted via an online learning management system). I found myself having to explain fairly complicated processes, draw diagrams, do lab reports, etc. Initially, the online learning system itself was a bit daunting. It got to the point where the professor sent me a frantic email because he was worried I was struggling. And then I dug in and decided to focus on the midterm -- and I ACED it (third best grade in the class). I was shocked. I guess it took awhile to get some traction. And today -- shock of shocks -- my final lab report was posted for the class as I got the best score (ironically, in password cracking). My old manager commented that now they can't fire me because I know how to crack passwords ;-) That said, I'm still procrastinating on the final term paper. As my friend the Angel said -- some things never change (and he would know this from many an all nighter in college).

Anyway, I wouldn't normally brag (well, not so much), but this recent foray into academia coincides with two milestones in the next month. In a couple of weeks, I'm going to my 15th law school reunion. I can't believe I've been a lawyer for so long. I still work with lawyers all the time, but it's weird that my best friend from law school -- Eg-laine -- actually abandoned the practice of law after 6 months. This trip down law school memory lane has all been brought into focus because I've been interviewing summer interns. One of the potential interns I talked to today was very similar to me at that point in law school. I recognized lots of similar traits and interests. At the point I graduated from law school, I did not even know that technology law existed. It's been a fun journey (stressful at times, but fun). I never thought I'd end up where I am, but it all sort of makes sense in hindsight. It will be interesting to reconnect with my classmates. I know that some of them are partners in law firms, some are in-house, some teach, some are doing totally unrelated work, and some are stay at home moms. I am most interested to see the people who have branched into other fields. I think it will be really helpful to me as I feel like I'm in a bit of a professional transition at the moment. Five years ago, I felt like the reunion was about comparisons (lawyers are competitive) -- who made partner, who didn't, etc. At that point, I was about to move to London, so I was sort of a novelty. This time, I'm just looking forward to reconnecting with old friends.

The other slightly more daunting milestone is my 25th high school reunion (and now you know how old I am). I cannot believe it's been 25 years. I went to a posh NY private school that is vaguely reminiscent of the school in Gossip Girl (but most of us were more average looking and much tamer than the Gossip Girl crowd). I've enjoyed all the previous reunions, but for some reason 25 seems more significant. Like now we're the old guard. Some of my friends have teenage kids. Some -- like me -- are still single. I was looking through the school website and realized that several beloved teachers have actually passed away (or retired). I think it's going to be very strange. And I'm already stressing about what to wear (which I did not do last time). But the nice thing is that several of us have started connecting through Facebook and they are the same people that they were in high school (basically). I will undoubtedly have some adventures to share in coming weeks.

Why Is This President Different From All Other Presidents?

2009-04-08T20:20:00.000-07:00

I'm obsessed with the White House Seder and hoping for an invite!

All I can say is -- can you imagine Bush trying to pronounce Manischewitz? I heart the first family.

You Know You're in Trouble When Michael Moore is Lurking Outside Your Office with a Film Crew!

2009-03-27T18:22:00.000-07:00

I have to say, I haven't felt like blogging in a few weeks, for various reasons -- mostly just gloomy about the economy. Without divulging too much, I am a lawyer for a financial institution in New York. I always thought I'd be a lawyer. I never thought I'd spend more than half of my career working for a bank. But I don't consider myself a banker. I am an intellectual property lawyer specializing in technology law. During the technology bubble in the 90s I worked for many dot com clients (I called it being a lawyer for kids -- at that point, there were thousands of well-funded startups founded by millionaire 20 somethings with creative ideas but little commercial sense). I am a creative type deep down, so intellectual property law is a good fit for me -- it deals with innovation and the protection of ideas and creativity. We can discuss this at length at some other point.

But when the dot com bubble burst, I got to experience a lay off and -- with few jobs available at media companies -- I went to a bank. And it's been a very good gig. Banks run on technology. As a technology lawyer you get to deal with lots of cutting edge technology, lots of cutting edge legal issues, and you work with lots of smart cool techies (as banks also do lots of in-house technology innovation). Although I work on Wall Street, and I am somewhat buxom and have two felines at home -- I am not one of the "fat cats" being vilified in the press and the Congress. I work hard, I make a good salary (decent for New York but probably enough to support a couple of families outside New York). I completely understand the public's anger at the bailouts, and the TARP, and the AIG bonuses. I even worked for AIG briefly -- before I went to law school. Now I work across the street from AIG and keep an eye out for the angry mob on a daily basis. That said, most of the people I work with are not collecting 6 figure bonuses -- we work hard, we try to do the right thing, and we are all worried about the economy.

I am also a Michael Moore fan. I loved Roger and Me. Bowling For Columbine changed my whole perspective on the war on terror. I watched Fahrenheit 9/11 during my expat exile (during the Bush 43 years). And Sicko totally changed my perspective on health insurance. So imagine my moral quandary when I walked out of my office and turned the corner today, only to see Michael Moore and his film crew filming on Wall Street. I suspect they were at AIG or the stock exchange. I'm now part of an industry being exposed by Michael Moore. Ack. I was tempted to go over and take a picture with him on my phone (when he finished filming he chatted with people and let them take pictures -- he was very nice). But then I remembered I'm an officer at a bank. Ack -- when did I become part of the establishment?!

It's been an interesting year in New York. I grew up here, and have been through several economic downturns. Luckily I was in school during the 80s downturn. In the 90s, I graduated from law school and had trouble finding work, and then I went through a "downsizing" in 2001. I think it helps to have gone through this early in my career, as it has made me more flexible, resourceful, and pragmatic (and it has made me appreciate more fortunate times). But this feels different. I stopped at Starbucks a couple of weeks ago for a coffee, and realized that a homeless woman had been taking a bath in the restroom there. I'm seeing more homeless people on the streets again. There are more and more empty stores on upper Broadway, where I live (there was an excellent post about it in the Huffington Post earlier this week http://www.huffingtonpost.com/tom-engelhardt/economic-dirty-bomb-goes_b_179164.html). There is a palpable sense of fear here -- everyone knows people who've been laid off. People are anxious about the future. I've gone from grumbling about my job to being thankful each day that I have a good job. And I'm holding out hope that those of us who are still fortunate enough to be working will reach out to help out our friends and neighbors in need. After the fiasco with the AIG bonuses, I am slightly less optimistic.

I think part of my mood this week is also due to the sudden death of one of my closest friends -- Lisa. I met Lisa almost 14 years ago when we were both recent law school grads. In addition to her amazing friendship, I owe my career to Lisa. Our paths crossed while working on litigation against the heirs of a very famous and prolific artist. It was a crazy case, and Lisa and I bonded over a wine-filled post-settlement party at a French restaurant. Before I met Lisa, I was headed for a dire job in a small litigation firm that would have driven me screaming away from the law within a year.

Lisa had been working at a technology law firm and her talent and hard work impressed the partners so much that they promoted her within months after hiring her, so she hired me to replace her in her old role. At that point, I barely knew that technology law existed but Lisa was a great teacher and mentor. She was the star of the firm. She helped me get up to speed on the legal and technology issues, encouraged me to develop my strengths, and taught me the ins and outs of the firm. And I discovered that being a lawyer could actually be really fun.

It was my first professional job, and Lisa taught me a tremendous amount about working in a corporate environment and surviving the politics of a law firm (including showing me all the secret exits from the office in order to avoid Friday evening weekend ambush assignments, directing me to the most reliable source of office gossip, and teaching me the strategic use of Caller ID to avoid pesky partners). She also had a wicked sense of humor. She devised great nicknames for the various partners of the firm (which I can't share here). In the world of the terrified junior associate, humor is a powerful asset.

We stayed in touch after Lisa moved to Palo Alto to work for another firm (during the dot com boom) and I moved on to another firm. She and her husband would come to visit me in New York, and I stayed with them during a couple of trips to California. I remember one amazing drive with them along the Pacific Coast near Monterey (culminating in a dinner of fantastic burritos from the local hole in the wall Mexican restaurant).

Lisa also taught me another valuable life skill -- the secret for a perfect pie crust (frozen butter).

She loved animals. When her giant orange cat escaped from their apartment in Palo Alto, Lisa left a trail of open cans of tuna all over the neighborhood to lure him back home. Lisa was on the phone sobbing along with me when I lost my cat (I was living in England at the time). And she appointed herself “godmother” to my two current cats. They must know I’m writing about Lisa because they are sitting next to the computer purring.

Over the past several years, I know Lisa was in tremendous pain much of the time from a back injury. She wasn’t able to work and she was housebound for much of the time (her back pain really limited her mobility). I know it must have been extremely frustrating for her. We would still get together for meals and visits to museums and trips to the movies -- and we spent a lot of time talking to each other on the phone. She was blessed to have a happy 25 year marriage. Her husband passed away suddenly in December -- it was horrible. She felt like she'd lost her soul mate. But -- in true Lisa style -- she picked up and moved to Michigan to be with her family. She was excited and positive about her new life in Michigan -- happy to have more time with her nieces and nephews, making new friends, reading and writing, getting into mischief in water aerobics class, excelling at Tai Chi, and looking forward to moving into her new house with a pool. Fate has been extremely cruel taking her when she was on the brink of a new adventure. I think I have moved from denial to anger, but I have not accepted the shock and sadness of her loss. I am so grateful to have known Lisa. The many many wonderful happy memories of our friendship will sustain me (and the loss has given me that fierce urgency of now -- I just need to figure out now, what?).

EG-Bonics (or today's bl-eg)

2009-02-09T20:04:00.000-08:00

I guess that one of the cardinal rules of blogging is not to give away too much information about the blogger and bloggees. I am going to do my best to use nicknames and aliases to protect my friends (e.g., the Gerples).

My friend the Angel is the master of nicknames (and probably the smartest person I know). Everyone should have a friend like the Angel (but he is unique, so not everyone can) -- despite being a very serious neurologist, he is well in touch with his inner child and makes daily life an adventure. During college, we would go on supermarket runs at 2 a.m. in his grandmother's old Oldsmobile (to buy junk food -- er, study food). We would go to Toys R Us at Christmas. He taught me the proper way to age and enjoy a marshmallow peep. We've travelled together on 4 (?) continents and were almost eaten by crocodiles in Australia. He inspired a few horrific credit card bills (including the Lulu Guinness -- SO CUTE episode). On 9/11 he showed up at my house with Chinese takeaway. When I lived in London he was a fr-eg-quent visitor. And, he's even educated me on molecular gastronomy (or gastronom-eg, but I'm getting ahead of myself). He makes life very fun (and sometimes very eg-zasperating).

Throughout my life, I have had various aliases -- sweet potato or cookie (my grandma's pet names for me), Ellie (what my family calls me to this day), Xiao Ge (my Chinese nickname) and -- of course -- my real name, which is only really used in formal situations. Way back in college, I was always in a rush, so I would sign notes "EG" (my initials). The Angel seized on this and started referring to me as simply EG (pronounced "eege," as in squeegie). And over the years I have been Agent EG, EG Patrol, and -- most recently -- EG Monstah (which I don't really care for but I guess it's a term of endearment). And the Angel has given my friends nicknames as well -- Tiddles, Keggers, the White Rabbit, the Squirrel, Eg-laine, Eg-vonne.

The name has stuck. My college friends call me EG, my grownup friends call me EG, my godsons can pronounce it (which I like -- they are geniuses at ages 1 1/2 and 2 3/4). Some of the Angel's friends don't even know my real name. My friend Deeps (originally from Cornwall) calls me Egg because he thinks eege sounds too much like eeg-it (idiot, in Ireland) -- so I'll forgive him as I am clearly not an eeg-it (well, maybe occasionally...).

But even beyond the origins of EG, the Angel has created a whole new language -- eg-bonics. Basically, you replace a syllable of each word (eg word) with the sound eg (it works best with "e" sounds). So:

email = eg-mail

ice cream = ice cr-eg

for those of you in London: Borough market = bor-eg market

London = Lond-eg

elated = eg-lated

exhausted = eg-zausted

subway = subw-eg

taxi = tax-eg

Legal eagle = l-eg-gal eg-gal

His parents Meemaw and Peepaw = m-eg-maw and p-eg-paw

Economy = eg-conom-eg (a compound eg-ism)

Chinese = Chin-eg

Barack Obama = Bar-eg Obam-eg

Paris = Par-eg

Cheese = ch-eg

Freeze = fr-eg

Recession = r-eg-cession

Mamma Mia = Mamma M-eg-a

Ikea = Ik-eg-a

My departed cat Weegie = Weegie

My lovely birman cat Gizmo = Vomitorious (but that's a story for another day)

You get the id-eg-a. It's addictive. My challenge for my loyal blog followers is for you to come up with as many eg-bonics terms as possible in the comments. Once I've compiled a good list and consumed some mart-eg-nis, I will attempt to write an entire blog post in eg-bonics.

Until then -- Good EG-ning!

The Purple Blog of Doom -- My Inaugural Post

2009-01-25T15:44:00.000-08:00

The call came a week before Inauguration Day. Swept up in Obama's message of change and hope (and terrified by the prospect of Vice President Palin), I spent the autumn volunteering for the campaign. For many weekends in September and October I travelled by bus and car to Levittown, PA (the inspiration for Billy Joel's Allentown). I knocked on doors, and then brought along friends to knock on more doors (and I canvassed with a really diverse group -- a narcotics cop from Harlem one weekend, a born-again Christian from New Jersey, a law student, two lovely Jewish grandmas from the Upper East Side). I was called names by conservative voters and chased down a driveway by a german shephard (note to self -- pay attention to Beware of Dog signs).

I barraged my friends with emails to get them to volunteer. I called bubbes in Miami to get them to vote. I convinced a friend to host a fund raiser. I gave money. I gave more money. And on Election Day I volunteered as election observer (and donut procurement officer) in Philadelphia (and then returned home to celebrate in Harlem).

I was Obama girl. I signed up for all the inauguration ticket lotteries, and kept my fingers crossed.

By early January, I had resigned myself to watching the inauguration festivities from my couch with the cats, but then my mom (the intrepid volunteer for the Democratic Party) called to let me know that her congresswoman had given me a ticket to watch the swearing in ceremony in DC. Like Charlie Bucket, I danced around my apartment singing "I've Got a Golden Ticket" (in reality, a purple ticket -- see photo)

and hummed "Hail to the Chief"over and over again as I searched the Amtrak website frantically for a train ticket. I assembled an outfit to fend off the frigid forecast, called my friends the "Gerples" to make sure I could stay with them, and could not contain my excitement.

On the eve of Inauguration Day, I boarded the Acela at Penn Station. I sat next to a lovely retiree from the Social Security Administration who offered to share her sandwich. Former Senate Majority leader George Mitchell and his family were sitting across from me (I kept googling on my blackberry to double check that it was really him). Senator Arlen Specter boarded in Philadelphia with his wife (and kept ignoring his former colleague Mr. Mitchell each time he passed us). It was all so exciting -- like the Political All Star Game. I inadvertently whacked poor Mitchell in the back as I put on my coat, but I apologized and all was well. He was subsequently named as special mid-east peace envoy. Thank goodness I only bumped him gently (it could have had major ramifications for world peace).

Disembarking at Union Station in DC, it was chaos. Some of the stores in the shopping mall had been converted to inaugural souvenir shops. An empty Foot Locker store was a security staging area (it was a bit surreal to see armed soldiers and police streaming in and out of the store). The line for the Metro was long and moved at a crawl. I bought my commemorative Obama fare card, and I was off to Virginia for dinner with my friends. We had a champagne toast with AD, DP, Laurie, Trish and Amy, some pie, a cuddle with Trish's cat Cornbread, and then it was off to sleep.

In the morning, I put on my wool tights, wool trousers, heavy duty Uggs, three sweaters, giant furry hat, scarf, and gloves (and no, I'm not wearing a cat on my head), and headed out to the Metro at 7 a.m. (I was supposed to be at the Purple Gate on the north side of the Capitol by 8:30). See http://inaugural.senate.gov/documents/doc-2009-map.pdf. It was freeeeeeeeeezing. It was a bad omen when I arrived at the Virginia Square Metro station only to be told by the police that it was closed due to problems throughout the system (i.e., the system was not meant to handle 2 million riders at once). I walked back toward my friends' house to try to get onto a bus (the buses weren't stopping) and then I started running and flagged down a cab and picked up several other passengers en route. The bridges to DC were all closed, so we got onto the Metro at Rosslyn (they started letting people in in small batches) and had a slow ride into the district (chatting with a nice Metro employee en route). I got to Judiciary Square at about 8:45 (a little later than planned but still on time -- or so I thought) -- and that's when things went terribly wrong.

The atmosphere in DC was festive. Smiling people everywhere, enterprising vendors selling all kinds of inaugural swag, bright sunny skies (even though the temperature at mid-day felt like 17 degrees farenheit). I asked the police to direct me to the purple gate, and they kept saying -- you need to go through the tunnel -- the Third Street Tunnel which runs under the Mall. I saw a small line outside the tunnel and headed in. And then my stomach dropped. The line was ten across and stretched all the way to the end of the tunnel and out the other side (probably about 1/2 mile long). I joined somewhere near the end. Every ten minutes it would move a little bit, as if to tease us. Here are some photos taken at about 10 a.m.

and then as we got closer to the exit:

There were no police in sight, but everyone was very calm (a miracle, considering the potential for a stampede). People were still in good spirits. There were occasional chants of Fired Up/Ready to Go. We did the wave a few times. People shared food and gave out handwarmers. I talked to a lovely couple from Rochester and an older African American lady in a fabulous red coat and fur hat who had flown in from Monterey, CA. She kept hugging me! As excited as I was to be there, I really felt like the day belonged to the older African Americans in the crowd who had endured so much during the civil rights struggles that have marked our national history -- this was their day. I chatted with a dietician from Chapel Hill and a government lawyer. There was a rumor of a security breach on the south side of the Mall (which turned out to be true). And the line moved a bit. It got to be 10:15 and I kept thinking -- there's no way we'll miss the ceremony. The tickets were distributed by Congressional representatives -- there was no way they would piss off so many voters. Famous last words. I was in the now infamous Purple Tunnel of Doom.

We finally got out of the tunnel at about 11, and there were many many people behind us in line (thousands). And then we saw people walking back toward us. The gates had been locked. I could not believe it. In spite of all the planning, the planners had not hired enough security personnel to screen 230,000 ticket holders. We were screwed. Still no official word, but I decided it was time to find an alternate way to watch the swearing in. The ceremony was scheduled to start at 11:30, so I headed west, away from the Capitol. I encountered some police who instructed me to go back through the tunnel (thanks, but no thanks). People emerging from the tunnel said they could not get out the other side. Pennsylvania Avenue stood between me and the Mall, and there were high metal fences running the length of it to prevent people from accessing the inaugural parade route. I used my negotiation skills to try to talk my way in at several checkpoints but the police were holding their ground (and heavily armed). I kept trundling along in my many layers of clothing. I got to the back entrance to the Canadian embassy and tried to convince the guards to let me in as my grandparents were Canadian (no luck). The line at the Newseum (with a view of the Mall) was enormous. I looked for a TV in a bar or restaurant (none).

And then I almost cried. I was upset enough to have not been admitted to the ceremony, but I was so close and I couldn't even see it. If I'd gone with the Gerples, I could have watched it on the jumbotrons from the Mall. People were huddled outside random office buildings trying to see tv screens inside.

The police directed me to Freedom Plaza at 13th and Pennsylvania (so named because Martin Luther King wrote part of his I Have a Dream speech in a nearby hotel). If I couldn't be at the Capitol, I was there with the spirit of Dr. King. There was a growing crowd and fabulous loudspeakers broadcasting the ceremony. I arrived in time to hear Aretha Franklin, and Biden's oath of office. As Yo-Yo Ma finished playing, the radio announcer stated that it was 12:04 and that even though Obama had not taken the oath of office, the Bush administration was officially over. A loud cheer swept through the crowd and across Pennsylvania Avenue. And then Obama took the oath. Once again, cheers and tears. Several people hugged me, and I am even in some random woman's video, jumping up and down and waving in my giant hat. And then Obama gave his speech. The crowd was silent. I turned around to see an elderly black man behind me -- tears streaming down his face. My eyes welled a bit. After the ceremonies we all hugged again and I walked around a bit. I saw Bush's helicopter fly by (more cheers from the crowd), and then just watched all the people. It was such a fantastic day -- bright sun, smiling faces, strangers talking to one another. It gave me tremendous hope.

That night, after getting back through Union Station (we could only enter in groups of 20 through the parking garage) I had a great ride back on the Acela. I told my saga to my seatmate, a charming architect. He was a silver ticket holder who also couldn't access the Mall, despite having arrived at 6 a.m. for the ceremony. The group he was with surged ahead and knocked over the security fence, then skated across the frozen reflecting pool to watch the ceremony. He showed me all his photos, and then bought me a drink. We toasted our new president. The man in front of me was a journalist who had been interviewing members of the Tuskegee airmen (and had a front row seat to the ceremonies).

All in all, I was a little disappointed, but it was an extraordinary day -- if only to see people smiling, talking to one another, and optimistic about the future (despite the current economic crisis). I got home in time to see the Obamas' first dance on TV (lovely in a cheesy wedding-y kind of way), and I watched the swearing in on Tivo a few days later (once the bitterness about the tunnel of doom had passed). And as Obama finished the oath and the band played Hail to the Chief, my eyes welled and I started to weep, and it was as if I'd been right there. I was so proud of my country. And I smiled at our country's new beginning (and started to scheme about how to get better tickets for the 2013 inauguration!).