Thursday, June 25, 2015
Namou’s follow-up to The Feminine Art is an absolute gem. Set in a present day Athens, Greece, the story is about two twenty-something first cousins who are falling in love, but are at the same time trying to find themselves. Namou offers a fresh take on the coming of age/love story, sharing her abundant insight into the cultural complexities of the Chaldean Iraqi community. Her gorgeous prose is heightened by the tense situations she places her characters into.
Our protagonist, Amel, is boxed into an awful predicament. He longs to be reunited with his family in Iraq, but at the same time wants to begin a new life in America. The story opens with his Visa being denied, and Amel must continue to whittle away his days hammering at planks of wood in a foreign land.
Things change when his beautiful cousin, Dunia, arrives in Athens to study for the summer. She is the quintessence of prima donna, but Amel has had such an enormous crush on her since childhood he will do anything to make her happy. Even though they are both cousins, and members of the same Chaldean community, they couldn’t be more different. Dunia is well-read, witty, cunning, ambitious, and a bon vivant while Amel is hardworking and loyal to a fault. He is gullible too and really knows nothing about women. His devotion to his cousin is the real agitprop, both frustrating and exciting Amel, but when Dunia herself begins to fall for Amel the plot really thickens. Namou does a wonderful job blurring the boundaries of emotion so that just as we might question our own feelings we get sweaty-palmed as Namou’s characters put their hearts on the line.
The Mismatched Braid is as much about love as it is a search for identity and purpose. Dunia and Amel both evolve as characters and neither seem to be comfy with the changes that ensue. To Namou’s credit, her characters grapples with their respective identities, and these in turn are further complicated by other mercurial family members.
This is a character-driven story for readers who crave travel, culture, romance, and food. Foodies will love the myriad references to savory dishes both Greek and Iraqi. The sounds and smells of daily life and landscape are seamlessly integrated into the plotline, enriching this modern classic.
To learn more about Weam Namou and her works please visit her website. http://www.weamnamou.com/
Thursday, June 18, 2015
On January 22nd, 2013 I had a belated birthday lunch with the folks. We dined at Benoit, Alain Ducasse’s midtown bistro. We started off with braised pork then moved onto caviar. For our mains, Mom and Dad shared chicken while I gorged myself with bacon-wrapped Scottish Salmon. Love my nitrates. Washed it down with a Spanish red.
We were having a spirited conversation about Joyce Carol Oates’ new book when Mom took another peek at the wine list. She was sniffing out port possibilities. Then she stumbled upon it. A mischievous grin widened on her face, and she implored me to have a special treat. No, not the scrumptious, syrup-doused Bosc pear gooped in warm chocolate (although I eventually succumbed to that too). She was referring to a libidinous libation, a two-ounce pour of trophy wine.
Who hadn’t read Florence Fabricant’s “Legendary Wines, Sold in Sips” piece in the NYT Dining Section? It sent every pocket-friendly winenut into a hyperactive state of euphoria. For a mere $45 bucks, you could taste a bit of Bordeaux’s Promised Land. How democratic?
Yes, I’ll admit my superficial side came gushing out. For shame. I thought I’d grown out of the trophy-hunter phase, but apparently not.
“Go for the Pétrus,” Mom dared.
That hedonist sentiment had been whispering in my ear sotto voce from the moment I took my seat. What better way to celebrate than to taste one of this mudball’s most lauded reds. Naturally, I wouldn’t have thought of letting my folks crack open a whole bottle, and of course, they weren’t daffy enough to indulge my Pomerolian prurience, but a two-finger pour? Why not? Except that the 1992 vintage was a big wash, and although Merlot fared better than the Cabs I had my reservations. I'm not a point man at all, but what I'd read about the '92 vintage had dripped into my subconscious. Was I going to go for the gusto and be disappointed or be forced to extrapolate what might be the stuff that made Pétrus the rock star of reds?
I was an enophile, a professional. The heavenly Pomerol was on every wineaux’s bucket list. I considered it my duty as a wine professional to drink it. But wait a second. Hold the cork. I mean, hold the coravin (thank goodness for the miracle gadget). My palate was craving a gem, but when I reflected on the fact that I’d tried all five 1st Growths and myriad 2nd , 3rd, 4th, and 5th Growths my top-heavy record of Bordeaux tasting left a gaping hole in that critical wine wonk zone, Burgundy.
If I was to truly become a wine wizard, Burgundy would have to receive greater consideration. So with this in mind, I decided to shoot the works with my first DRC, Romanée-Saint-Vivant. Benoit offered two fingers of the 1996, a very good, but not outstanding vintage. In recent years, I’d been leaning more toward Burgundy anyway. My palate had been changing, more inclined to that Burgundian style by way of Barolo and Barbaresco if you’ll pardon my cliché comparison, which is somehow useful as a cross-country analogue. Both Pinot Noir and Nebbiolo are thin-skinned varietals. They’re both infamously fickle grapes, and, even in the best circumstances, may not show their full potential. There, I said it.
The real question was whether or not I was deserving of two fingers of DRC? Was I in it for the right reason? What I’m driving at is this. Since I cut my teeth with Bordeaux, logging in so much time with their superstars, unsung heroes, etc., my experience had been shaped by Bordeaux. Was I justified in making such a leap to DRC when I hadn’t logged in enough time, brooding over the differences between Gevrey-Chambertin, Chambolle-Musigny, Morey-St. Denis, and Echézeaux? Forget about grand cru Burgundy, I hadn’t really had enough Fixin, Volnay, or Bourgogne Rouge.
I considered this, drumming my fingers for added effect. I could’ve ordered a full glass of Echézeaux, Pommard, or even Chambertin. If I was genuinely interested in making a commitment to Burgundy, this probably would have been the noblest route, but I had another agenda. I wasn’t wetting my toes, I was taking a head-first plunge into two-fingers of DRC. A little drumroll please. My first whiff of the 1996 Romanée-Saint-Vivant teased me into believing there’d be sweetness. Then it gave way to an earthier late Fall, forest floor. It had quiet brilliance like Stan Musial, the St. Louis Slugger who had actually passed away the day before. Initially, tangy chokecherry with a touch of vanilla soon blossomed into a strawberry field with notes of licorice, a hint of pipe tobacco. It tangoed me across a ballroom floor of tight-grained oak, and impeccable structure. How vibrant and bright in its Sour 17th Year. It had surprisingly good acidity for its age and supple tannin, silkier than a Hermès shawl.
Birthdays can heighten your sensibility, and sometimes add undue pressure. I thoroughly enjoyed the opportunity, and I wished that I could say it was life-altering, but alas it wasn’t. Maybe because there was too much expectation riding on it. Maybe it was because the grinning lady, sitting next to me had her own set of expectations weighing on me too. She was smart enough not to get under the microscope and have her a swig analyzed, and yet she wanted me to be gobsmacked with unbridled glee.
I will definitely say this though. My two fingers of Romanée-Saint-Vivant was a much more welcoming experience than my first swig of Sassicaia. That was a long time ago in a galaxy far far away (You like hyperbole, no?). Truthfully, I couldn’t tell you with any certainty what my impression of that Sassicaia was because there was so much hoopla associated with it. I was also a hopeless newbie at one of those behemoth tastings that no pro wants to be a part of unless he or she is on the clock. I had to elbow my way over to the table that was kind enough to share its Tuscan royalty for all the heathens lining up. I remember it being a stunning, ruby-colored wine and nearly chipping a tooth as the buffoon beside me raised his arm. If that wasn’t enough there was the unmistakable, unpardonable wallop of Fahrenheit cologne. So overpowering was that Christian Dior bouquet that I swear I still smell a whiff of it every time I’m at a dinner party or some other occasion where Sassicaia is poured.
Given this reflection, my two fingers of Romanée-Saint-Vivant was pretty damn unforgettable (pipe in Nat King Cole), but I wish my sommelier had had a heavier hand.
Thursday, June 11, 2015
So maybe you missed the one-on-one with Wayne Gretzky or the tête-à-tête with Tiger Woods or the gab-a-gab with Roger Federer. No biggie. Now’s your chance to meet the real treat. This is one for the ages, one to grow on. Here it is, at last. Sports Fans everywhere, I give you my exclusive interview with the Greatest, the most Heralded, the most Hated, the most Feared and Famous Fantasy Baseball Player ever to lope across this planet, the switch-clicking, Chip Dunston.
JG: I’m here today with the World’s Greatest Fantasy Baseball Champ, Chip Dunston. He’s won 733 League Championships and something like 1239 Fan Duel single-day comps (the 50-yard-dash of sabermetrics). His opponents call him he WHIP Wizard, The Call-up King, Fantasy Fanner, Supergeek, and sometimes, pardon my French, El Diablo. Thanks for taking the time to swoop by today.
CD: Where’s my Chicken and Waffles?
JG: It should be here soon.
CD: Better be.
JG: Now Chip, I’m no mathathlete, but how exactly did a young buck like yourself win 733 League Championships. You’re not Yoda with Botox are you?
CD: No dipshit. I play in like 12 leagues a season, not including my daily Fan Duels.
JG: Oh, I get it, kind of like piggybacking.
CD: Your mother piggybacks.
JG: We don’t do mothers here on the show.
CD: Yeah, I already did yours in an elevator.
JG: Let’s get back to interview.
JG: Tell us when exactly you knew that you wanted to be a Fantasy Baseball Player? Was it something you always wanted to be? Did the inspiration hit you one day when you were eating your Coco Puffs?
CD: Did Peter Parker ask to be Spider-man? Did Picasso ask to be a painter freak? Did Russell Brand ask to be a Pimp Daddy? Nah-ah. Each of them in their own ways had to sow their wild oats and be their unique, crazy-ass, crackerjack selves. Take your average hump, for instance. Your ordinary hump gets his cup of joe at 7-Eleven or Mickey D’s. He mopes to work, forklifts till his first smokes break and then he smokes a blunt a little bit after that, and then he’s thinking when can I crack open my first Corona. What are you shaking your head for?
JG: I don’t get my joe from 7-Eleven. I prefer Think Coffee, Queens Kickshaw, Birch (if I can find one), and yes, I’ll admit it, I like my Starbucks reserve blends.
CD: Well, you a freak.
JG: I can live with that. Let’s get back to you. What are your routines? How do you stay so sharp?
CD: Fantasy Baseball is nothing like the MLB. First off, you don’t’ get to loaf half the game away on the bench, farting and spitting out sunflower seeds. You have to be 100% fully-engaged, your bloodshot eyeballs keep scanning stats like you a CPA for the IRS, but instead of AGIs, MAGIs, CAP Gains you looking for subtle ways to outperform the other punks in your league. You get it? It’s not a half-time, half-ass thing, you have to be 100% all-in, all-the-time, 24/7, maybe even 35/8. Days bleed into each other: Muesday, Tednesday, Faturday. There’s no letup.
JG: Now hold on here Chip. Are you saying that your laptop-punching and mouse-clicking is more rigorous than what real ball players go through?
CD: That’s exactly what I’m saying. What are you laughing at dipshit?
JG: I hate to be the harbinger of bad news, but I don’t think most folks out there will buy that.
CD: I don’t give a rat’s ass who buys it. Who’s the champ here anyway? I know what I know. Whip this, OPS that. Do you know how many hours I log in BABIP? Too many that’s how many. And, I have to keep my eyeballs peeled for every rising star that’s about to shoot into the Ursa Majors. A few times this year alone, I’ve nearly gone through coronary thrombosis or something like that when one of my ace hurlers landed on the DL. My life is a constant flux. I wouldn’t wish my curse on anybody, not my worst enemy.
JG: So in the annals of baseball history, and by that I mean the one with the dirt diamond and the grassy outfield, if you wouldn’t mind indulging, who would you say you’re most like? That is to say, who would you find an analogue for you from the all-time Louisville-slugging greats? Would it be The Bambino, Ty Cobb, Shoeless Joe, Mickey Mantle, Greg Maddux, Kirby Puckett, Miggie Cabrera, Nolan Ryan? Who?
CD: You’re trippin, right?
JG: Fraid not.
CD: You’re not going to pigeonhole me into any analogue, dialogue, monologue, bump-on-log. No way, no how. I’m not like any of those fatheads you mentioned. I’m my own unique entity.
JG: No argument there. Now would you mind sharing any hobbies you have, ways you like to pass the time?
JG: Favorite soft drink?
CD: Mr. Pibb.
JG: What’s your sign?
JG: Me too.
CD: Are we done here? I need to take a whiz.
JG: Hang on. Only a few more questions.
CD: (Deep sigh plus crotch-grab.)
JG: There you have it Sports Fans. Chip Dunston, the greatest there ever was, so far anyway.
CD: Where’s my chicken and waffles?
Friday, June 5, 2015
(First appeared in Turk's Head Review on May 24th)
Denny and I could spend hours duking it out. Pick a game. We did it with ping-pong, Parcheesi, and especially with Donkey Kong. Then there was the infamous Revolutionary War playset that Denny got in the mail. We broke it out one balmy March afternoon. Denny had been yapping about it for weeks. I told him he was a doofus for wasting a perfectly good X-men comic, splicing the ad from the back page, not to mention the fact that he paid for the shipping and handling in nickels and dimes, but he kept insisting it was coming.
I was gobsmacked when it arrived. Of course the figures were a crummy batch of plastic patriots, a couple steps below the army men you’d get at Woolworth, but we were excited to put the American Revolution into practice since we were studying it in school. To spice things up, we used the weapons from Crossbows and Catapults, an anachronism to be sure, but it showed how resourceful or clever we were. We even used the Knights and the Orcs as reserves. Whenever I landed a potent shot, I’d pump my fist and shout, “Way to go Georgie Boy.” (When I was the Americans). If I had the redcoats, I shouted “Way to go Corny!” (for General Cornwallis). Either way this drove Denny nuts.
We barbed wherever we could, but I preferred playing at Denny’s place since he had a house, and a huge front lawn, his backyard dwarfed my Little League outfield. Inside the house, we had to be careful not to destroy the precious vases, stony figurines or the Louis XV style furniture. Sometimes I think I had the upper hand playing at Denny’s because he seemed cautious about his surroundings. Sometimes he was a savage.
Denny was a wizard at catapulting. He had a built-in protractor in his noggin, coupled with the feel of a first-rate pool shark. I took the battering ram approach. There was actually a battering ram in the arsenal, but I preferred my crossbows. For me, they packed a bigger wallop, and they were easier to use. I was a maven of destruction whereas Denny was a dogged tactician, to his own detriment. Funny how much a stupid kid’s game can teach you, if you’re willing to probe.
We had an ambush set up on his carpeted staircase. Denny was really in the zone, everything he launched was a bull’s eye. A couple of times, by pure accident, my elbow got in the way of his shot. These things happened. Denny didn’t blow a gasket or accuse me of playing dirty. He remained cool, focused on the task at hand, coiled into a catapulting machine. He had me right where he wanted. My crossbows were practically deadweight on the staircase, and the carpeting took away all their inherent zing.
I had no other choice but to make do with the catapults.
I kept mulling over the fact that General Washington beat Cornwallis, not by brute force, but by a delicate series of retreats. It was a lot for a ten-year-old to swallow, but it was worth a shot. I needed a chance to redeem my good name since Denny had been on a hot streak. I kept up the smack talk and let Denny take riskier shots. After a series of my own retreats, Denny sabotaged a good chunk of his men with his big fat knee when he was regrouping on the stairs. Not the prettiest way to win, but hey. We took a snack break.
Denny was always stocked to the gills with candy, chips, cakes, and sodas. By my math, he never had less than a dozen bottles. They’d loaf by the bar across from the Steinway, and the bust of Beethoven. Most were half-empty and flat. Besides fizz-less Pepsi, my compadre was forever pushing his grandmother’s meringue on me. It always looked so pitiful, Smurf hats made of chalk, and tasted like it too. I never grabbed any unless his mom happened to be checking up on us. She filled my plate with so much junk: cookies, candy, and cakes, she was either the greatest host for a ten-year-old twerp or she was getting kickbacks from Dr. Derkasch (Denny and I had the same dentist). Personally, I think she was tired of the meringue and was trying to unload it.
That balmy March afternoon Denny’s mom plunked herself down beside us and played hostess. She was equally adept at delegating and made Denny refill my Waterford glass to the brim. He took exquisite delight in watching me suffer because he knew how much I hated flat Pepsi. I had to practically swandive to the lip of my glass before the cola stained their embroidered family heirloom, a hand-woven tablecloth from some village in eastern Transylvania.
Mrs. P and Denny argued in their family tongue, and I could see my pal was milking the situation because he probably wasn’t nearly as cavalier without company present. A foreign language made a family spat so much edgier. Because I was trying my best to be well-behaved, Denny decided to let loose a stinkbomb. Of course he blamed me, but his mom was familiar with his unique scent.
Denny told his mom I didn’t drink flat soda. She seemed unperturbed, for the moment. Mainly, the term flat didn’t register since English was only her second, no, make that her third language. Denny stayed the course and insisted that I didn’t drink bubbleless Pepsi. This struck a chord with Mrs. P.
“What happened to the bubbles?” she asked.
“They’re gone,” Denny reminded her, “They’re old bottles.”
I emphasize the exclamation point in lieu of a question mark since this is how it sounded plus the look on Mrs. P’s face screamed insult. A hostess, of her caliber, didn’t serve old cola. She held her jaw tight for a good eight seconds then she dropped her signature “puh”.
“That good for nothing father of yours,” Mrs. P said. “He’s a chip off the old bark.”
I knew better than to laugh, but Denny seized the chance to rib his mom, correcting her idiomatic flub. I tried to change the subject and even complimented her poofy hair, my fingers crossed under the table. She eked out what could pass for a smirk then told her son to open a fresh bottle. Denny didn’t miss a beat, informing his mother, bubbling with giddiness, that none of the bottles were new. She got up right then and inspected each one only to learn, much to her abundant chagrin, that Denny was right.
“Look at all this wasted soda,” she said.
She could’ve been chastising me directly. I was the cause of at least five freshly-cracked Pepsis. Mrs. P raised her finger and began yelling. First, in Romanian, then in English. Her consistent, catchy refrain, “Good for nothing,” still echoing as she stormed out of the room.
Denny proceed to tell me that his Pops was the critical nugget of his mom’s agida. As if I didn’t know. It seemed that Mr. P would buy, without fail, twice as much stuff as they could ever consume without going bad. Unlike his wife, who had been born with money, he grew up a dirt-poor peasant, the oldest of five children. He became the family breadwinner at age fourteen. Denny told me his father would freak out if he heard anybody’s grumbling belly, would rush out to stock up on eggs, milk, and Scooter pies. It drove Mrs. P bonkers, but he kept his family fed.
She’d been gone for a while, and I’d been hankering to duck out without anybody seeing me. I wasn’t exactly sure where Mrs. P had gone and I didn’t want to be rude, lest it get back to my folks and have hell to pay. Mrs. P did return, a bit harried with flush cheeks and a sweaty brow, a dusty two-liter bottle of Pepsi in her hand. Some feeble attempt had been made to wipe clean the shoulders. A caramel-like gob of gunk slithered down the neck of the bottle. Maybe it was rubber cement or caramelized cola. The bottom of the bottle looked as if it had swooped down a chimney. There may have been a cobweb, dangling from the side, but
Mrs. P flicked it off, whatever it was, before I had a chance to get a better squint.
More than anything, I wanted to get out of there, but I was stuck like an amber-doused insect. Pepsi spurt all over when Mrs. P whisked open the bottle. She licked some off her knuckles. Rather than retreat, I sat there and had my old Pepsi which was beyond syrupy. It did have bubbles. Caveat emptor. Mrs. P may well have dug up the relic from somewhere in the basement or possibly even from the backyard by the begonias. I grabbed my chalice and slurped a bit off the rim then slugged back the ancient cola. Mrs. P seemed very proud of herself, and poured me another round.
I nursed the second one, sat back and tried to tune out the bickering. With each sip, the flavors and my sentiment kept evolving. The syrupy sensation turned medicinal. I’m not sure if that was the old cola or the family fracas, but while they argued in Romanian, I drank my Pepsi both glad and a bit glum I didn’t exactly know what they were saying, the whole while pretending I was swigging a cold glass of tap water.
Friday, May 29, 2015
Some of my mature neighbors still think I’m unemployed. They shower me with pity and advice. I haven’t given up on rejiggering their delusions yet, but I lose patience now and then, which has prompted me to listen by the door for footsteps in the hall. Only when the coast is clear, will I take out the trash. This is always a challenge anyway with two thoroughbred cats who dash out of the apartment any chance they get.
My upstairs neighbor, let’s call him Mel, keeps mentioning a rough spell he went through in the ‘70s, ‘80s, and again in the 90’s. It’s what got him into stamps. Whenever I run into him, he pssses me over as if he’s about to show me hot merchandise. With his cuticle-remover-pincher-thing he shows me a new gem. I’ve perfected my awe-stricken gasp, palm to mouth. Not sure if it’s worse being subjected to his philatelic fantasies or his pats on the shoulder. What he says he misses most about work is the daily ritual. He probably never got into much of a rhythm, considering he’d got canned in each of his prime decades, but Mel always struck me as creature of habit. Just for kicks, I tell him my boss saves a bundle by not offering me a “real” office, which is absolutely true.
There’s a mantle in the lobby which always has something festooning the top. I’ve been caught, numerous times, absconding with books: The Portable Chekhov, Sophie’s Choice, and Karl Popper’s The Poverty of Historicism. Once, I was even caught grabbing a can of garbanzo beans. Sue me. I mean it. Gladys, from 4D catches me almost every time. She must have a John Gorman radar or maybe she injected me with a dose of GPS when I was unawares. After the first garbanzo incident, she left a care package by my door: peanut butter, day old rye, three cans of sardines. I wish she would give me laundry detergent or books instead. Maybe not. She’s what I would call, a catalog person. I’ve seen her plenty of times by her mailbox, flipping the pretty pictures of strappy gowns and bathing suits she has no business shimmying into. Gladys tells me, with a double scoop of exasperation, that her nephew works with computers. I nod my head. I’m always nodding my head. She knows computers have taken over our lives, but she’d just love to see my laptop deliver her packages. Drones have got that covered already, but I smile and keep it to myself. She’s convinced if I just apply myself I will find my niche. She slips the classified ads under my door, usually from the Daily News, but sometimes from The Village Voice, and the sex ads are often included. I know she is myopic, and waiting to get her second cataract operation, but sometimes I wonder.
I’ll tell you what the real trouble with working at home is. Hands down, it’s that everybody gets to know your face, and you always get stuck taking somebody’s package. Sometimes I keep my lights off so that the Fedex guy won’t ring me. I could move. I’ve done a fair amount of moving already, but the truth is I’ve gotten used to these characters in my building, they’re chattering in my head at the oddest times. They’ve become my writing fodder.
Friday, May 22, 2015
Crunchy cravings are serious business. When you have your heart set on that precise sensory experience nothing else will do. Maybe I’m alluding to some sensory issues that have long plagued my inner jib, but I’m not going there right now. What I’d like to share instead is my first bite into a churro. I was fifteen and still had Prince Valliant locks, flowing off my shoulders, and a red Wilson tennis racquet flung on my back. I’d just finished a long, grueling workout at the National Tennis Center (this is before it was dedicated to Billie Jean King) and my rally buddy Albert and I decided to get some extra exercise. We spurned the 7 train and schlepped along Roosevelt Avenue, across from what was then Shea Stadium. Albert lived in Jackson Heights and I lived in Forest Hills. We were walkers.
We were pretty hungry from all those suicides (line-to-line running drills), King of the Court battles, and baskets of kick serves. We needed a snack. Albert had introduced me to dulce de leche a few weeks earlier and I wolfed it down so when he suggested another Latino treat, I thought “Por supuesto.” He was waxing poetic about the deep-fried churro, how he once packed away 12 of them during a car ride to Coney Island, without even a burp. They sounded delicious. I had this cockeyed notion that they would taste something like khrustyky, the Ukrainian powdery-sugared cookies my mom made for Christmas. Once that yummy crunchy treat popped into my head I had an irrevocable analogue and an unwavering craving to contend with. No Scooter pie, Ring Ding, or Macaron was going to satisfy me.
We passed over more than a few churro-stocked shopping carts. Albert kept insisting, “Chill man, I know the best one.” Maybe we were going to a bakery.
He hadn’t steered me wrong with the dulce de leche or the sweet concha bread. My belly was crumbling though and we were in the heart and hub of Corona, crossing Junction Blvd. when Albert stopped us under the deafening roar of the 7, pulling into the station. Stringy Chinese men were hawking dollar batteries, blank TDK tapes, and other rewrapped regalia. Street meat wafted from carts and small shop windows. I was a little taken back when we didn’t enter the Mexican Bakery, but instead lined up behind a chunky woman’s shopping cart.
“Churros, churros,” she said, her siren song call.
They were lined up like free tickets to see Juan Miguel or Marc Anthony.
They bought bags of the stuff. Mothers, toting pig-tailed toddlers grabbed churros, spiky-haired boys grabbed their snacks, unhelmeted construction workers seized their spoils. What fun, to have this privilege to be in the know, part of the churro cognoscenti. I was happy to pay for Albert’s bag since he included me on this junket.
Albert was already through his second one, when I bit into my first. It was more buttery than I imagined and chewy. The cushiony feel and subtle graininess of the fried skin was much more like a zeppole than a khrustyky. I was bummed. Zeppole was fine at the San Gennaro Festival, but was crummy substitute for my crunchy craving.
Did I stop for a second to brood over the plight of these heroic women who risked their lives to haul sugary treats up and down innumerable flights of subway stairs? Nope. Did I even realize that these street peddler-cum-entrepreneurs were constantly harassed by cops because they didn’t have permits to sell their goodies? Nope. My only concern as a fifteen-year-old twerp who still wore clip-on ties to school and smacked away his weekend on the tennis court was that the churro didn’t agree with my Chips Ahoy-reared palate. Needless to say Albert got to gorge on the rest.
A few years later, I had a different kind of churro, one that had a creamy goo in the middle. I wasn’t crazy about that one either. Then I tried the old standby again. Eh. I’ve had churros in Mexico City, in all 5 boroughs, and New Jersey. They’ve grown on me a little bit, but, unfortunately, I’ll never be a big fan. That first impression headstrong elephant. Gimmie any other Mexican treat. Love tacos, tortas, molletes, huaraches, and bags of tuna (the cactus fruit not the fish). Then, there is the ne plus ultra crunchy craving goto— the king of salty snacks, yes, you guessed it, the pork rind: lime-squeezed and peppered with chili powder. Nothing beats it, nothing so long as I’m packing Tums and my trusty Pepcid AC.
Saturday, March 28, 2015
Most boys would rather be Giancarlo Stanton or Clayton Kershaw, but since that’s such a longshot many have decided to become Pro Fantasy Baseball Players. No, I actually didn’t flip my MLB fitted lid. Becoming a Pro Fantasy Baseball Player is probably the next best thing. It’s what modern adolescents have been pining for. Okay, so maybe some of them would like to slip into their Xboxes and splash onto the screen of their MLB 15: The Show. You do know that quite a few players participate in Fantasy Baseball too. Pretty cool if you asked me. How awesome is it that you can find pundits analyzing sabermetric data.
Yes, I know sabermetrics seems to have gotten out of hand, and maybe it’s not as sexy as a video game, but the growing popularity of this uber-geeky enterprise has been morphing baseball into something more like Big Bang Theory (the sitcom) than The Natural (book or movie). I can’t get enough of it myself and this season I’ve added a 3rd league. I’m covering all the bases, so to speak. I’m in a live auction/NL-only keeper league, a bare-bones autodraft on Yahoo, and a Mixed Keeper League/Head-to-Head format.
You may be asking, how do you hold down a job? It’s not easy. I try to pick my faves and apply them to multiple leagues so I can minimize my stat-scrutinizing, but that’s not always easy, especially since I am now in 2 Mixed Leagues.
What’s really awesome about Fantasy Baseball is not the vicarious thrill of logging dingers and RBIs as if you were notching them to your own major league record. Although we all know, at least, one or two guys in our leagues who fit that profile. Taking home the championship is pretty sweet, but even better than that is being able to uncover talent, hidden gems from nooks and crannies that others have missed. This is especially true in Keeper Leagues. You grow attached to your finds, nurturing them for seasons until it’s time to send them onto greener pastures.
Fantasy Baseball is scorecards on steroids. It’s the hypotenuse of homerun derby. It’s the ne plus ultra way to commit to the great American pastime. I am really looking forward to this upcoming season, and I’m beginning to break a sweat as if stepping into the batter’s box. See you at the cage.