Archives for posts with tag: food

I am at a café and now my digestive tract is coated with cappuccino. It is hopefully my last brush with espresso.  This year I was self-diagnosed with “hypochondria of the liberal” which means I know too much about food I love to keep on letting it inside of my body. A big thank you to principles of Ayurveda and Traditional Chinese Medicine.

I have psoriasis. I have noticed with wide silent eyes in the mirror that it is getting worse as time passes.

I went to an herbalist in Chinatown who put his thumb on the underside of my wrist for some moments. I let my heart beat for him and then he said the word “Liver.” Liver it is. Cappuccino is very bad for the liver, says my acupuncturist. Her name is Famous. That’s what she told me to call her. So I do and then I let Famous stick pins inside of me and tape aluminum foil to my back while she shocks me with an electric wand.  I leave with tiny thumb tacks taped in a circle around my lower back, and when they fall out I put them in a tiny jam jar my mom gave me. She has every kind of jar you can save.

This summer, I brought The Irish Horse home to meet my mother and she gave us part of her old jar collection for our new home. They say that Psoriasis is genetic, but I am the only person in my family that has it. I have my dad’s cankles and my mom’s hershey kiss tits but I’m the only one with the linebacker jaw and the auto-immune skin disorder that goes by the name “White Dagger Sore” in Chinese Dermatology. I get what this means.

In high school, a boy accused me and my best friend of being Ellen Degeneres and Anne Heche. He said that I was Ellen. For some reason, it was way more humiliating to be the Ellen of that relationship. If I was going to be accused of being a lesbian, at least let me be the one that wears dresses.

My mom really loved Ellen’s first TV sitcom, Ellen. Ellen is also my mom’s name which was part of the reason she liked it. It must be cool to see your name in lights. On the show, Ellen came out as gay over the loudspeaker at the airport by accident.  I’m not sure how accurate this is, but it is inside of my memory that that is the moment my mom stopped liking Ellen. It was years after this moment and before Ellen’s comeback that that boy accused me of being Ellen. It maybe was the double whammy of being accused of being the most notorious lesbian of all time and of being my mother, Ellen. Two things women who fancy themselves as straight don’t like to be accused of. 

I am not allowed to drink anymore. Or have coffee. or wheat. or dairy. And that’s mostly what all these thoughts are about. But the cappuccino is inside of me right now. We are hugging goodbye.


I’m on a brunch-everyday kick. With Becca. Today, I cut the stalks off the greens.  De-boned them.  It’s as close as I’ll get to being a butcher.  When i was a bartender at the Dive Bar, the neighborhood butcher used to come in during the afternoon, get totally hammered, and then go back to the chopping block.  I had to ask myself whether or not I was responsible for the finger I imagined he would sever. When you’re 23 and you’re hired because you’re cute and the sight of you inspires liquor purchase, who should you protect at the bar?

One afternoon, he brought me a steak he had just cut and seared.  It was so good.

Let me tell you how it is to be twenty-nine (minus seven).

It’s like having the stomach flu for five days straight and eating nothing but crackers and diet sprite, still hating David Foster Wallace, making phone calls from the gathered wrinkled sheet nest, not bothering to re-charge electronics, a productive day is re-polishing nails.

I am still an expert procrastinator, which is always what you read on the internet because this is where people go to procrastinate.

I owe stories all over the place, and can not bring myself to finish chapters by writers named in triplicate.

Also, twenty-nine means still forgetting to pay my rent on time.

Means still seeing my face in newly published photographs and trying to remember exactly where that was taken and exactly who was being blown.

Now that I’m twenty-nine, I’m still no good at asking for help with things like obtaining diet sprite for my ill belly, and I still want very badly to see the butterfly exhibit.

I’m thrilled to screaming by concrete slides ridden down on torn hunks of corrugated box.

I still, even now, want my mother to notice.

I want cake with buttercream and shoes with buckles.

I want your face in my hands.

I want three-flavor ice cream.

I want to learn how to do this.

If you ask me whether taking the Q to the J train on a Thursday in mid-afternoon in March shows you just exactly what New York wants from you I’ll tell you yes.

And if you ask me whether a monthly blood test leaves small bruises I will answer yes to that also.

I will tell you that the condition of having badly to piss in an airport or a nightclub or a highway diner or a school administrative building and not pissing from fear of harassment fills me with worry.

I will tell you that synthetic hormones still make my hate list even while I appreciate their uses.

I will tell you that I am comforted by both Josephine Bear and Hello Kitty and will continue, despite your belief that they harbor disease.

I will tell you : never again will I attempt to forge a relationship in a bar.

Things I have already given up include: black lipstick, the fear of eating, every color but blonde, the love of poverty, powdered milk, the fear of dancing in front of you.

Even if I do it badly.

Even if, at twenty-nine the only dance of which I’m confident is lap.

Things I will give up include: not calling, ill-fitting shoes, not bothering to look.

I will give up trying to keep the polish off my cuticles.

I will give up not telling my mother about my life when what I really want is to TALK to her.

I will give up being disappointed when she is quiet on the other end of the line with the television or her cooking sounds or the sound of nothing in the background.

I’ll send the pictures when I say I’m going to send the pictures.

What I won’t give up is: diet soda, reading in bad light, high heels, trying.

What I’ve learned is: how to be slow, lemon relish, the color of your eyes, I’m sorry, costuming, how to make a pirate sandwich.

What I want now, this year: an end to nausea, lettuce that isn’t cellophaned, your hands on me, things made waterproof – both mascara and  boots, a bright path home.

Roles I have played in the last two weeks include:

“artsy bombshell” San Francisco swinger seductress

naughty psych-ward nurse

sexy housewife

hypnosis victim

Valentines Day dinner involves pecans and pre-dinner sheet destruction.  Pink food dye.  Tiny, ball-shaped pasta with charred peppers and smashed olives.  Turnips turned orangy with pimenton.  Cut paper and new underpants and broom-swept ceiling fan and all-Springsteen karaoke.  Photo exchange.  Cave-grown albino asparagus.  Timmy and Maria dirty-dueting into the champagne-bottle microphones.

This winter, I have missed every snowstorm.  I’ve ridden down 101 in February with the windows down, bare legs and no sweater to Moss Beach Distillery where puppies steal twenty-dollar sandwiches off deck tables and my friend X “The Mayor” T deals with the rude comments of our staring, pointing, drunken fellow restaurant-goers by looking them right in the eyes and stating quite eloquently: “you’re just going to have to get used to the fact that people look all kinds of different ways.”

My man, only a little less calmly, says: “Listen Eddie Bauer, don’t mess with my girl just cause you’re stuck in khaki.”

California is astoundingly beautiful and solipsistic.  Sunny and cool and utterly unaware of the weather conditions of others.  On Saturday morning mid-winter, there are one million dollars worth of palm trees and fifty people in the park eating bagel sandwiches, sucking up the skyline.  Surrounded by grass and babies and gay fathers in thin t-shirts, it is impossible to conceptualize snow. Back in Brooklyn on Wednesday night, I’ll have to remind myself to pull on tights and sweaters before I leave the house.  I’ll have completely forgotten the numbness of an uncovered face on the train platform, tired and hungry and made impatient by an after-class pint.

And here is what you’ve all been waiting for

It’s more delicious with a little butter on it.

Friday afternoon, I sit in front of the monitor, swallow a dildo, spit into my hand and rub wet palms on my tits and hair for the 3-dollars-a-minute internet audience.  Friday night I want your boozy fist in me.  I want to suck the sake from your tongue.  To be only yours.

On Saturday afternoon in Sebastapol – buying slippers and bouncing a rubber ball through the aisle of Rite Aid, photographing maria’s shoes in the parking lot as you lean against the jeep, drawing with the etch-a-sketch – I can feel the small ache of where you’ve been.  I’m embarrassed that I can’t know the right things to say.

While we are weeding the asparagus beds at Leah’s farm, you remind me that it is AVN weekend – that it is Sunday, the last day of the convention, and all of the signing and florescent booths and photos and madness has gone on while we were walking through the soft-dirt holly grove, drinking California wine next to Leah’s fireplace, picking red chard in the dark with a pocket knife and flashlight, chopping the mint and olives, watching the hawks and setting the gopher traps and climbing muddy through the fern-bed amphitheater.  It’s Sunday afternoon and grey-cold and you are wheel-barrowing dug-up fenceposts to the barn and cut-down holly branches to the compost pile.  You’re wearing ripped jeans, flannel shirt and trucker hat and you keep calling me Daisy and I keep calling you Farm Boy.  I’m sifting through the dirt and lettuce-roots, letting an earthworm crawl between my cloth-gloved fingers.  I think that this is the first time in years that I have missed the convention; it is certainly the first time I’ve forgotten about it.  For a few minutes I wonder if this means something.

This morning, while you are at work, I make coffee that is stronger than you like.  I read your books and get weepy with sentiment, leaning back on your leather couch in the same position as the night you first kissed me –  when we both knew we shouldn’t have, and had to wait a year for the right time to kiss again.  While you are at work, I peel both of the hard-cooked eggs you left and eat them with the salsa verde from your cupboard.  I think of the way your hand felt last night, the way we were so tired, all of a sudden and I want to tell you this thing that’s in my throat, I want to and want to and it’s too much and I can’t.

Last night I took a trip to Fedex Kinko’s.  Guess who isn’t a good hostess?

It’s Fedex Kinko’s.

I wouldn’t recommend accepting her invitations to dinner parties.  Sometimes you think it would be thoughtful to bring a little something to share with Fedex—a Microsoft Word document or maybe a headshot. Just something to munch on before dinner. And so you spend a few somewhat feverish hours preparing it, because dinner is at 8 and if you’re bringing pre-dinner documents, you better believe that the other guests are expecting you early. They need your formatted snacks to soak up those cocktails.  Otherwise the night will blow it’s wad too early. And whose fault will that be?  probably yours. And that’s not something you want to carry around for the rest of your life.

But don’t terrorize yourself.

Because Fedex Kinko’s doesn’t even answer her door. She stands you up at her own house. You have a backpack full of the last several hours of your life and there’s an empty plate of glass between you and the guests inside having the time of their lives, wearing matching polo shirts, using big machines that wink and light up when touched.  But nobody will answer the door for you. Nobody will let you in.