lesbian phone sex
06 Feb 2008 3 Comments
in narrative Tags: big gay sketch, Brooklyn, flirt, london, midwestern, piercings
this came to me from my ex-girlfriend, who happens to be a documentary film maker. to wit:
this fabulous exposé of lesbian lust buttons is performed by Erica Kash and Julie Goldman. Kash I have not seen before. She began her career in Japan and is smashing in her silver-white wig.
Goldman first made me laugh at all our queer predicaments and cultures at a midwestern LGBT conference when i was in college. Of course, the bit that sticks in my mind was about tongue piercings. Then again, I think it wasn’t part of the routine but a nicely turned flirtation with a so-pierced delegate in the front row. A decade later, I saw her judge the Ms. Lez competition in Brooklyn. Brava. She’s fantastic.
miso awesome soup
26 Dec 2007 2 Comments
in greens, mushrooms, recipes, soup, vegan Tags: asian cooking, ceramic bowl, chopsticks, cooking for one, everything & anything, garlic, ginger, london, miso, noodles, radical muffins love good food, weeknight dinner
The amounts here are for a generous bowl for one voracious feminista yogi. This soup is quite adaptable by size – feed your feminista yogi flock!
Bring a pot of water to boil and cook a handful of udon noodles. The corner health mart carries an organic brand that comes in 8 oz packets with three bundles of noodles, and one bundle is just right amount for a big bowl. (One big bowl eating is typically friendly cooking for one eater, one broke but taste-conscious eater. Those inspired, sexy soups, pastas, and salads you whip up for dates with your one true one want a roomy, gorgeous bowl. Right now my favorite is a ceramic piece that heats up comfortingly in my lap when I sit cross legged on the couch. This bowl, runny with glaze in cinnamon, oatmeal and cream, is my flat mate’s handmade treasure. I gotta find my own perfect piece; I will let you know how the quest goes.)
Slice two or three scallions (green onions). Peel and mince an inch of ginger and two cloves of garlic. Slice three or four thin slices of chili. Chili is highly subjective; know thyself.
In a medium sized sauce pan, heat a few teaspoons of vegetable oil and sesame oil. When a flick of water sizzles in the oil, lower the heat and add the chili, garlic, ginger, and scallions along with some sea salt and black pepper. Add two to four tablespoons of tamari.
Clean off your mushrooms—any kind you like, of course. I used the smallest possible shitakes and creminis, carefully de-stemmed and cleaned with a paper towel. Sauté the mushrooms briefly in the fiery oil, about five minutes, until their heads are glistening and glossy brown.
Pour broth over the frying mushrooms, about 3 cups. Bring broth to a boil.
Halve a lemon. Snip a cup or so of watercress and add it to your bowl.
Lower heat and with the soup at a low simmer, squeeze in the lemon juice from both halves and stir in two tablespoons of miso. Bring back to a fine simmer and pour over the delicate greens.
I eat this with two tools: chopsticks and a big, shallow spoon.
absence and books and shoes
01 Dec 2007 Leave a Comment
in narrative Tags: aids, airport food, aprons, betsey johnson, femme, karma, london, michelle tea, outfits, sorority girls
it has recently come to my attention that you read this blog—with some regularity and anticipation.
In light of this news, I apologize for my temporary absence. To earn pay for rent and loans and such, I have been working to plan this event that was, throughout its span, a 7-day a week endeavor. In the last month, even my sparse late night bloggings had to go. They were not the only bit of my life to be neglected into oblivion, including my sacred kitchen goddess bit.
I was eating a lot of pizza. Pizza! Also, drinking seltzer water directly from liter bottles. I can get myself talked into a passable if delusional Slow Food-y, local business supportive justification for the pizza, which I buy not from that anti-choice pizza chain or any chain but from whichever older-than-me, tiny Brooklyn place I happen to be near. This weak front fails to address the grossness of all that cheese to my body and takes a fingers-in-my-ears approach to where that cheese comes from. This also happens to be the distinct eating pattern of my ex-lover who rounded out her diet with pepperoni, cereal, and cheese’n’crackers.
She worked mad hours when we were together. Back then I gave her a hard time while loving to cook for her. Now, oh—I have pulled-up to her drive through and sat at the window in complete understanding. This working working working craziness: it becomes next to impossible to eat well. One needs either time or money to eat well or…exuberant and precise planning, which is not my forte. Coffee/cigarette breaks became my forte.
A sad state had come to pass- I was not horribly put off by the airplane food on the flight to London on the eve of the big to-do.
The day after this big who-ha ended, I pulled up in a cab at the Islington home of a couple, friends of a friend who was also visiting them. (At some live reading, I will tell about the lesbian cab driver giving us her lover-by-lover tour of London.)
Crossing their threshold, I struggled, wobbling over, taking off my shoes and turned into the living room, with the cat scuttering across the wood floor, looking back over his tail, my adorable coworkers seducing him with purrs and pets and cooing; my friend and her friend rollicking in their cute loud American girl reunion. The fogged autumn sun coming in through the huge front windows despite itself.
Hot coffee, platters of warm croissants, nutella, jam.
And I wept. Inside, I wept with the unraveling of releasing of relief. Which suddenly feels like joy.
I stayed with them for several days of Turkish and Indian restaurants, lingering afternoons at pubs, home cooked pasta dinners from the organic market and leftovers of everything picked-at over days.
Wandering the gayborhood of London, I found an all-you-can-eat vegan Buddhist buffet, clattering with plates and piled with flowers, for EIGHT DOLLARS. I ate so many bean paste sesame balls the kimono ladies were tittering.
And the novelist/investment banker half of the couple gave me the perfect short story for the time: Cathedral. Go on, find it. It is in a collection by the same title.
This short story kicked off a post-life-sucking-job reading frenzy, and I have gone through some delicious pages in the past few weeks. Among them, the 100 pages I read of That’s so you! before gifting it to one of the young women I worked with on this project.
It is a collection edited by Michele Tea; the tagline is Women write on self-expression through fashion and style. I am a Michelle Tea devotee—more power to you sister for earning your way in the world by your writing. Her write-up on that new turn in her life is as sweet as her nerdy queer femme intro. Her childhood lavender-on-lavender glam ensemble far out-shines my own ballerina inspired obsession at 7. I wore the grimy pink leotard endlessly, sleeping in it or hiding it at night so my mother couldn’t wash it lest—god forbid— it be in the washer or dryer and not ON ME.
Another So you! highlight: Kate Bornstein’s journey from being sent home from school for copying the wrong side of the tracks cool to her current soul satisfying outfits by Betsey.
Oh, Betsey Johnson! of the cartwheels on runways and pink pinkity pink on black designs on netting and tattoo inspired prints on velvet mini-dresses, and now – shoes. Sweetart candy for princess trash tootsies…coveted by moi. My only clothes purchased with large sums of money I never really have are a few pieces by Betsey. The first dress of hers that became mine, I swore wouldn’t fit, but the red maned shop girl stood with her heat against my back, zipped me into it sharply, yanked me back a hair’s width closer to her, and whispered, “You just needed a little help, Scarlett.”
The netting and sequins slung in the bottom of that big pink bag, I walked swinging and whooping hand-in-hand with my best friend through DC’s Georgetown. She and my mom co-gifted me the dress for my birthday. She was wearing her dimples and mighty ass, and I was wearing short, pale hot pink hair that I cut myself. We were yelling indirectly at the sorority girls, whose cab we later stole (instigating a full year of bad cab karma, but it was exhilarating at the time). Yelling about how she thinks she can wear Betsey Johnson but she cannot wear Betsey Johnson; I am the girl who wears Betsey Johnson! And we made out on the corner in our tattoos and piercings.
So go check out this book – I am going to get myself a copy and finish it.
I am so glad to know you read this blog, and for that, I want to share a little thanksgiving:
