Struggleslovakia

I was driving in downtown Struggledelphia the other day when I came upon a deeply perplexing sight. Cold the wind was, and icy breezes blew through the city. Wrapped in fleece and down, the noble inhabitants of my fair struggle hurried on their way, faces turned from the bitterness of the day. None of this, of course, is surprising, it's been insanely cold here in Struggledelphia, the kind of weather that makes you understand why so many Colonial beverages mix hot liquids and alcohol (Have you had mulled wine lately? A hot toddy? Cider? It's all working for me right now). But what WAS surprising was the large typically vacant office building at the corner of Market and StruggleFirst street which was festooned with pictures of actor Bradly Cooper's face in some kind of pseudo political campaign. But the weirdest part? That political campaign was for the city of New York.

Now, I'm fairly certain that Struggledelphia is not, in fact, New York. I know for a fact that there are at least 5 people in our Chinatown who speak English, which is 500% more then New York has. Also, we barely have a subway system. Also, a bottle of water costs under 5 dollars. So it seemed unlikely that the two cities had in fact fused together overnight and that I was at the corner of Struggledelphia and Broadway. Although that would be an awesome Twilight-zone....

And then it occurred to me, none of this was real! It was, in fact, a movie. A movie being shot in here in Sturggledelphia but set in New York. Right, Because the two cities look EXACTLY alike. We have a Statue of Liberty as well. It's called the Benjamin Franklin Bridge. Looks exactly the same, if you squint. And have glaucoma. And it's nighttime. And raining. And all the power is out. Right?

And then I realized, as I dodged Bradley Cooper fangirls (and boys, let's not be heteronormative) and tried to make it to my pilates class in something approaching on time, they have been shooting a lot of movies in our fair city. Last summer they shot the completely unsuccessful "How Do You Know", and the as yet unreleased "The Best and the Brightest". The movie that has prevented me from punctuality recently is called "Limitless". And apparently the trailer for "Ceder Rapids" features the Struggledelphia skyline, even though the movie is supposed to be set in, well, Iowa. Thanks, guys, that was kind of you. Next time you are here, we are spitting in your stupid cheesesteaks.

So what does this add up to, pray tell? Why, it's obvious! Struggledelphia is the new Prague! Think about it, Prague is the stand in for every European city ever. Movies are shot in Prague all the time, because it's cheap, it's beautiful, and stupid American movie audiences will never figure it out. Unless they actually go to Prague...but of course that's crazy talk. Americans don't travel. We are literally incapable of being outside of a 50 mile radius of a Starbucks and/or a McDonalds. Everyone knows that. But really, think about it some more. Prague has never been bombed. Struggledelphia has never been bombed. Prague is famous for it's history. Struggledelphia is famous for it's history. Prague was the capital of Bohemia. Struggledelphia has a naked bike ride! Prague has had not one, but TWO defenestrations. Struggledelphia recently got a Barney's co-op! I could go on like this all day, but I think you all get the picture. Struggledelphia is the new Prague. Come visit us quickly before we convert to the Euro and all the cigarette prices go up.

Struggle Gets Dishy: Mambo Italiano

I don't know about all of you, but when the temperatures drop and it starts to rain white crap from the sky, I personally can dispense with the salads. I love gazpacho as much as the next girl (assuming the next girl REALLY loves gazpacho), but wintertime, especially wintertime here in Struggledelphia, the not-quite-Northeast, means substance. It means style. Hell, I'll say it, it means pasta.

Remember those few awkward years (not that that narrows it down) when everyone was all about carbs being the devil? First of all, the Devil is the Devil, people, stop trying to make the Devil into bedbugs or reality television stars or Christine O'Donnell (though obviously that last one is some kind of minor minion, a sub-demon, perhaps, something along those lines). He is that he is, folks, he's not hiding in your bagel. So I don't care if this causes a group of priests to come down on me like a load of bricks, exorcise all you want, folks, I'm eating pasta. And I'm eating in all sorts of different ways. Why? Because it's filling. Because it's delicious. And because if animals can get all fatty-no-friends and store up winter fat then, by God, so can I.

Considering that the horribly cruel local news stations had spent the weekend predicting doom and gloom and more snow then a cocaine dealer would know how to handle, I thought it prudent on Monday evening to whip up a dish that would give me the warm fuzzy feeling of carbohydrates, the solid strength of protein and the mildly superior sensation of having eaten something vaguely healthy. A tall order, perhaps, but it's all in a day's struggle:

Orecchiette with Spinach, Peppers and Sausage:
Serves 4

Water
Enough dry Orecchiette for four people (depending on your appetites and pasta needs)
4 turkey sausages (or pork, should you not be a chosen person)
4 cloves of garlic, minced
2 red peppers, diced
1 large bag of spinach (about 6 cups)
Salt, pepper
olive oil

Bring a large pot of salted water to boil. Meanwhile, heat up olive oil under medium heat in a large heavy saucepan. Cook sausages until almost completely cooked through and browned. Remove sausages from the pan, set aside to cool. Maintaining a medium heat, add the minced garlic to the pan, and saute for one minute. Add the diced peppers, saute together for several minutes while pepper starts to soften. Slice sausage into long diagonal slices about 1/4 of an inch thick each. Add sausages to the saucepan, then add washed spinach and salt and pepper (according to your tastes/sodium requirements). Cover the pot and lower the heat to medium-low, allowing the spinach to wilt and cook and the flavors to meld. Add pasta to water once the water is boiling, and cook according to the package directions. Remove pasta from heat when it is still al dente. Spoon sauce over the pasta, and serve with Parmesan cheese. Enjoy the sweet sensation of added layers of lipids insulating your winter-prepared body. Not everyone does.

How the Struggle Stole Christmas

First of all, I want to apologize to all you, my loyal readers, for my sudden drop off the face of the earth. What with my job and my search for a more interesting job and my life and my search for a more interesting life and all this business with the red and the green and the birthday party for an infant (I don't know why people bother, really, I mean, it's like taking your kids to art museums or Europe or really nice restaurants if they are under the age of 8, they aren't going to get it and they are ruining it for the rest of us. Yes, I just said children ruin Europe, and I stand by that. Fact.) I haven't had a chance to chronicle my struggles, which is a real shame for all of you, as they have been PLENTIFUL. Ah, if we had world enough, and time...but we don't and we live in a culture of speed, so instead of giving you the Russian-classic length story of my comings and goings (and fallings...) of the last month, I'm going to enumerate them in list form for you instead. So sit back, relax, and hunker yourself down for a litany of someone else's bad decisions. After all, tis the season.

My Naughty List:
1. During the whirlwind rush that is Hanukkah (which came way too early this year, I mean, that thing practically arrived before Thanksgiving. Thank you so much, ancient harvest calender, for having me stuff myself with Turkey AND latkes in the space of one week. You're a peach.) I went up to New York for a reading of a new play I wrote. The reading itself was a mixed bag, the good being that I go to hear the play and the bad being that it would of been nice to have people who can actually speak English reading it. But my friend Gabriel (hi, Gabriel!) was in it, so that's a win.

2. In New York, I stayed with my friend Michael (hi, Michael!) in his apartment (tiny by Struggledelphia standards, a veritable Palladian Villa by New York estimates). After running up and down the West side like a maniac trying to see some so called friends (is it too much to ask that people drop everything in their lives and come find me the second I arrive in New York? Oh, it is? Crap.) Michael and I celebrated by making dinner, drinking copious amounts of Trader Joe's Finest vintages and braving the elements to see our extremely white, Jewish, well bred friend Aaron (hi, Aaron!) rap at a bar in the East Village. And you know what? He was secretly awesome. And Michael dropped me on the dance floor. Thanks, buddy.

3. Upon my return to the fair city of Struggledelphia, I found myself at a house party in Fishtown the very next weekend with my friend Kate (hi, Kate!). One look inside the converted garage/performance space/living room up in the heart of blue collar white supremisist Northern Fishtown, and Kate and I realized we were way too dressed up for this. Not only were neither of us sporting awkward facial hair, chunky thrift store sweaters or tights and shorts (no. just...no) but we had committed the cardinal sin of cleanliness. If you think about it, there is something really bizarre about the icon of the dirty hipster. Hip away all you want, folks, but if you are going to be in a confined space for any amount of time, at least consider sporting a pinch of deodorant. Isn't that what Toms of Maine is for?

4. Decided that I'm in no place to drink PBR, even if it's meant to be done ironically, I curled up with a hot toddy (nothing says Struggledelphia like a colonial themed beverage) and enjoyed the spectacle and the scream band. After enjoying ourselves for a few hours and bowls of vegetarian chili, Kate and I realized our lack of hand rolled cigarettes weren't making us any friends, so we absconded with our clean hair still intact.

5. The next evening, I won quizbowl. That's right, true story. So despite the fact that my not-Yale education has yet to procure me a job in my field, a handsome and extremely successful trophy husband, OR world dominance, at least I can still earn the respect and envy of my peers by answering questions about Christopher Marlow quotes and the population of Latvia. Happy Holidays to ME.

My Nice List:
1. Um, I give money to same charities....

Oh, screw it, I've got nothing. Happy whatever-the-hell you do this time of year, and be safe. Make me jealous with your New Year's plans in the comments. Me, I'm thinking about renting a movie.

Farce, Thy Name Is Struggle

Sometimes life is lovely, wonderful and shining, full of possibility. But most of the time? It's not. For example, I SHOULD be out there, enjoying the the gorgeous fall weather here in Struggledelphia, frolicking amongst the leaves, wearing cute sweaters and drinking pumpkin lattes (of course, I would never do that last one because I dislike pumpkins and really really dislike lattes) but instead I'm sitting in my home shotgunning tea and getting really into Make it or Break it (it's seriously hilarious, I can't stop watching it. I hate you, Hulu.) And how did this happen, you may ask? Well, that's sort of a long story.

I should back up here, and explain that I am of the opinion that life is like one of those Rube Goldberg machines, that is, it takes about 8 million steps and reactions before the chicken hits the ball (or spills the water or lights the lamp, whatever, Rube Goldberg was a sick man). So the story of how I got sick (first cold since Hamburg in March, not to shabby, Franqui!) is therefore not just point A to point B, but involves many little steps in between. And the steps are as follows:

1.After a stressful week I lose my debit card AND my license while attending a truly painful production of Uncle Vanya with Mama Struggs. Killed my wine buzz from dinner, luckily left my bank account intact.

2. Poor Mama Struggs rolled over something (Broken glass? Stick with a nail in it? Switchblade? Scythe? You never can tell in my neighborhood!) and two of our tires suddenly underwent an air-reduction. That was fifty percent of our tire, right there.

3. Then Mama Struggs got sick. In a valiant effort to avoid illness I tried to create a three foot barrier around us at all time.

4. Unfortunately, because I live with and work with my parents, that proved more difficult then I had previously imagined. And what with the arrival of Strugglemano for my favorite holiday, the planning of said favorite holiday, and all the stress of, well, struggling, I woke up yesterday with the clogged nasal passages and throat on fire feeling indicating less then perfect health. Super.

So now I'm blearily staring at a computer screen, lightly congested, gently delirious, wondering when it would be acceptable to dive into the day's third bowl of soup. This better clear up before I have to spend the day arms deep in a turkey carcass. Although, that would give me the perfect opportunity to make the REST of my family sick while I'm well on my way to recovery...Something to think about.

Struggle Takes A Napa

There are many ways in which I am nothing like an early 19th century prospector/explorer. For one thing, my greatest fear isn't dysentery or rattlers. I'm certainly not interested in forming my own polygamist religion featuring terrible hairstyles and bunkers, nor am I often found searching the soil for gold. I bear no ill will towards Native Americans (or is it first peoples, now?) and while buffalo is DELICIOUS I can usually resist the urge to kill one when I see it. So clearly there is a strong divide between me, Leah Franqui, strugglextrodinare, and, say, Louis and Clark. Nevertheless, I recently found myself unable to resist that great and wild urge present in all members of the United States (at least according to Fredrick Jackson Turner). That's right, my friends, I went West.

More specifically, I went to San Fransisco. Apart from the fact that Padre Struggle had a hankering to see some free lovers-turned-litigators (can you imagine California Law Schools in the 1970s? It's like, guys, guys, guys, look at this legal brief, but really, LOOK at it. It's beautiful.), Strugglemano only lives a brisk 6 hour drive south (you can cross five state lines on the East Coast in the same time it takes you to get from Los Angeles to San Fransisco. I cannot understand California).

On day one the trifecta of struggle found itself awash in the salty breezes of the Pacific, climbing up hills, more hills, some other hills (we took a walk around the city and it was uphill BOTH WAYS. HOW IS THAT POSSIBLE?), peering at charming Victorian homes and their filthy hippie residents (thank you, Haight Ashbury, but I would not like a hit of that), stuffing ourselves with Dim Sum in Chinatown, dodging gangs in the Mission, and generally having a wonderful time. We walked so much on that first day that my shoe literally fell apart, and when I bought a new pair and asked to dispose of the now-derelict sneakers, I was advised to give them to a homeless person. They were accepted gratefully, I'll have you know, which just goes to show that one man's trash is another man's treasure.

Having all pulled leg muscles exploring the city, we decided to spend day two relaxing in Berkley. First we went to Chez Panisse for lunch, and the only appropriate word I have for Alice Water's flagship enterprise is FOODGASM.

Then we saw the university. Maybe it's just because I went to not-Yale which, despite it's many graduate programs and hugely inflated ego, is really rather small, but Berkeley seemed enormous to me. I mean, I can't understand how students navigate the place without becoming extremely lost! We comforted ourselves with Ethiopian food and South African wine, as one does.


Day three had us wandering the hallowed halls of Stanford, whose golden buildings and palm trees made me think of the University of Salamanca crossed with Hawai 5-O. At this point Strugglemano and I also learned a new life rule, that every major university in the United States has an Alexander Calder. Every. Single. One. Any evidence to the contrary is merely an illusion. I then spent the evening hanging out with high profile lawyers in their late fifties/early sixties. If I ever recover from that experience, I will let you know.


Day four, ah, day four, a day that will live in my dreams, day four, we went to Napa. Glorious Napa, fragrant with the stench of fermenting wine and expensive brunches, filled with rolling hills of grapes and, well, nope, that's it, grapes. Strugglemano, being our resident wine expert, arranged three tasting for us at three different wineries, and may I just say, there is nothing quite like the buzz of wine you will NEVER be able to afford consumed well before 5pm (East Coast AND West Coast time). Dear lord, it was glorious.

And so, several thousand pounds heavier (give or take), Padre Struggle and I boarded the plane back to Struggledelphia, while Strugglemano contemplated the long drive back to Southern California. Take heart, Strugglemano, car beats wagon trail hands down. Nothing like a Westward Ho! interlude to refresh the soul, eh? Or at least get it drunk enough so it forgets about work on Monday.

San Franstruggle Volume I

I just got back to Struggledelphia from San Franstruggle. It was my first trip to the Fog City, and, to be frank, I was not expecting to love it. After all, I have very negative feelings about the OTHER city in California (if you can call a place where a car is a non-negotiable a city...) and didn't expect to find a town built by robber barons and gold prospectors to be that interesting. However, I don't know what the hell I was thinking, because obviously anything built by robber barons and gold prospectors is BOUND to be awesome, number one, and number two, it was Padre Struggle's law school reunion, and number three, Strugglemano took a one-man six-hour road trip to meet us, and as a result, hilarity ensued. And while I will be happy to break down all the crazy in due time, for now, I'm just going to give you some images, and let you imagine the rest. The best story will get a large prize! And by prize, I mean bragging rights. Come one, don't give me that look, there is a recession on!

Struggle Cuts It Out

Liminal seasons as they are, fall and spring seem to be the times of year in which we most crave change. Call it spring cleaning (or fall dirtying? why doesn't fall get a thing?), but I always feel like doing something new when the weather changes, like changing my nail polish color or shooting a man in Reno just to watch him die or something. You know, something festive and fun. And normally I would be eagerly anticipating the change of seasons with joy, but this year, well, I can't really get into it. Why, do you ask? It's the silence.

You see, I've been applying for jobs for a few months now, and, things being what they are in the world, etc, I've found myself facing a flurry of rejection, a handful of awkward interviews, and a giant void of silence. The rejection I can deal with, I mean, I went to high school in the United States, so, I've got that down. The awkward interviews don't faze me, awkward is, frankly, my calling card, so I make it work, taking each one with a grain of salt, (and, later, a shot of tequila).  It's the silence that has begun to get to me, though, it's the silence that is bringing me down. You pour your heart and soul and the better part of an hour into a cover letter explaining in great but succinct detail how you would be the perfect development assistant/fry cook/baseball coach/mayor, and you check that everything is correct and that everyone possible has been thanked for their consideration, and then you carefully send it off by email/mail/carrier pigeon, and you wait. And wait. And wait. Godot himself walks by during your time spent waiting, he says hi, you two have some coffee, he moves on. And all you are left with is silence, nothingness, the sound of one hand clapping. No wonder they called it the Great Depression, because this is painful.

Look, I know that in this situation the companies and businesses and clown troupes have the power; there are ten million of me and only a few of them, I get it. And I'm certainly not expecting a hand written thank you note every time I send in an application. But really, is sheer silence the only option? Can't there be any kind of acknowledgement that I have, in fact, made an effort and you have received the fruits of my labor? Because as it is I can't help but imagine my job applications floating out there in the universe, blowing the wind, disturbing sleeping homeless people and amusing squirrels. I don't like squirrels, and I really don't appreciate the image of them getting acorn pieces all over my cover letters and mocking my special skills section on my resume. I'd like to see THEIR resumes, stupid squirrels...

In times like these when you find yourself confused, concerned, and contemplating squirrelicide, the best solution is to breathe, try to relax, and find yourself something else upon which to place your focus. And if you can't change your career path and the authorities wont let you hunt squirrels in public places, there is no better place to go then to your appearance. And so I cut off my hair. Well, I say I did, but really it was a nice man with expensive scissors and more product then that one character in Glee. After all, if change wont come to you, you might as well go out and find it.

So, I'm still applying for jobs, I'm still living in the huge hit of silence and suffering, and I still hate squirrels. But I look good. So, you know, net gain, I say. Happy October, people.