Struggle Gets Dishy Volume 3

In honor of my upcoming trip to Turkey (more on that later), I've been getting really into lamb, yogurt, conversion by the sword, geometric patterns, Byzantine mosaics, and the works of Salman Rushdie. Ha, I'm just kidding with that last one, I'm not trying to start no trouble with the Ayatola. Fatwa free is cool with me. Anyway, my point is that I've been experimenting with yogurt in my mutfak (Turkish for kitchen, you're welcome) and I couldn't resist whipping up a side dish (or main dish, if meat isn't your treat, man, I'm on a ROLL today with the rhyming, rap career here I come!) using the key staples of Turkish cuisine. Foolish, you say, to gourge yourself on roasted eggplant with yogurt mint sauce right before a ten day stint in Istanbul? Well, I say to YOU....that's something I probably should have thought about earlier. Oh well. I'm a struggle for a reason.

In a move sure to anger and infuriate Turks the world over, I've used Fage Greek yogurt in my recipe. In my defense, however, when was the last time you saw Turkish Yogurt on the shelves at, say, any supermarket or grocery store? It's this kind of quick thinking that defeated Xerxes during the Persian Wars, and it's that kind of availability that means you can make an exotic seeming dish trading any camels to do so. And in THIS economy, who really has livestock to spare?

Roasted Eggplant with Yogurt Mint Dressing:
 1 large Italian eggplant OR three medium sized Japanese eggplants (Japanese Eggplants are a lavender color and are generally sweeter and faster cooking then their bulbous deep purple Italian counterparts)
5 cloves of garlic, minced (3 for the eggplant, 2 for the sauce)
1/2 cup Greek yogurt (or plain yogurt if your allegiance to the Turkish flag prohibits such a thing)
1/4 cup of chopped mint leaves
the juice and zest of 1/2 a lemon
salt, pepper
olive oil or cooking spray

Heat the oven to 450 degrees Fahrenheit. Slice the eggplant into rounds between 1 and 1/2" thick (depending on your eggplant choices these will resemble Hannukah gelt or small coasters). Toss the eggplant with salt, pepper, 3 minced cloves of garlic and oil or cooking spray depending on your preference. Lay the slices out on a baking sheet, making sure that none of the slices overlap. Roast for 30 minutes or until done. The Japanese eggplant may take less time and the Italian more, but you will know the eggplant is ready when the outside is dry and a little browned and the inside is soft and gray.

Meanwhile, combine the yogurt, mint, lemon juice and zest, and the garlic. Mix well, and season with salt and pepper to taste. Set aside. The sauce is honestly better when it has some time to blend, so make it the day ahead or that morning if you can count on yourself not to spread it on everything possible before you even buy the eggplant.

Serve the roasted eggplant with a generous dollop of (or all of) the yogurt sauce. Savor the taste of Turkey, enjoy, and try to beware of Greeks bearing gifts.

Struggle Takes Five

Part of maintaining one's Real Estate license in the fine state of Strugglevania is the abominable and painful task of continuing education, which occurs once every two years and requires 14 hours of mindless, boring and totally redundant classes which make you want to stab your eyes out with a fork. Not that I'd had that thought or anything. And while I personally will be doing my continuing education classes online, preferably with old episodes of 30 Rock and Parks and Recreation playing in the background. But some of us, and by some, I mean my entire office, seemed to feel the need to sit through actual classes for 7 hours, so this past Wednesday and Thursday I was alone in the office, fielding whatever problem came my way.

Now, let me tell you something about real estate. The selling and buying part? That has it's issues, but in general, in comparison with the property management part, it's a WALK IN THE PARK. Because managing properties, that is, dealing with apartments and the people who use them, well, I have to assume that that is some kind of punishment for something my family and I did in a past life. Were we murderers? Cossacks? God help me, rodeo clowns? Well, whatever it was, I'm really sorry, universe, but I think you've had your just desserts, because you've saddled us with a set of task that has us dealing with people at their absolute worst.

Look, I have nothing but sympathy for people who arrive home at their apartments at 7pm and find themselves confronting real, actual, unlivable problems, like, for example, their pipes have frozen and burst, or their ceiling has collapsed, or their closet opens into a snowy kingdom that's a metaphor for Christianity. These are all real problems, though that last one might be fun if you dress warm and stay away from the Turkish Delight, and we would be happy to help you with them as soon as is humanly possible. But really, and you can trust me on this, true emergencies only take up about 30% of my time, and that other 70%? It's chock full of crazy.

Here's one for you. While I wandered around the halls of our darkened office, the printers and copiers silent, the computer monitors turned off, only the quiet sound of the footsteps of little mice to keep me company, I received a phone call so strugglesome, so insane, so stupid, that I continue fume about it even now. The caller, who shall remain anonymous just so that no one becomes as enraged as I am, hunts them down, and hits them in the face until they look like they just won the big fight with Apollo Creed, was extremely upset because, apparently, a post man was daily entering the building in which they rent a commercial unit and using the (public) bathroom. And this was NOT their regular postman, but some strange postman. And he takes up a spot in the PARKING lot. And he brings a NEWSPAPER in the bathroom with him, so you know he's going to be taking his time. And this is a DEEPLY upseting and serious problem, and just WHAT do we plan to do about it, the caller would like to know? Oh, the postman is black. Does that help?

When I asked this person why they themselves didn't, I don't know, call their local post office or confront this wiley postman before or after he did his daily business, they were shocked and affronted. WE couldn't possibly do anything, we have to protect our anonymity! Postmen TALK!  (I suppose that's true, I mean, I've never met a mute one.) We must get our MAIL!

Now, in the face of all of this ludicrous insane strugglesomeness, did I scream? Did I laugh? Did I imply that this may be one of the ten thousand reasons to look into this whole "email" thing so popular with the young folks these days? Did I even hint at the fact that this at the end of the day was one of the most worthless complaints I've ever heard? No, I did not. I took the nice crazy person's information and promised to do all I could do about the defecating public servent who is, apparently, ruining this caller's life. Because I am a professional. I am a grown up. And I am getting paid for this.

Whatever we were in a past life, I can't wait until we've made our karmic restitution. Because if hell is other people, then greetings from the 7th circle, and Dante has nothing on us. Clearly, the man knew nothing about Real Estate.

Struggle Gets Dishy Volume 2

Whatever else it may imply, having friends in town is, frankly, an awesome excuse to cook all fancy like. For example, when I visited my friend Andrew (hi, Andrew!) in London, we roasted a chicken, made risotto, two kinds of soup, and Andrew rocked a tiramisu so hard it's like the Pope itself had blessed it. Now, are we big food geeks who wanted to save some money? Mayhap, gentle reader, mayhap indeed. Nevertheless, it was awesome.

So when my friends Ben and Jon (Hi, Ben and Jon!) decided to venture back up to the great city of Struggledelphia this weekend, I wanted to pull out all the stops. For a dinner that is sure to impress, without hours of labor and time spent in the bathroom sobbing because your soufle wouldn't rise and your sauce wouldn't reduce and no one will EVER LOVE YOU, or, you know, whatever, I can always recommend Tuna Steaks. Simple and tasty, as long as you get good quality fish the dish just speaks for itself. Here is one recipe I tried this weekend, which I served with roasted potatoes, red wine, and no mention whatesoever at all of being single on Valentine's Day. Not even the one time.

Provencal Tuna (Adapted from Bon Appetite):
2 tuna steaks of 1" thickness ( I like Ahi Tuna, but do whatever works)
2 zucchini, cubed to 1/2" cubes
1 medium eggplant, cubed like the zucchini
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 cup grape tomatos
1 tablespoon Herbs de Provance (it's a mix of herbs, a popular gift to bring home from trips to France, Thanks, Lisa. If you can't find it, you can use a combination of  equal parts dried thyme, basil, savory, and fennel seeds.)
3 cloves of garlic, minced
1 small white onion, chopped
salt, pepper

Combine the zucchini, eggplant, 1 tablespoon of olive oil, herbs de Provence, salt, pepper, garlic and onion in a small roasting pan or baking sheet with raised edges ( just so nothing falls out, burns up in your oven, and causes an awkward morning in the burn unit). Broil mixture on high heat until the zucchini and eggplant are cooked through and the mixture begins to brown, about 15 minutes or more, depending on your broiler. Once the mixture is cooked through, add the tomatoes and mix well. Heat the other tablespoon of olive oil in a saucepan. Dry each tuna steak well, to brown, and sprinkle each with salt and pepper. Sear the steaks, about 3 minutes per side for rare centers. Serve steaks topped with vegetable mixture and starch of your choice. Entire bottle of wine and good company optional, but recommended.

Mira la Struggle!

It has snowed for the past 12 hours here in Struggledelphia, and this weekend I was literally stuck in my home, unable to leave, unwilling to put on real pants. As I indulged in my 3rd (5th) cup of coffee of the day, and contemplated my frost-imposed fortress of solitude, in one of the snowiest winters this town has seen in a long time, I couldn't help but reflect on the weekend before this past one, and how very different that was indeed.

You see, my cousin Elyse, (hi Elyse!), is moving from Buenos Aires to Bogota, because, apparently, a life lived free of the shadow of the Colombian drug cartel is just a life wasted. No, but seriously, after three years in the land of Tango and cheap beef she's making a life change at moving on to the land of Salsa and cheap cocaine, which I personally would consider an upgrade, but then, I'm sort of sick that way. Also, there is a serious tostone factor to consider. Anyway, because Elyse lives a hemisphere away from me, she can be, shall we say, a bit hard to get a hold of, at times, and when she told me she had a stop in Puerto Rico for a few days, well, I jumped at the chance to see her. Puerto Rico and Philadelphia may not be exactly neighbors, but, hey, I'll take what I can get, and besides, when it comes down to it, I tend to avoid going to places where I have a 75% chance of being shot (sorry, Bogota).

Now, those playing along at home will recall that I have a place down in San Juan (and no you cannot crash there. Stop asking.)So while it was below freezing here I hopped on a plane full of Puerto Ricans and headed down to Viejo San Juan, to the land of palm trees, coquis, and luchitas every where you turn. Because I had a couple of days without Elyse, between netflix viewings and cocktails, I found myself wandering around the tiny city, chasing stray cats, yelling at pigeons and generally being amused.

The truth is, while it's known as a vacation destination and a navel bombing site, in MY mind, a strange and twisted place, to be sure, Puerto Rico is known for being a crazy land of crazy-filled crazy, and one that I always adore. There are a lot of hilarious things just about San Juan, and while we no longer dance fight on fire escapes (so 1961), we DO do a series of other bizarre things, the top five of which I will now relate to you.

1. Everyone flies kites. It's weird, it's strangely wholesome, and I always think that giant birds are flying down to attack me for at least a minute before I figure out what's going on. I don't know anyone other then Charlie Brown who flies kites, so it's Charlie Brown, and the citizens of San Juan, Puerto Rico. That's quite a club.

2.There is a Polo Ralph Lauren outlet. And a Guess outlet. And a Burberry outlet. And a Marshals. And only one supermarket.

3. There is a small section of the city called "La Perla" which is literally on the sea and outside of the jurisdiction of San Juan. That's right, it's a LAWLESS neighborhood. And it's funded by a potato chip company.

4. There is a Bacardi factory. I've never actually been there, but it's a life goal of mine to go. It's right up there with making it through an evening in high heels and watching every episode of Stargate SG-1. I'm dreaming big.

5. There is a Taco Bell. Now, that's just, that's offensive, is what that is.

As I hugged Elyse goodbye at 4 in the morning so she could catch her flight to Bogota and begin her new life as a drug baroness, I was glad to have been able to share this special little strugglesome world with her. And besides, compared to Puerto Rico, Columbia's going to be a piece of plantain, right? Right?

More snow is predicted for this Tuesday. It was 80 degrees and sunny when I left San Juan. I think I deserve some days without real pants.

Struggle Gets Dishy, Volume 1

Among the things I love best in the world, food is pretty much at the top of the list. And I don't mean that in the "I like food, and water, and breathing" kind of way, but more in the, "If I could marry food I totally would, and then I would (obviously) pull a Saturn and eat my children every day" way. But it wouldn't be weird. It would be awesome.

So in light of my love of food and my 5 years spent wasting my youth and drudging in various restaurants, I'm adding a weekly recipe component to my posts. Let me know if there is anything special you want a recipe for, say, something new to do with turkey breast, or a fun way to cook the flesh of your enemies. I'll be sure to make it strugglicious.

Polenta Pizza Pie (adapted loosely from a Self.com recipe. Shut up.)

1/2 a cup of corn meal
2 1/4 cups of water
1/2 a cup of red onion, thinly sliced
1/2 a cup of red pepper, diced
2 teaspoons olive oil
2 teaspoons fennel seeds
2 tomatoes
4 cloves of garlic, minced
1 3 ounce turkey sausage (or pork, if you are not a chosen person)
1/2 cup shredded mozzarella cheese
salt and pepper

Heat the oven to 450 degrees F. Boil the water and add corn meal in a thin stream, along with about a 2 teaspoons of salt. Whisk the mixture until the cornmeal has dissolved (it will initially be lumpy, don't get upset). Continue to whisk until the mixture is thickened and well blended. Pour the polenta into a greased pie pan and chill for about 20 minutes.

Remove the skin from the sausage and cook in a saucepan with cooking spray, or, if you want to be a fatty-no-friends, olive oil. In a separate saucepan, saute 2 teaspoons olive oil, the onions, peppers, two cloves of garlic and fennel seed, until the onions and peppers have just begun to soften. Place polenta pie base in the oven and bake for 15 minutes. As you are baking the polenta, dice the tomatoes and cook in a small pan with the other two cloves of garlic until the mixture is a thick, chunky sauce. Spread the sauce over the pre-baked polenta "crust", and then spread the sausage and the pepper-onion mixture on top. Place in oven and bake for 15 minutes. Spread cheese on top, and bake for an additional 10 minutes. Serve with salad, or eat it straight from the pan as you watch a Law and Order marathon on USA. Whatever feels right to you.

Struggle Plays Around

Since I've joined the ranks of the working girls (no, not THOSE kind of working girls, get your mind out of the gutter!), I've discovered something miraculous. While the daily grind doesn't just extend to my coffee, and while the work week can seem endless at times, one of the most amazing things about working, rather than being a student, is, with some exceptions, your nights and weekends are fairly free. Now, this might not sound that revelatory, but stay with me here. For the last 22 years, excluding the brief respite given by vacation times, my evenings were occupied, initially with piano lessons, play practices, vocal jazz rehearsals (am I painting a solid picture for you concerning both my dorkiness and my mother's saintliness?) and later, as the years went by, with part time jobs and meetings and always, through it all, the endless homework, coursework, paperwork and schoolwork, designed to turn the average human being into a pedantic philosophy quoting machine. Or, you know, teach us something. Whichever way you slice it, it took up most of my time, so between classes during the day, working in the evenings and chasing this elusive "sleep" creature all weekend (between drinking bouts. What? Not-Yale was tough!) , I pretty much kept myself busy.

But now that all of that is behind me (at least for the next few years) I'm discovering this amazing thing known as "doing things during the week". Wild and unconventional as this concept is to me, it seems to me that I may be a little behind the times on this one. For example my friend Jon, (hi Jon!) Has drinks and dinner dates with people all the time. When we trade stories about the previous evening, I regal him with tales of Netflix and Sleepytime, while Jon counters with exciting stories about his dating adventures in the Capital. Once I started asking around, it seemed that all of my friends had ceased to reserve their "out of the house" moments for the weekends. So I thought, why not?

Now, given my innate uncoolness and my deep seated need for sleep, I figured I couldn't do anything that crazy on a Monday that might mean I couldn't make it to work on a Tuesday. So body shots, Roman orgies and road trips to Washington were all out, (Sorry, Jon), as were assassination attempts on Latin American dictators were all out. (Just ask the CIA, that last one can take YEARS.) So what was a girl to do to fill all her new found time? The obvious choice, attend two different one-man plays about the lives of Truman Capote and James Baldwin, respectively. Duh.

The Maukingbird Theater Company is a small but prolific company here in Struggledelphia who produce work which looks at questions of sexuality and gender in a new and often striking way. I've seen a great deal of their work, and for a new company they are interesting in tackling some of the most disturbing and perturbing questions facing society today. Their current work is kind of a two parter, two separate plays, each a one man show, each with the same set, but each with a different subject. "Tru", a blustering and meandering 2 hour Odyssey, is told from the perspective of an aging Truman Capote, whose tenuous status in society is quickly plummeting due to his indiscreet, if acute, descriptions of the socialites and dilettante around him. "The Threshing Floor", a singing, zingingly tight hour long chronicle, probes into the life of James Baldwin. While Capote made a career of being the ultimate hanger on, Baldwin exiled himself from the United States in every possible way, I mean, the man practically put the ex in ex-patriot. Perhaps I preferred the piece on Baldwin because of my own recent regression to US soil, because of my own concerns, post graduation, post travel, post life as I've come to know it, about what to do next.

Or maybe I just liked it because it was shorter. Now that I know weeknights are an option, I'm going to fill them just as high as I can. After all, I've got 22 years to make up for. Just don't tell my choral teacher, okay?

Struggle Does if for the Mortgage

You know what's a huge struggle? If you answered me, then you are indeed correct, but that was the easy answer, so no points for you. However, if you instead answered "growing up and joining the human race", well, go ahead and pat yourself on the back because you won.

Now, I am fully aware of how difficult it is to get a job in today's market. However, despite "la crisis", or perhaps because of it, most of my friends are, surprisingly enough, gainfully employed, if only because the people my age are willing to accept lower salaries and longer hours then, say, a parent of two. So here we all are, fresh out of college, filled with the vigor and promise of youth, our whole lives ahead of us, and then we jump straight into a world of heath insurance forms and taxes and early bedtimes. I mean, did you know that based on your commute you have to wake up by at least 8 to be somewhere and caffeinated by 9? Which means you have to go to BED by at least 1, which means you can't watch adult swim, which means what the hell are you going to talk about with anyone ever? I honestly don't know how adults do it!

And listen, this isn't just hearsay, I really do know what I'm talking about. For the next two months I myself am working what I believe the kids call a 9 to 5, answering phones, filing papers, selling my soul to the company store, the usual. And I have a few observations from my long hard days in the salt mines (and by salt mines I mean Real Estate Company. And by long hard days, I mean my father buys me lunch every day) which I would like to share with you, as a way to aid my fellow compatriots, young and old. And by compatriots, I mean drones.

How to make a 9 to 5 a "Nothing but Fun":
1. Use the time when you are being paid to be "working" as covert opportunities to catch up on some serious reading. May I suggest observing the social habits of others? Boning up on the news? Or, you know, stalking?
2. Construct a suit of armor out of paper clips. It worked for my brother in the 6th grade, it can work for you. Ladies, don't be gender normative, armor on up! Only you can defend middle earth!
3. Make long distance phone calls on someone else's dime. Come on, don't you have some friends in New Guinea you could be catching up with?
4. Set up an internet dating profile. The sketchier the site, the better.
5. Fill out magazine subscriptions and catalog offers in the names and addresses of people you dislike. Penile enhancement offers always sweeten the deal.

I'm sure you've all got more at home. And if you do, would you mind sending them to me? I seem to have a lot of grown up time I need to fill.