Holidays don't get much better than this. It started out with A- and I trying to find a container to brine my re-gifted 17lb turkey. Why worry about having a stew pot large enough to cook Nephew Benjamin in, and a refridgerator to keep it in, when you can use any clean, water-proof storage container and use the Great Outdoors. Global warming hasn't progressed so far that we can't use winter for additional cold storage. Just make sure to put the container in some sort of device that distracts and protects it from the 50lb local neighborhood raccoons. Like a contractor bag and some cinder-blocks. Soak the turkey in the brine for an hour per pound of bird.
The recipe for the brine is roughly 1 gal cold water to 1 cup of the following: kosher salt; raw sugar (or 1/2 white sugar and 1/4 molasses); fucking rough whiskey. I like to use Wild Turkey. It makes a man mean and meat delicious. (Hi Mom, meet Delicious. Mmm.)
Thanksgiving morning, we prepped and began roasting the bird, wiling away the hours drinking ginger & cardamom -laced french-press coffee and playing with the parrot. You can stuff a brined turkey with anything, or nothing at all - it comes out delicious either way. This year, I decided to experiment with some mild aromatics: Gala apples; red onion; garlic; rosemary; thyme; celery salt. Then A- cut up a single enormous butternut squash to roast with sweet potatoes, carrots, apples and Morrocan spices.
Delicious Spice Mix (we upgraded to tablespoons):
2 tsp. ground cumin
1 tsp. ground coriander
1/2 tsp. chile powder
1/2 tsp. sweet paprika
1/2 tsp. ground cinnamon
1/4 tsp. ground allspice
1/4 tsp. ground ginger
1/8 tsp. cayenne pepper
and a pinch ground cloves
Now the recipe I'm cribbing says to roast the squash at 450 for 45 minutes; but we're roasting the turkey simultaneously, so we're going to try 325 for 1.5 hours. If it ends up as delicious as it smells, pictures will be forthcoming.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Sunday, November 02, 2008
Gems of Ages Past
I'm in the midst of a perpetual house-cleaning and picked up some miscellaneous boxes from a former household. In those boxes were the few papers and things I had left kicking around from high school. There's a book on mythology, an annotated periodic table, and my hand-written notes explaining HTML from an era before the blink tag had been deprecated.
Yes. Those were the halcyon days, when all the cool kids had red blinking text scrolling across the top of their Angelfire homepage, followed by low-resolution graphics separated by horizontal rules. And the color of the text (in various sizes) always seemed to clash with the background made of tiled Hubble shots of the Crab Nebula.
Also in the pile, along with more academic detritus, were some obscure poems from 1996 and 1997. I'll admit it. I was emo. It's impossible to laugh at yourself when you're 16. After all, you are confronting all of the fundamental problems of human society! But all the same, it's interesting to examine the teenage phase.
"November is the place that I keep between my heart and ice."
"Black ink alone on a stark naked page,
gives itself purpose with words.
Words tossed around, neglected with age,
give their immortality to thoughts."
"Lying in the cornfield,
her somber black hair streams in the night wind
She thought a single thought which echoed in the expanse,
'Justify my existence.'
[...]
The echo slipped around as if the night were tasting before making its judgments,
then there came only the whispering of silence building.
The clouds drifted in their sphere and were contented, high above,
obscuring and revealing the night as was their will.
The stars twinkled in their sphere and did not notice the clouds.
Thus you have it; teenage existential angst and profound alienation in pristine condition - suitable for framing. Or maybe one could tuck it into that custom black pleather Precious Moments scrapbook with the Celtic knots and Neil Gaiman graphics painted on in nail polish.
Yes. Those were the halcyon days, when all the cool kids had red blinking text scrolling across the top of their Angelfire homepage, followed by low-resolution graphics separated by horizontal rules. And the color of the text (in various sizes) always seemed to clash with the background made of tiled Hubble shots of the Crab Nebula.
Also in the pile, along with more academic detritus, were some obscure poems from 1996 and 1997. I'll admit it. I was emo. It's impossible to laugh at yourself when you're 16. After all, you are confronting all of the fundamental problems of human society! But all the same, it's interesting to examine the teenage phase.
"November is the place that I keep between my heart and ice."
"Black ink alone on a stark naked page,
gives itself purpose with words.
Words tossed around, neglected with age,
give their immortality to thoughts."
"Lying in the cornfield,
her somber black hair streams in the night wind
She thought a single thought which echoed in the expanse,
'Justify my existence.'
[...]
The echo slipped around as if the night were tasting before making its judgments,
then there came only the whispering of silence building.
The clouds drifted in their sphere and were contented, high above,
obscuring and revealing the night as was their will.
The stars twinkled in their sphere and did not notice the clouds.
Thus you have it; teenage existential angst and profound alienation in pristine condition - suitable for framing. Or maybe one could tuck it into that custom black pleather Precious Moments scrapbook with the Celtic knots and Neil Gaiman graphics painted on in nail polish.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
An Irrational Reason to Vote Democrat
In line with Yes We Can (Hold Babies), here's Benjamin in his hand-stenciled Obama onesie.
Because it turns out a) the Obama onesie you can buy that gives money to the Obama campaign is lame, and b) any and every home craft project should involve bacon. Which is to say, I forgot that we needed butcher's paper to make the iron-on stencil (I substituted in 'waxed paper' in the archives). Luckily, Nee-chan had used bacon with dinner - delicious bacon wrapped in bacony and not so delicious... butchers paper.
Because it turns out a) the Obama onesie you can buy that gives money to the Obama campaign is lame, and b) any and every home craft project should involve bacon. Which is to say, I forgot that we needed butcher's paper to make the iron-on stencil (I substituted in 'waxed paper' in the archives). Luckily, Nee-chan had used bacon with dinner - delicious bacon wrapped in bacony and not so delicious... butchers paper.
Monday, October 06, 2008
Delicious Pesto
There was a mad rush this week to get basil from the farm share before the frost hit and all the plants turned brown and unfortunate. I'm not entirely sure of the basil variety they plant, but the leaves are smaller than grocery-store basil, and it smells spicier. I will update this post with the varietal information at a later date. What's more important is that making pesto was a moral imperative, but whenever I use raw garlic (as most recipes call for) the pesto always turns out much too strong and sharp.
The solution: Roasted Garlic Pesto
Step 1. Roast a whole head of garlic ala Warren Ellis (He writes like my Papa, which is disturbing. Even more so, he seems to follow the same hard road in cooking -- so ignore him about scraping yourself bloody trying to peel sweet potatoes. One day, someone brave will tell him that the right way to make sweet-potato mash is to boil the potatoes first, quench them in ice water, and then rub the skins off). I used Otter Creek Copper Ale as my beer of choice. Nice and sweet. I wanted my garlic in between sweet and sharp, so I only roasted it for 30min on 400F.
Step 2. Clean and pack 2c fresh basil into a food processor.
Step 3. Add 1/2c of EVOO - use a tasty variety. I like to use Trader Joe's California Estates Extra-Virgin Olive Oil, in the black bottle. Ask for it by name.
Step 4. Add 1/2c+ of grated Parmesan.
Step 5. Add a double-handful (1/3c) of pine nuts.
Step 6. Add salt and pepper (a pinch of each), or forget to add the salt and pepper like I did, and add it as a garnish later on. If nothing else, it gives you an excuse to summon Heavy Metal Guy.
Step 7. Add the roasted garlic.
Step 8. Q: Will it blend? A: Yes it will.
Step 9. Sever over pasta with fresh tomatoes.
And because it's 6am and it appears that I'm up for the day, I'll leave you with another classic episode of Heavy Metal Guy - from the makers of Happy Tree Friends - the cartoon that makes you understand how rational human beings become serial killers.
The solution: Roasted Garlic Pesto
Step 1. Roast a whole head of garlic ala Warren Ellis (He writes like my Papa, which is disturbing. Even more so, he seems to follow the same hard road in cooking -- so ignore him about scraping yourself bloody trying to peel sweet potatoes. One day, someone brave will tell him that the right way to make sweet-potato mash is to boil the potatoes first, quench them in ice water, and then rub the skins off). I used Otter Creek Copper Ale as my beer of choice. Nice and sweet. I wanted my garlic in between sweet and sharp, so I only roasted it for 30min on 400F.
Step 2. Clean and pack 2c fresh basil into a food processor.
Step 3. Add 1/2c of EVOO - use a tasty variety. I like to use Trader Joe's California Estates Extra-Virgin Olive Oil, in the black bottle. Ask for it by name.
Step 4. Add 1/2c+ of grated Parmesan.
Step 5. Add a double-handful (1/3c) of pine nuts.
Step 6. Add salt and pepper (a pinch of each), or forget to add the salt and pepper like I did, and add it as a garnish later on. If nothing else, it gives you an excuse to summon Heavy Metal Guy.
Step 7. Add the roasted garlic.
Step 8. Q: Will it blend? A: Yes it will.
Step 9. Sever over pasta with fresh tomatoes.
And because it's 6am and it appears that I'm up for the day, I'll leave you with another classic episode of Heavy Metal Guy - from the makers of Happy Tree Friends - the cartoon that makes you understand how rational human beings become serial killers.
Friday, October 03, 2008
Excellent Use of Street Art
From the Gothamist (via Feministing):
This is one brave lady.
If you have any interest in the street art scene; I suggest you check out Wooster Collective and Banksy (for starters). As for street activism, there's Park(ing); Ghost Bikes; Holla Back (which, if you don't have a local chapter - start one!).
Holla Back doesn't usually put signs or art up on the street. They focus on decreasing harassment by posting aggressors up on message boards... but the MBTA has started put up signs that comment on subway harassment (via MBTA and NPR).
This is one brave lady.
If you have any interest in the street art scene; I suggest you check out Wooster Collective and Banksy (for starters). As for street activism, there's Park(ing); Ghost Bikes; Holla Back (which, if you don't have a local chapter - start one!).
Holla Back doesn't usually put signs or art up on the street. They focus on decreasing harassment by posting aggressors up on message boards... but the MBTA has started put up signs that comment on subway harassment (via MBTA and NPR).
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Farm Share Shakedown
Today saw the inaugural dinner at my new apartment. It is also the night we pick up the farm share, so there was a shakedown of sorts while we sourced various ingredients and retrieved pots, pans, knives and colanders from boxes. The menu: green and purple beans sauteed in butter with salt and pepper; and pasta with a sauce made from olive oil, onion, garlic, basil, oregano, thyme, salt, pepper, braised greens, eggplant and fresh heirloom tomatoes.
My new stove is awesome. The gas jets are very forthcoming, making it easy to keep a very low flame without the fire going out. The only downside is that we need to install some over-range lighting.
To make a fresh sauce (or sauce fresh tomatoes) as I understand it: heat olive oil and saute garlic and onions; add the vegetables that take longer to cook (eggplant) and spice. Add tomatoes. Sauce/simmer. Fold in any greens (like basil, beet greens, etc). Simmer until satisfied and serve.
We ate it. It was delicious.
My new stove is awesome. The gas jets are very forthcoming, making it easy to keep a very low flame without the fire going out. The only downside is that we need to install some over-range lighting.
To make a fresh sauce (or sauce fresh tomatoes) as I understand it: heat olive oil and saute garlic and onions; add the vegetables that take longer to cook (eggplant) and spice. Add tomatoes. Sauce/simmer. Fold in any greens (like basil, beet greens, etc). Simmer until satisfied and serve.
We ate it. It was delicious.
Sunday, September 07, 2008
Caryatid
A friend abroad sent an apt gesture through the tubes - The Porch of the Caryatids at the Acropolis!
I've always been fascinated by Greek mythology, and consider the caryatides a wonder. There they stand at the Acropolis, staid architectural supports for eternity, serving as stoic and civic counterparts to the Danaides. Why? What is the source of the idea and its surrounding culture? I use the handle 'karyatid' as the inheritance of the most stable machine running Redhat 5 ever. I needed a name and 'caryatid' was taken. My first computer, built from scavenged and donated parts, was implausibly stable server for 5 years until the BIOS chip melted. It lived up to its name. True story. But I also use the handle 'karyatid' because of Auguste Rodin's "Caryatid Who Has Fallen Under Her Stone." When I saw her at Musee Rodin, it was raining, she was serene and defeated and it looked as though she were crying.
When most people see that sculpture, they think of the passage that Heinlein wrote in "Stranger in a Strange Land:"
"This poor little caryatid has fallen under the load. She's a good girl - look at her face. Serious, unhappy at her failure, not blaming anyone, not even the gods... and still trying to shoulder her load, after she's crumpled under it.
But she's more than just good art denouncing bad art; she's a symbol for every woman who ever shouldered a load too heavy. But not alone women - this symbol means every man and woman who ever sweated out life in uncomplaining fortitude until they crumpled under their loads. It's courage... and victory.
Victory in defeat, there is none higher. She didn't give up... she's still trying to lift that stone after it has crushed her... she's all the unsung heroes who couldn't make it but never quit."
A romantic idea, for sure. It is one that stuck with me when I was young. What, in this world, is higher than "victory in defeat," and stoic unsung failure, he writes? What is more noble than the enduring, crushing fate and uncomplaining burden shouldered by the Every Man? "Takaru", Vonnegut would say. The elevated Every Man, memorialized in the form of the fallen caryatid, is nothing but a slave.
The real victors in this world are not the ones who are silently crushed under their burdens. When I see Rodin's caryatid, I wish I could roll the stone off of her shoulders and take her home to rest. She was defeated because she had the narrow vision that her burden was the only burden; her task the only task alloted her. Destroyed by determinancy. Another path, albeit a scarier one, would have been to seek victory in the face of uncertainty. She could have thrown off her stone even though it would mean she was no longer a caryatid. I can't blame her for her choice, but I am saddened by it. Unless, of course, she knew something about the worth of her burden that I don't know.
Jess and I were talking, and the uncertainty of choice is probably what we would define to be an American ideal, or even "the American Dream." Not that everyone embraces it, but I feel that the victors and forerunners of humanity are the ones who excel despite their burdens, who move and change despite the predestined function imposed upon them by the conditions of their birth and society. Our heroes are not unquestioning and noble caryatids suffering alone. They are instead the people who turn choose to turn their suffering, strength and gifts towards questioning and freedom - who have the fortitude to shoulder that even greater, uncertain burden. Ayaan Hirsi Ali and Theo Van Gogh. The suffragists and the civil rights activists. Evariste Galois. Gay-rights activists and feminists. Pieter-Dirk Uys. Jesus Christ. Captain Sam who joined up with the Marines. James Tiptree, in her way. The women at Holla Back. Hopefully, me. Hopefully, you.
I've always been fascinated by Greek mythology, and consider the caryatides a wonder. There they stand at the Acropolis, staid architectural supports for eternity, serving as stoic and civic counterparts to the Danaides. Why? What is the source of the idea and its surrounding culture? I use the handle 'karyatid' as the inheritance of the most stable machine running Redhat 5 ever. I needed a name and 'caryatid' was taken. My first computer, built from scavenged and donated parts, was implausibly stable server for 5 years until the BIOS chip melted. It lived up to its name. True story. But I also use the handle 'karyatid' because of Auguste Rodin's "Caryatid Who Has Fallen Under Her Stone." When I saw her at Musee Rodin, it was raining, she was serene and defeated and it looked as though she were crying.
When most people see that sculpture, they think of the passage that Heinlein wrote in "Stranger in a Strange Land:"
"This poor little caryatid has fallen under the load. She's a good girl - look at her face. Serious, unhappy at her failure, not blaming anyone, not even the gods... and still trying to shoulder her load, after she's crumpled under it.
But she's more than just good art denouncing bad art; she's a symbol for every woman who ever shouldered a load too heavy. But not alone women - this symbol means every man and woman who ever sweated out life in uncomplaining fortitude until they crumpled under their loads. It's courage... and victory.
Victory in defeat, there is none higher. She didn't give up... she's still trying to lift that stone after it has crushed her... she's all the unsung heroes who couldn't make it but never quit."
A romantic idea, for sure. It is one that stuck with me when I was young. What, in this world, is higher than "victory in defeat," and stoic unsung failure, he writes? What is more noble than the enduring, crushing fate and uncomplaining burden shouldered by the Every Man? "Takaru", Vonnegut would say. The elevated Every Man, memorialized in the form of the fallen caryatid, is nothing but a slave.
The real victors in this world are not the ones who are silently crushed under their burdens. When I see Rodin's caryatid, I wish I could roll the stone off of her shoulders and take her home to rest. She was defeated because she had the narrow vision that her burden was the only burden; her task the only task alloted her. Destroyed by determinancy. Another path, albeit a scarier one, would have been to seek victory in the face of uncertainty. She could have thrown off her stone even though it would mean she was no longer a caryatid. I can't blame her for her choice, but I am saddened by it. Unless, of course, she knew something about the worth of her burden that I don't know.
Jess and I were talking, and the uncertainty of choice is probably what we would define to be an American ideal, or even "the American Dream." Not that everyone embraces it, but I feel that the victors and forerunners of humanity are the ones who excel despite their burdens, who move and change despite the predestined function imposed upon them by the conditions of their birth and society. Our heroes are not unquestioning and noble caryatids suffering alone. They are instead the people who turn choose to turn their suffering, strength and gifts towards questioning and freedom - who have the fortitude to shoulder that even greater, uncertain burden. Ayaan Hirsi Ali and Theo Van Gogh. The suffragists and the civil rights activists. Evariste Galois. Gay-rights activists and feminists. Pieter-Dirk Uys. Jesus Christ. Captain Sam who joined up with the Marines. James Tiptree, in her way. The women at Holla Back. Hopefully, me. Hopefully, you.
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
Masculinity in Disney Movies
Another gem from the Internets concerning stereotypical depictions of masculinity (in Disney movies).
My father never let me play with Barbie Dolls, but he couldn't censor traditional gender rolls on television or at school. My princess phase lasted 3 years or so. But even when I was 8 (and a tomboy), I still wanted to be Ariel, The Little Mermaid, when I grew up. Find a prince. Sing a lot. Then again, I also wanted to be Ayla from Clan of the Cave Bear, so I could wander around inventing technology and domesticating animals.
My father never let me play with Barbie Dolls, but he couldn't censor traditional gender rolls on television or at school. My princess phase lasted 3 years or so. But even when I was 8 (and a tomboy), I still wanted to be Ariel, The Little Mermaid, when I grew up. Find a prince. Sing a lot. Then again, I also wanted to be Ayla from Clan of the Cave Bear, so I could wander around inventing technology and domesticating animals.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
The Latest in Human Evolution
Nephew Benjamin just celebrated his second metric birthday (100 days) and we have discovered that he is enraptured by guitar-playing. He stares with wide eyes and mouth agape; first at the right hand, the hand that is rhythmically moving in time with the sound; then the face, the thing that moves and makes a different sound; then the left hand, the thing that moves when the sound changes. If I had been outfitted with sound-responsive, color-changing LEDs, he would have gone into stimulation overload.
It's really neat; he was rapt for the entire twenty minutes I was playing. Until he wet himself thoroughly. Then it was bath time, feeding time, and bed time. I'll avoid any prolonged discussion of his rapid development, or weight/length percentiles in favor of skipping straight to the pictures.
Fig 1. Getting Weighed: Circa 6 Weeks A.B.
Fig 2. Lump of Baby: Circa 9 Weeks A.B.
Fig 3. The Subject Exhibits both Smiling and Pouting: Circa 14 Weeks A.B.
Fig 4. A Regular Chick Magnet
Fig 5. He Makes Excellent Use of the Mom-a-Lounger
It's really neat; he was rapt for the entire twenty minutes I was playing. Until he wet himself thoroughly. Then it was bath time, feeding time, and bed time. I'll avoid any prolonged discussion of his rapid development, or weight/length percentiles in favor of skipping straight to the pictures.
Fig 1. Getting Weighed: Circa 6 Weeks A.B.
Fig 2. Lump of Baby: Circa 9 Weeks A.B.
Fig 3. The Subject Exhibits both Smiling and Pouting: Circa 14 Weeks A.B.
Fig 4. A Regular Chick Magnet
Fig 5. He Makes Excellent Use of the Mom-a-Lounger
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Deliciousness
There has been some recent deliciousness occurring in my kitchen. The cause: This summer, I am participating in a local farm share, a privileged activity of the socially-conscious green (and maybe, young and urban) professional, which was recently featured in the NYTimes. You pay in advance for produce. Every week, one person picks up that week's allocation of vegetables harvested from the farm. We then struggle to consume the fresh produce without having any of it rot. It is wonderful.
I like the farm share for two primary reasons.
First, it reminds me of when I was growing up and we subsisted from my father's vegetable garden.
From the first time I can remember (until the age of 12 or so), we were living well below the poverty line. We got by with hand-me-down clothes, exchanged labor, a wood stove, hoarded food stamps from the time before they were issued with an expiration date, government surplus milk and butter, bulk macaroni and cheese, and our backyard garden. For several years, we literally lived off of our land. In fact, the garden (and our verdant property) is one of the things I remember and identify with most strongly about growing up. That garden was serious business. When my mother wasn't waitressing, she was canning, pickling and stewing things, dehydrating bushels of peaches from the local orchard and cajoling me to eat ratatouille (p'toui, ratatouille). She was the benevolent mistress of the kitchen: mixer; canning rig; juicer; food processor; knives and berry-grinder. My father, on the other hand, forced us to labor in the garden: hoeing; weeding; planting; picking; digging beds; aerating and turning the compost pile; and he was a serious killjoy whenever I tried to use the tiller.
Every piece of that 1/2 acre was pivotal to me, whether I loved it or hated it. My sisters and I didn't really appreciate what the garden did for us (let us eat unlimited fresh vegetables for the cheap cost of labor). Yet, I still remember it vividly. My sisters and I slacked off and whined about having to weed and played 'King of the Hill' on a giant pile of horse manure. The neighbors stole our tomatoes and we kept deer away with bone meal, marigolds, snippets of human hair and a pistol. Papa loved to grow chili peppers, but invariably, these huge wreaths of dried peppers just ended up hanging on the kitchen wall, adorning his 'Life is Hell' calendar. I used to sneak out to the corn patch and eat ears of sweet corn raw and would then make dolls out of the silk and husks. The sole year we had a popcorn crop, we had to sit outside for hours to pop and pry all the dried kernels off the ears into mason jars. My thumbs were blistering and bruised, the mosquitoes were biting me, Papa wouldn't let me stop to go inside and read even though I was trying hard not to cry, and I hated the experience so much that I was still resentful several months later when Mom finally made kettle corn. We once planted the flowering vines where the compost pile had been the year previously. That resulted in a bumper crop of cucumbers and zucchini so massive that Mom had nightmares about pickling and we couldn't give them away fast enough. Papa chewed huge wads of Juicy Fruit gum (to stretch it out over gopher holes). One of my first lies of omission was over that garden. I used to eat all of the dill plants before they bloomed and would decimate our mint plants, even after overhearing my mother complain to my father that something kept eating all the herbs out of the side garden. I tried abstaining, Mom. Really, I did. New dill shoots and mint leaves are just so much tastier and tender than mature leaves. We tried to grow our own fruit, but our peach tree got a bark infection in its first year, while our apple tree bore mealy, nasty-tasting fruit. The grapes were sour green wine grapes (not eating grapes). The strawberries were worth every sunburn. I was perennially confused by our walnut tree. Specifically how the hell one turned the fresh green tennis-ball-like lumps (that dyed everything yellow or brown) into those things Mom used in Christmas cookies. I tried hammers, screwdrivers, my shoes, my teeth, all to no avail. We usually defaulted to spending a day every summer trying to pry walnuts out of those husks before giving up and pitching them at semis. Memories. I loved every inch of that garden - from the coreopsis I wasn't allowed to pick, to the black raspberry thicket where I used to hide, and the accursed patch of horseradish that always seemed to kill our pumpkins. Living in the city, I've really missed both the experience of a garden and the deliciousness of its produce.
My parents joked that we had to have a garden because I ate so many vegetables and they were worried about pesticides... and that's what I told my schoolmates who accused us of being too poor to buy groceries. It turns out that both claims were truths. I didn't appreciate how poor we were then, not until recently, but that doesn't diminish my pride in our garden. Self-sufficiency is absolutely not a mark of social deficiency. However, while I am in full support of my parents' ingenuity, I have been completely unable to emulate it. I am a spendthrift, particularly with regards to food, and that often feels obscene, particularly with the rising cost of groceries (and its impact on lower- and moderate-income families). So! The farm share is my first serious attempt at forcing myself to make do with what we get each week, to avoid over-buying groceries and letting them go to waste, and to get used to cooking on a regular (and irregular) schedule rather than going out to dine and literally eating my money.
Second, nothing is more delicious than fresh vegetables, fresh out of a garden. Unless it's being in the garden, and eating fresh cherry tomatoes off the plant.
Now for the summary (where I repeat myself and hope I'm sounding clever). If you are lacking the time (or more importantly, RoHS-compliant soil) to grow your own food, a farm share is the next best thing. You pay (in my case $150) in advance for what turns out to be about 4 months worth of vegetables. That's $10/week for enough vegetables to stuff yourself silly on. Onions. Beets. Turnips. Carrots. Chinese cabbage. Lettuce. Spinach. Tomatoes. Kale. Garlic (and skates). Squash. Zucchini. Cucumbers. You get all of the joys of the earth without any of the labor, birds, cutworms, deer, mites, droughts, storms, winds or thieving neighbors. It's then an exercise (in my case, a serious learning exercise) to learn how to cook what you have, make it tasty, and most importantly, just eat or preserve all of it. We've had good luck with all our recipes this week... so far.
Saag/Korma Hybrid (a.k.a. I disavow any knowledge of regional Indian cuisine):
Fig 1. Hybridized Zucchini-Squash
I like the farm share for two primary reasons.
First, it reminds me of when I was growing up and we subsisted from my father's vegetable garden.
From the first time I can remember (until the age of 12 or so), we were living well below the poverty line. We got by with hand-me-down clothes, exchanged labor, a wood stove, hoarded food stamps from the time before they were issued with an expiration date, government surplus milk and butter, bulk macaroni and cheese, and our backyard garden. For several years, we literally lived off of our land. In fact, the garden (and our verdant property) is one of the things I remember and identify with most strongly about growing up. That garden was serious business. When my mother wasn't waitressing, she was canning, pickling and stewing things, dehydrating bushels of peaches from the local orchard and cajoling me to eat ratatouille (p'toui, ratatouille). She was the benevolent mistress of the kitchen: mixer; canning rig; juicer; food processor; knives and berry-grinder. My father, on the other hand, forced us to labor in the garden: hoeing; weeding; planting; picking; digging beds; aerating and turning the compost pile; and he was a serious killjoy whenever I tried to use the tiller.
Every piece of that 1/2 acre was pivotal to me, whether I loved it or hated it. My sisters and I didn't really appreciate what the garden did for us (let us eat unlimited fresh vegetables for the cheap cost of labor). Yet, I still remember it vividly. My sisters and I slacked off and whined about having to weed and played 'King of the Hill' on a giant pile of horse manure. The neighbors stole our tomatoes and we kept deer away with bone meal, marigolds, snippets of human hair and a pistol. Papa loved to grow chili peppers, but invariably, these huge wreaths of dried peppers just ended up hanging on the kitchen wall, adorning his 'Life is Hell' calendar. I used to sneak out to the corn patch and eat ears of sweet corn raw and would then make dolls out of the silk and husks. The sole year we had a popcorn crop, we had to sit outside for hours to pop and pry all the dried kernels off the ears into mason jars. My thumbs were blistering and bruised, the mosquitoes were biting me, Papa wouldn't let me stop to go inside and read even though I was trying hard not to cry, and I hated the experience so much that I was still resentful several months later when Mom finally made kettle corn. We once planted the flowering vines where the compost pile had been the year previously. That resulted in a bumper crop of cucumbers and zucchini so massive that Mom had nightmares about pickling and we couldn't give them away fast enough. Papa chewed huge wads of Juicy Fruit gum (to stretch it out over gopher holes). One of my first lies of omission was over that garden. I used to eat all of the dill plants before they bloomed and would decimate our mint plants, even after overhearing my mother complain to my father that something kept eating all the herbs out of the side garden. I tried abstaining, Mom. Really, I did. New dill shoots and mint leaves are just so much tastier and tender than mature leaves. We tried to grow our own fruit, but our peach tree got a bark infection in its first year, while our apple tree bore mealy, nasty-tasting fruit. The grapes were sour green wine grapes (not eating grapes). The strawberries were worth every sunburn. I was perennially confused by our walnut tree. Specifically how the hell one turned the fresh green tennis-ball-like lumps (that dyed everything yellow or brown) into those things Mom used in Christmas cookies. I tried hammers, screwdrivers, my shoes, my teeth, all to no avail. We usually defaulted to spending a day every summer trying to pry walnuts out of those husks before giving up and pitching them at semis. Memories. I loved every inch of that garden - from the coreopsis I wasn't allowed to pick, to the black raspberry thicket where I used to hide, and the accursed patch of horseradish that always seemed to kill our pumpkins. Living in the city, I've really missed both the experience of a garden and the deliciousness of its produce.
My parents joked that we had to have a garden because I ate so many vegetables and they were worried about pesticides... and that's what I told my schoolmates who accused us of being too poor to buy groceries. It turns out that both claims were truths. I didn't appreciate how poor we were then, not until recently, but that doesn't diminish my pride in our garden. Self-sufficiency is absolutely not a mark of social deficiency. However, while I am in full support of my parents' ingenuity, I have been completely unable to emulate it. I am a spendthrift, particularly with regards to food, and that often feels obscene, particularly with the rising cost of groceries (and its impact on lower- and moderate-income families). So! The farm share is my first serious attempt at forcing myself to make do with what we get each week, to avoid over-buying groceries and letting them go to waste, and to get used to cooking on a regular (and irregular) schedule rather than going out to dine and literally eating my money.
Second, nothing is more delicious than fresh vegetables, fresh out of a garden. Unless it's being in the garden, and eating fresh cherry tomatoes off the plant.
Now for the summary (where I repeat myself and hope I'm sounding clever). If you are lacking the time (or more importantly, RoHS-compliant soil) to grow your own food, a farm share is the next best thing. You pay (in my case $150) in advance for what turns out to be about 4 months worth of vegetables. That's $10/week for enough vegetables to stuff yourself silly on. Onions. Beets. Turnips. Carrots. Chinese cabbage. Lettuce. Spinach. Tomatoes. Kale. Garlic (and skates). Squash. Zucchini. Cucumbers. You get all of the joys of the earth without any of the labor, birds, cutworms, deer, mites, droughts, storms, winds or thieving neighbors. It's then an exercise (in my case, a serious learning exercise) to learn how to cook what you have, make it tasty, and most importantly, just eat or preserve all of it. We've had good luck with all our recipes this week... so far.
Saag/Korma Hybrid (a.k.a. I disavow any knowledge of regional Indian cuisine):
- Saute finely chopped onions with pressed garlic in a fair amount of rapeseed/canola oil and butter (as a substitution for clarified butter or ghee).
- Once the onions are translucent, fold in about a pound of washed, finely chopped spinach.
- Add delicious spices, such as coriander, ginger, cumin, fennel, cinnamon and chili powder. Saute. Do not steam.
- Separately, wash and dice up summer squash (we had a variety that half-hybridized with zucchini and was quite sweet).
- Fry the summer squash in hot canola oil, and as they start to cook spice them with mace, paprika, salt and cinnamon.
- Add yogurt to the spinach-onion-spice mix. Reduce.
- Fold in the spiced fried squash. Reduce until creamy.
- Serve over rice.
- Start out peeling the beets (save the greens). Dice a cup's worth of them and cook in boiling water.
- Juice half a lemon into a blender. Add some salt, some pepper and a handful of chopped onion.
- Peel a large cucumber, and cut into medium-sized pieces. Add this to the blender.
- Add the cooked beets (drain the water).
- Blend!
- Add a cup of sour cream to the mixture. Blend!
- Add milk and blend until the texture is appropriate.
- Serve chilled with sour cream.
- Saute chopped onions with pressed garlic in a fair amount of olive oil.
- As the onions are partially cooked, add vegetables in the order of most flavorful/slowest-to-cook (mushrooms, carrots, broccoli, celery, peas, corn, peppers, whatever you have on hand). We added broccoli, beet greens and lemon juice. Saute.
- Add tomato sauce and spices (thyme, rosemary, oregano, salt, pepper) (and optional things like tomatoes and meat). Stir, then cover and let steam. If you need more liquid, add vegetable stock or bullion and water.
- Fold in chopped cabbage and cover.
- Serve as is, with rice, or over pasta.
Fig 1. Hybridized Zucchini-Squash
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Optimism through Engineering
Reading about interesting solutions to large problems is one way to self-comfort one's vast sense of disappointment in the government over FISA.
Photophilic formation of bromate prevented in California's Ivanhoe Reservoir through the addition of black balls.
I'm a little dubious of Gizmodo's description of the chemistry of bromate formation - I don't think sunlight combines chlorine and bromine to form bromate. I think it's more likely that the energy from light (and heat) helps drive the reaction where chlorine frees/replaces bromine from various bromide salts in the water, leaving the bromine free to react with ozone (which is used in the water disinfectant process, or just occurs naturally from the combination of direct sunlight and water vapor over the reservoir) to form bromate. The benefit of the balls would be, primarily, to keep the system energy/temperature down and prevent ozone formation, yes? Any input from the resident chemists, Wax or Sherv? I took solid-state chemistry and organic chemistry over inorganic chemistry (8 years ago) so this is a stab in the dark (ha-hah). I miss Dylan Stiles and his Tenderbutton Chemistry Blog.
For more information on the formation of bromate in purified drinking supplies: [1]. [2]. [3], [4], [5].
Photophilic formation of bromate prevented in California's Ivanhoe Reservoir through the addition of black balls.
I'm a little dubious of Gizmodo's description of the chemistry of bromate formation - I don't think sunlight combines chlorine and bromine to form bromate. I think it's more likely that the energy from light (and heat) helps drive the reaction where chlorine frees/replaces bromine from various bromide salts in the water, leaving the bromine free to react with ozone (which is used in the water disinfectant process, or just occurs naturally from the combination of direct sunlight and water vapor over the reservoir) to form bromate. The benefit of the balls would be, primarily, to keep the system energy/temperature down and prevent ozone formation, yes? Any input from the resident chemists, Wax or Sherv? I took solid-state chemistry and organic chemistry over inorganic chemistry (8 years ago) so this is a stab in the dark (ha-hah). I miss Dylan Stiles and his Tenderbutton Chemistry Blog.
For more information on the formation of bromate in purified drinking supplies: [1]. [2]. [3], [4], [5].
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Highway Graffiti and Etiquette
I drive a 2000 Honda Civic. My car is very... zippy and I drive it as such (although the Civic is not so zippy that I'm not perennially tempted to upgrade to a Subaru Impreza manual transmission - which I'm led to believe has the same base engine as the WRX while omitting the highly wasteful Turbo and the derpy rear spoiler). I am not an aggressive or unsafe driver, per se, but for the past three years, I've made it my practice to keep pace with the flow of traffic. In my area of Massachusetts, the "pace," is usually 75-85 mph and I became accustomed to owning the left lane (in Massachusetts, travel in the left lane is prohibited unless you are passing another vehicle).
For those playing at home, I'm also very comfortable driving on the Chicago-area freeways. Was it the Eisenhower or the Dan Ryan where the lights used to be timed so that you started out at 35, but to keep pace with the greens, you slowly accelerated until you ended up going 85? I swear, that light was yellow when I started...
On my last visit to NYC, I was running very late and had to make the 200 mile trip in under than three hours. That's an average speed of 67mph, approximately. However, In order to make up for periods of delay or slower average velocity (such as bouts of in-town driving prior to the highway, or detouring around an accident which closed I-84 in Hartford, CT) I found myself driving rather fast, all the while, keenly aware that my extra speed a) put me at risk of getting a traffic ticket and b) did not make a significant dent in my travel time. It's an illusion that speeding gets you there faster. I know. I spent over an hour watching the relativity of time, speed and distance slip by. Here's how: Early on in my trip, I made up 20 minutes, so that my effective starting time was 10pm. Then I tried to continue to make up time: I sped, and for the next two hours the minutes on my clock were barely outpaced by the numbers clicking by on my trip odometer. While I nervously watched, my progress was tortuously slow. It took something like 15 minutes of speeding to have my odometer gain one minute on the clock.
I'm not sure what the low point of that drive was. It was either counting how many FedEx trucks I passed on my way (7), bagging the OMEGA EXPRESS (which is the last tour bus you'll ever ride through New England), looking out for deer (3) avoiding being pulled over for speeding in Connecticut, or the agonizing tension of pacing my odometer against the clock while listening to Better Than Ezra, over-caffeinated and flashing back to when I was a 13-year-old g0th. Either way, once I got to my destination, I ceased to care about speed or fuel efficiency.
That is... until I spent some time talking to Martin - an old-school nuclear engineer. Well, I suppose he started out as a civil engineer, but when he came to the US, he started building nuclear power plants. His stories were really interesting, but moreso, he was not shy about going off on old-engineer rants about politics, conservation, etc (most of which I enjoyed hearing and wholeheartedly agreed with. I should hope I live to be old enough to go off on rants and tell the kids to get off my lawn.) The relevancy in this tangent is that Martin and his son were giving me directions back to MA when Martin made the comment that I should take the Sawmill Parkway, because it was slower. He said, "If people are so worried about the cost of oil, they should make speeding a crime. Anyone doing 75, ticket them. Everybody speeds. We're wasting 20% of our fuel on speeding!"
That got me to thinking... I had the perfect conditions for an easy experiment. I had come 200 miles on more than half a tank of gas, so now it was time to see whether I could go the same 200 miles back on less than half a tank of gas. I wanted to see if Martin was right (in fact, I'd enjoy proving him right and visiting to give him the actual numbers.) The first data-point was positive, if ballpark -- I got home with a half-gallon of gas to spare, and so began my, "55 to 65 Experiment," or an analysis of the trends in fuel efficiency with respect to average highway speed for a well-maintained 2000 Honda Civic. The rules are simple - I drive the way I always have, but I (or anyone else driving my car) has to adhere to driving the highway speed limit, preferably in the speed band of 55-65pmh (even Connecticut troopers won't bother pulling you over for 7-9mph over the limit), and driving slower as road conditions dictate. It's not exactly easy to drive the speed limit though - everything about highway etiquette changes. For starters, you drop to the lowest level of the roadway hierarchy, and from there, things get a bit nasty.
So far, the only thing preventing me from comparing my four weeks worth of new driving data to the three year log I already have (and declaring a premature win, because I am convinced the savings is at least 10% if not 15%) is the OCD compulsion to only present a complete, defensible experiment. I am so impatient, and that is the real challenge - this experiment is as much about my personal mindfulness as it is about fuel efficiency.
Because I'm not allowing myself to tabulate any results, I now close with some graffiti spotted on a railroad overpass on I-84 E, just past Exit 62 in Connecticut: "Impeach Bush & Cheney. Nixon did less."
For those playing at home, I'm also very comfortable driving on the Chicago-area freeways. Was it the Eisenhower or the Dan Ryan where the lights used to be timed so that you started out at 35, but to keep pace with the greens, you slowly accelerated until you ended up going 85? I swear, that light was yellow when I started...
On my last visit to NYC, I was running very late and had to make the 200 mile trip in under than three hours. That's an average speed of 67mph, approximately. However, In order to make up for periods of delay or slower average velocity (such as bouts of in-town driving prior to the highway, or detouring around an accident which closed I-84 in Hartford, CT) I found myself driving rather fast, all the while, keenly aware that my extra speed a) put me at risk of getting a traffic ticket and b) did not make a significant dent in my travel time. It's an illusion that speeding gets you there faster. I know. I spent over an hour watching the relativity of time, speed and distance slip by. Here's how: Early on in my trip, I made up 20 minutes, so that my effective starting time was 10pm. Then I tried to continue to make up time: I sped, and for the next two hours the minutes on my clock were barely outpaced by the numbers clicking by on my trip odometer. While I nervously watched, my progress was tortuously slow. It took something like 15 minutes of speeding to have my odometer gain one minute on the clock.
I'm not sure what the low point of that drive was. It was either counting how many FedEx trucks I passed on my way (7), bagging the OMEGA EXPRESS (which is the last tour bus you'll ever ride through New England), looking out for deer (3) avoiding being pulled over for speeding in Connecticut, or the agonizing tension of pacing my odometer against the clock while listening to Better Than Ezra, over-caffeinated and flashing back to when I was a 13-year-old g0th. Either way, once I got to my destination, I ceased to care about speed or fuel efficiency.
That is... until I spent some time talking to Martin - an old-school nuclear engineer. Well, I suppose he started out as a civil engineer, but when he came to the US, he started building nuclear power plants. His stories were really interesting, but moreso, he was not shy about going off on old-engineer rants about politics, conservation, etc (most of which I enjoyed hearing and wholeheartedly agreed with. I should hope I live to be old enough to go off on rants and tell the kids to get off my lawn.) The relevancy in this tangent is that Martin and his son were giving me directions back to MA when Martin made the comment that I should take the Sawmill Parkway, because it was slower. He said, "If people are so worried about the cost of oil, they should make speeding a crime. Anyone doing 75, ticket them. Everybody speeds. We're wasting 20% of our fuel on speeding!"
That got me to thinking... I had the perfect conditions for an easy experiment. I had come 200 miles on more than half a tank of gas, so now it was time to see whether I could go the same 200 miles back on less than half a tank of gas. I wanted to see if Martin was right (in fact, I'd enjoy proving him right and visiting to give him the actual numbers.) The first data-point was positive, if ballpark -- I got home with a half-gallon of gas to spare, and so began my, "55 to 65 Experiment," or an analysis of the trends in fuel efficiency with respect to average highway speed for a well-maintained 2000 Honda Civic. The rules are simple - I drive the way I always have, but I (or anyone else driving my car) has to adhere to driving the highway speed limit, preferably in the speed band of 55-65pmh (even Connecticut troopers won't bother pulling you over for 7-9mph over the limit), and driving slower as road conditions dictate. It's not exactly easy to drive the speed limit though - everything about highway etiquette changes. For starters, you drop to the lowest level of the roadway hierarchy, and from there, things get a bit nasty.
So far, the only thing preventing me from comparing my four weeks worth of new driving data to the three year log I already have (and declaring a premature win, because I am convinced the savings is at least 10% if not 15%) is the OCD compulsion to only present a complete, defensible experiment. I am so impatient, and that is the real challenge - this experiment is as much about my personal mindfulness as it is about fuel efficiency.
Because I'm not allowing myself to tabulate any results, I now close with some graffiti spotted on a railroad overpass on I-84 E, just past Exit 62 in Connecticut: "Impeach Bush & Cheney. Nixon did less."
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
Scooter Rules
Scooter is amazing. And not just because working on the 2nd season of the Car Boat project was so much fun. I'm ripping this off of this Big Web-Page-O'-Fun because he never maintains archives.
Keuka Lake (Google Earth) - - - - - Computed STL solid model - - - - - Finished product
Keuka Lake (Google Earth) - - - - - Computed STL solid model - - - - - Finished product
It started when L. spotted an article in ReadyMade about FluidForms, a company which makes customized "Fluid Earth bowls" out of wood. You go to their Web site, select a geographic area of interest, and their computers carve a scale model of that terrain out of a slab of wood. In theory you can use it as a bowl for your vegetables.
"That's easy," I decided. We had recently acquired a 3-axis CNC router at work, and although I didn't yet know how to use it, I figured it would be simple enough. We were slated to visit New York's Finger Lakes region in a couple of weeks, so an obvious first project would be a gift which shows the terrain near her family's lake house. Now, for the data.
Google Earth was the logical starting point, since everyone knows how to use it. Unfortunately, it is also a closed-source commercial program. They make it very easy to put data into it, but for various reasons it is very difficult to get data back out. NASA offers a similar application called World Wind which solves the openness problem, but the full feature set is only available on the Microsoft Windows version. What to do?
The solution was provided by the US Geological Survey, which operates a Web service called The National Map Seamless Server. The USGS provides a variety of georeferenced data products free of charge. These are normally divided up into rectangular quadrangles which do not necessarily cover the entire area of interest. But the Seamless Server can quietly stitch together multiple maps. You simply select the area of interest, choose the data products you need, and download them.
FluidForms, like Google Earth, relies on worldwide elevation data from February 2000's Shuttle Radar Topography Mission. NASA calculated the height at every point on the Earth's surface using space-based radar interferometry. Because it is based on radar reflections, it is not tremendously accurate -- it can't discern between dense treetops and the ground, for example -- but it does cover most of the Earth at 30 meter resolution. But because I'm modeling locations in the United States, the USGS offers me a better choice: the National Elevation Dataset. The NED is derived from a variety of sources, including traditional surveying, and is largely hand-checked for accuracy. It is available in ridiculously high resolutions (presently 10 meters, with 3 meters coming soon). As a result, even little streams and creeks are visible. Perfect!
The next step was to find a program to convert downloaded elevation datasets into 3D solid models in a format that could be understood by computerized manufacturing tools like 3D printers and CNC routers. I quickly discovered that no such program exists, so I wrote one. The chosen DEM data format (GeoTIFF) as basically a grid of floating-point altitude values georeferenced to the UTM coordinate system. Had I been interested in a larger area, I would have had to "unwrap" the Mercator projection onto a spherical or elliptical surface, but because the lake is relatively small, I decided to forego the extra math. The program simply applies the proper scaling factors and adjusts the Z-height to reflect the desired minimum thickness of the wood. The solid model output is in STL format, which is basically a giant mesh of interconnected triangles in 3D space. Each triangle is described by 3 vertices and a unit normal vector to tell the computer which side is the outer surface. For simplicity, I turned the entire X-Y grid into triangles. The program connects the triangulated surface with yet more triangles which describe the sides and bottom of the finished product. Done.
Unfortunately, in my zeal for detail, I discovered that STL files with more than one million triangles can choke even a powerful computer. Ideally I would reduce the number triangles in non-detailed areas, but such algorithms are beyond my skill level. I'm just an electrical engineer here. I wound up reducing the resolution of the whole area.
With the STL solid model complete, all that was left was to generate toolpaths -- the actual motions that the CNC router will follow while carving. Fortunately, the router comes with CAM software to accomplish this task.
For our first piece, we laminated 3 pieces of Baltic Birch plywood with PVA glue. The outer dimensions are 16 x 14.5 inches. The carving takes about 3 hours: a first pass with a 1/2" diameter mill roughs the wood down to the approximate shape, then a final pass with a 1/8" ball-end mill creates the final surface. After about an hour of sanding and a couple coats of Danish oil, the bowl was done. Success!
Thursday, May 22, 2008
New Dress
For ages, I've dressed as though I were the rare woman in a male-dominated field of study. I was. My school was 40% women, 60% men, but my field is less than 10% women. I disliked clothing that defined itself as feminine by being frail, ornamental and highly non-utilitarian, and I had no desire to be labeled 'feminine,' or 'flighty,' on account my fashion sense. And can you climb trees or keep up in a skirt? I was a tomboy and had better things to do than look pretty. It helped that no one at MIT cares what you look like, and if they do, they're not taking enough classes. Additionally, I had no money for clothes, so I shopped at the Salvation Army and happily wore BDUs, men's Medium T-shirts (I abhorred form-fitting clothes), combat boots, full-length skirts and bulky sweaters, tank tops always under men's silk shirts and vests. It was a huge event if I wore a dress, because not only did I think that I needed to be masculine to be taken seriously as an engineer, but I would physically flinch from wearing short skirts or revealing tops.
I didn't eschew fashion entirely... I loved clothes and I coveted girly clothes, but I'd only look feminine in public on a dare, as a kind of reverse-machismo assertion that I could be just as feminine as I wanted. For example, in high-school, I cross-dressed for a spring dance by showing up in a leather mini-skirt and red lipstick, curling my hair and ruined the appearance by daring the boys to just say anything. I was really threatened by women's clothing. I felt that exposing myself made me highly vulnerable, because it did. I hated being cat-called or stared at, and wearing dresses always got me that sort of negative attention and more. Even worse, though, I was mortified that people would take one look at me in a skirt and treat me like, "a little lady," and not as an engineer. Many times, I wished I were a man. It would have made things a lot easier. Instead, that wish made a lot of things worse - I constantly experienced cognitive dissonance for being a woman in engineering, because I kept convincing myself I was out of place.
Well, screw that! I've spent the last three years mulling over these (and many other) weird social neuroses and growing up. I don't have to excuse the fact that I'm a woman, regardless of whether I'm using a welder or walking down the street. If someone sees the skirt and ignores the person wearing it... that's no reflection on me.
I'm very excited to wear this midi sun-dress this weekend. The dress (new) and purse (vintage) are from Poor Little Rich Girl. The shoes are from Nine West. The necklace was a gift and is from Magpie and the earrings are from a now-defunct artists gallery in south St. Louis.
I didn't eschew fashion entirely... I loved clothes and I coveted girly clothes, but I'd only look feminine in public on a dare, as a kind of reverse-machismo assertion that I could be just as feminine as I wanted. For example, in high-school, I cross-dressed for a spring dance by showing up in a leather mini-skirt and red lipstick, curling my hair and ruined the appearance by daring the boys to just say anything. I was really threatened by women's clothing. I felt that exposing myself made me highly vulnerable, because it did. I hated being cat-called or stared at, and wearing dresses always got me that sort of negative attention and more. Even worse, though, I was mortified that people would take one look at me in a skirt and treat me like, "a little lady," and not as an engineer. Many times, I wished I were a man. It would have made things a lot easier. Instead, that wish made a lot of things worse - I constantly experienced cognitive dissonance for being a woman in engineering, because I kept convincing myself I was out of place.
Well, screw that! I've spent the last three years mulling over these (and many other) weird social neuroses and growing up. I don't have to excuse the fact that I'm a woman, regardless of whether I'm using a welder or walking down the street. If someone sees the skirt and ignores the person wearing it... that's no reflection on me.
I'm very excited to wear this midi sun-dress this weekend. The dress (new) and purse (vintage) are from Poor Little Rich Girl. The shoes are from Nine West. The necklace was a gift and is from Magpie and the earrings are from a now-defunct artists gallery in south St. Louis.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Equal Rights
I visited STL this past weekend for a family graduation, so, of course my parents and I were talking about the protests at Washington State University's graduation. If you haven't kept up with the local news, students turned their backs while Phyllis Schlafly was awarded with an honorary doctorate by the University. My mother thought the protests were neat. I asserted that the students had every right to protest a symbolic reward for Schlafly, given her political career and views. My father's primary argument was, while Schlafly is effectively a Nazi (Godwin's Law), she has every right to pursue her anti-feminist, conservative goals. We all ended up in vehement agreement, as is typical, 'cause even when we disagree, dissent is patriotic.
During this conversation, my 11-year old niece (who was also visiting) seemed a bit confused and left out. To get her involved, I asked her if she knew whether there was an amendment in the Constitution that gave men and women equal rights. She said that she thought there was. I told her there was an amendment to make people equal regardless of race (the 14th Amendment grants equal protection under State law, enforceable by Federal law to reinforce the language that all men are created equal in the Declaration of Independence), and several amendments that gave everyone the right to vote (the 15th Amendment for racial suffrage, and the 19th Amendment for women's suffrage), but that there was no Amendment in the Constitution which stated that women are to be treated equally with men, under Federal law. Her response was a confused, "Huh."
I told her that, in the 70s, there was a proposal for the Equal Rights Amendment which declared all citizens to be equal regardless of sex, and gave the Federal government the right to enforce that equality in the States. Unfortunately, the ERA was never ratified and put into the Constitution, in part, due to efforts of conservatives like Schlafly. I told her that we grownups were talking about the Washington University protests because Schlafly had, among other things, opposed the ERA. I then listed some of her main concerns about the ERA, like women being drafted into the military and women and men both using the same public restrooms. I added that Schlafly was very vocal about how she thought women should all stay at home and raise families. At that, my niece made a rather terrible face. I then told her that, even a century ago, women couldn't vote or do much of anything without the permission of their fathers and husbands, and her face scrunched up even more. Her outrage was adorable.
I then reminded her that things are getting better all the time; people are still working to get the Equal Rights Amendment, or something like it, into the Constitution, and California just gave everyone the right to marry (homosexual and heterosexual). That made her smile.
My family's general philosophy is that everyone has the right to be, or do, whatever they want so long as their actions do not infringe upon the autonomy and well-being of others. My niece seems believe that everyone has the right to try to be a scientist, an artist, a Marine, or President, and the right to marry, regardless of color, gender or sexual orientation. I may be stretching. She's only 11, so it's hard to ascertain what she really believes or understands, but at the least, she finds it strange that one person would want to say someone was not as equal as everyone else, or that some people wouldn't be allowed to do certain things because of their color or sex. Of course, she communicates this by saying, "That's re-ea-allllllly weird," or, "Well, that's just plain silly."
What a good kiddo, we have.
This is what a feminist looks like.
During this conversation, my 11-year old niece (who was also visiting) seemed a bit confused and left out. To get her involved, I asked her if she knew whether there was an amendment in the Constitution that gave men and women equal rights. She said that she thought there was. I told her there was an amendment to make people equal regardless of race (the 14th Amendment grants equal protection under State law, enforceable by Federal law to reinforce the language that all men are created equal in the Declaration of Independence), and several amendments that gave everyone the right to vote (the 15th Amendment for racial suffrage, and the 19th Amendment for women's suffrage), but that there was no Amendment in the Constitution which stated that women are to be treated equally with men, under Federal law. Her response was a confused, "Huh."
I told her that, in the 70s, there was a proposal for the Equal Rights Amendment which declared all citizens to be equal regardless of sex, and gave the Federal government the right to enforce that equality in the States. Unfortunately, the ERA was never ratified and put into the Constitution, in part, due to efforts of conservatives like Schlafly. I told her that we grownups were talking about the Washington University protests because Schlafly had, among other things, opposed the ERA. I then listed some of her main concerns about the ERA, like women being drafted into the military and women and men both using the same public restrooms. I added that Schlafly was very vocal about how she thought women should all stay at home and raise families. At that, my niece made a rather terrible face. I then told her that, even a century ago, women couldn't vote or do much of anything without the permission of their fathers and husbands, and her face scrunched up even more. Her outrage was adorable.
I then reminded her that things are getting better all the time; people are still working to get the Equal Rights Amendment, or something like it, into the Constitution, and California just gave everyone the right to marry (homosexual and heterosexual). That made her smile.
My family's general philosophy is that everyone has the right to be, or do, whatever they want so long as their actions do not infringe upon the autonomy and well-being of others. My niece seems believe that everyone has the right to try to be a scientist, an artist, a Marine, or President, and the right to marry, regardless of color, gender or sexual orientation. I may be stretching. She's only 11, so it's hard to ascertain what she really believes or understands, but at the least, she finds it strange that one person would want to say someone was not as equal as everyone else, or that some people wouldn't be allowed to do certain things because of their color or sex. Of course, she communicates this by saying, "That's re-ea-allllllly weird," or, "Well, that's just plain silly."
What a good kiddo, we have.
This is what a feminist looks like.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Approximately 13,000 Stitches of Love
In January, as a belated Christmas/birthday present for my mother, I finished my first knitting project. It's a scarf made from slightly less than 3 skeins of Manos del Uruguay wool (Granite, #108), worked on Size 9 bamboo needles in a basket stitch with a cross motif in reverse-stockinette on the middle section. The pattern grid size is 6x6 stitches, and each section is 7x17 squares (and the middle section is 7x19). Prime numbers... you know, for luck.
Thursday, May 01, 2008
The Scent of Unknowable Horror
Jess notified me of Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab - purveyors of dark and horrific perfume. True story.
I really have to wonder what Shoggoth smells like: An amorphous, radiant, incandescent scent. Ever changing, protoplasmic and primordial: white amber, green coconut meat, iris, palmarosa, Chinese peony, lime, water lily, snowdrop, muguet, lemongrass, osmanthus, wisteria, glassy musk, and hinoki.
... sounds unspeakable.
I really have to wonder what Shoggoth smells like: An amorphous, radiant, incandescent scent. Ever changing, protoplasmic and primordial: white amber, green coconut meat, iris, palmarosa, Chinese peony, lime, water lily, snowdrop, muguet, lemongrass, osmanthus, wisteria, glassy musk, and hinoki.
... sounds unspeakable.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
1996 Revisited
My niece has been having some problems with squirrels eating all the seed from her bird feeder. I wonder if the Precious Roy Home Shopping Network is still in business?
It's crescent fresh!
It's crescent fresh!
Friday, April 25, 2008
FFFY
For those of you who don't read Feministing, it's been a good week.
For Papa, the University College Republicans PR officer at Southern Illinois University sends inarticulate, misogynist hate-mail to Feministing and is actually reprimanded for it by SIU. The comments on the original post are awesome. I couldn't stop laughing for a few minutes - it was only improved by what I know from growing up near SIU.
The best news, though, is that the state of Maryland redefined rape and rescinded it's "once it's in, it's in," law. The case which was reviewed for this redefinition was rather controversial, but it's a step in the right direction for prosecuting cases such as spousal rape, and clarifying for teenagers (and women of all ages) that, yes, they can remove their consent (saying yes once doesn't imply you keep saying yes). CNN actually had a good video segment discussing this law. The controversy for this law concerns whether having an option to pursue rape charges for more ambiguous rape situations will flood the courts with frivolous rape cases. I personally don't think it will, but regardless, the option to pursue charges needs to be there in order to protect those people who are raped after being pressured into consenting beforehand, and it helps victims in cases where the consent itself is ambiguous due to drinking or drugs. So, now there are more options for rape victims, so long as they live in Alaska, California, Connecticut, Kansas, Maine, Maryland, Minnesota, South Dakota or Illinois.
And the most edifying part.... this week's Friday Feminist Fuck You:
For Papa, the University College Republicans PR officer at Southern Illinois University sends inarticulate, misogynist hate-mail to Feministing and is actually reprimanded for it by SIU. The comments on the original post are awesome. I couldn't stop laughing for a few minutes - it was only improved by what I know from growing up near SIU.
The best news, though, is that the state of Maryland redefined rape and rescinded it's "once it's in, it's in," law. The case which was reviewed for this redefinition was rather controversial, but it's a step in the right direction for prosecuting cases such as spousal rape, and clarifying for teenagers (and women of all ages) that, yes, they can remove their consent (saying yes once doesn't imply you keep saying yes). CNN actually had a good video segment discussing this law. The controversy for this law concerns whether having an option to pursue rape charges for more ambiguous rape situations will flood the courts with frivolous rape cases. I personally don't think it will, but regardless, the option to pursue charges needs to be there in order to protect those people who are raped after being pressured into consenting beforehand, and it helps victims in cases where the consent itself is ambiguous due to drinking or drugs. So, now there are more options for rape victims, so long as they live in Alaska, California, Connecticut, Kansas, Maine, Maryland, Minnesota, South Dakota or Illinois.
And the most edifying part.... this week's Friday Feminist Fuck You:
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Cry Victory
38 Weeks and 11 hours in the coming: Meet the latest and greatest bleeding-edge technology in bio-hacking: the human baby.
Figure 1. Benjamin Lloyd: 18.5", 7lbs 5.2oz
A. and her husband just brought home their 3-day old newborn, Ben. Both parents are doing very well (although sleep-deprived). Ben is their first-born, and this effectively makes me an Aunt again (Auntie, to be specific). He also comes with all sorts of interesting and useful features such as: a pug nose (to avoid suffocation while he breast-feeds); a love of white noise (so that SHHH-ing him actually works); and an affection for warm, constricting places (which means he likes to be swaddled in to a Baby Ben Burrito). He can also put his foot up to his nose and is learning to sleep through the hiccups.
Ben looks very intelligent -- he can already lift his own head and appears to be able to track voices -- which is very good for a newborn! In reality, however, Ben is quite dumb. Babies like Ben are stimulus-response automata. He has no sense of cause and effect, he only knows that he's happy or he's unhappy -- he couldn't tell you why he's unhappy, and he couldn't tell you that anything can fix his unhappiness. He can't comfort himself. Ben's not even cognizant yet, but he is very, very cute. And he needs constant input to form neural pathways (it goes hand-in-hand with his constant twitching and erratic breathing; he's still forming his autonomic nervous system). Consequently, there's no such thing as spoiling a baby, it's impossible for him to be too happy. And this is where the killer bio-h4x0r feature of Ben's kicks in: pheromones. He already uses pheromones (or, rather, his mother does) to help him root around and find a nipple to breast-feed from, but I think Ben may also produce baby-brain-inducing pheromones of his own. I wish I had a proper citation, but I'm unable to access PubMed to review article abstracts at the moment.
My assertion: newborns produce a pheromone that makes adults want to touch and cuddle them. Why? Well, Ben smells like a newborn, and that smell stays on your clothes for some hours after handling him, much like the smell of say, a boyfriend or girlfriend. And while I like babies, and while I have every reason to love and adore Ben, I was constantly caught off guard by how much I liked holding him, cuddling him, kissing him, humming to him and rubbing his back. It was as though a contented, sleeping baby was the ultimate human accomplishment - even though he wasn't at all fussy for his third day post-utero. Then after leaving, it took a few hours and a shower for the baby-brain to wear off and for my normal, rational thought to return. Thus, I postulate the existence of infant pheromones. I've seen enough stupid parents that I truly doubt the existence of "maternal instinct". Also, I've seen newborns have this effect on men who swear to hate babies (and usually detest older infants and toddlers). And, you know, there are also those rare instances of babies being raised by bears or wolves.
It's not exactly fun to have your cerebral-cortex co-opted into caring for a larval human. As M says, babies are terrific; they inspire terror. They are fragile, uncomprehending, extremely complex systems that are trivial to damage. I'm not entirely sure how any of us survive. But here's to Ben, he's a very sweet baby with a rather large extended family to look after him. The list of people who will change his diaper might very well include a few Nobel laureates. And as long as he doesn't vote Republican or get anyone knocked up, he'll be just fine.
Figure 1. Benjamin Lloyd: 18.5", 7lbs 5.2oz
A. and her husband just brought home their 3-day old newborn, Ben. Both parents are doing very well (although sleep-deprived). Ben is their first-born, and this effectively makes me an Aunt again (Auntie, to be specific). He also comes with all sorts of interesting and useful features such as: a pug nose (to avoid suffocation while he breast-feeds); a love of white noise (so that SHHH-ing him actually works); and an affection for warm, constricting places (which means he likes to be swaddled in to a Baby Ben Burrito). He can also put his foot up to his nose and is learning to sleep through the hiccups.
Ben looks very intelligent -- he can already lift his own head and appears to be able to track voices -- which is very good for a newborn! In reality, however, Ben is quite dumb. Babies like Ben are stimulus-response automata. He has no sense of cause and effect, he only knows that he's happy or he's unhappy -- he couldn't tell you why he's unhappy, and he couldn't tell you that anything can fix his unhappiness. He can't comfort himself. Ben's not even cognizant yet, but he is very, very cute. And he needs constant input to form neural pathways (it goes hand-in-hand with his constant twitching and erratic breathing; he's still forming his autonomic nervous system). Consequently, there's no such thing as spoiling a baby, it's impossible for him to be too happy. And this is where the killer bio-h4x0r feature of Ben's kicks in: pheromones. He already uses pheromones (or, rather, his mother does) to help him root around and find a nipple to breast-feed from, but I think Ben may also produce baby-brain-inducing pheromones of his own. I wish I had a proper citation, but I'm unable to access PubMed to review article abstracts at the moment.
My assertion: newborns produce a pheromone that makes adults want to touch and cuddle them. Why? Well, Ben smells like a newborn, and that smell stays on your clothes for some hours after handling him, much like the smell of say, a boyfriend or girlfriend. And while I like babies, and while I have every reason to love and adore Ben, I was constantly caught off guard by how much I liked holding him, cuddling him, kissing him, humming to him and rubbing his back. It was as though a contented, sleeping baby was the ultimate human accomplishment - even though he wasn't at all fussy for his third day post-utero. Then after leaving, it took a few hours and a shower for the baby-brain to wear off and for my normal, rational thought to return. Thus, I postulate the existence of infant pheromones. I've seen enough stupid parents that I truly doubt the existence of "maternal instinct". Also, I've seen newborns have this effect on men who swear to hate babies (and usually detest older infants and toddlers). And, you know, there are also those rare instances of babies being raised by bears or wolves.
It's not exactly fun to have your cerebral-cortex co-opted into caring for a larval human. As M says, babies are terrific; they inspire terror. They are fragile, uncomprehending, extremely complex systems that are trivial to damage. I'm not entirely sure how any of us survive. But here's to Ben, he's a very sweet baby with a rather large extended family to look after him. The list of people who will change his diaper might very well include a few Nobel laureates. And as long as he doesn't vote Republican or get anyone knocked up, he'll be just fine.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Meta Update
I promised a few readers, "more engineering, less rape," as content on this blog. And I'm going to be true to that (engineering is what I do), but I'm also going to keep up some commentary on The New Feminism and fucked up things I see happening in our culture re: women. It's only fair, as a woman is what I am.
However, I'm changing the comments format to require moderator approval, although I'll approve just about everything. It's just in case some random people surf over for the h4x0ring. w3rd.
However, I'm changing the comments format to require moderator approval, although I'll approve just about everything. It's just in case some random people surf over for the h4x0ring. w3rd.
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
Rape Awareness
Monday, April 07, 2008
Reverse Engineering
The industrial design of a TV is really interesting.
I got a chance to disassemble and reassemble an HDTV at work the other day (with some reason). It was a fun afternoon. Disassembly time: unclocked; Reassembly time: 38mins. No screws lost, no extra parts leftover.
I wrangled my way into getting a full technician's tool kit when they hired me, but the project only required a hex wrench and a Philips-head screwdriver.
When you take off the back plastic cover, there's an internal metal chassis. Good TVs have substantial internal shielding because of the FCC's electromagnetic interference (EMI) regulations. EMI happens when there is a voltage transition on a wire (ie, power or data). That transition has a corresponding current pulse, which produces a magnetic pulse that radiates outward. Hence, electro-magnetic radiation. EMI worsens when your voltage swings are large and fast. The larger the voltage transition, the more current you need to make it, the larger the magnetic pulse and the greater the EMI. The faster the voltage transition, the more current you need to make it, the larger the magnetic pulse and the greater the EMI.
The source of the EMI inside a TV is typically from the power supply (if it's a switching supply), unshielded internal cabling and poorly-laid out printed circuit boards (PCBs). Things like proper shielding, short cables, current-balanced signaling (low-voltage differential signaling, like that used in HDMI, or differential current mode logic), and proper terminations improve system EMI performance. However, high-volume manufacturers are cheap and won't use a multi-layer PCB with ground planes when a 1-layer board with jumpers will do. So, they ultimately have to make up for the cheap components with the expensive metal chassis a.k.a. Faraday cage.
Not only do cheap TVs without shielding violate FCC standards, they also tend to have weird artifacts when the EMI from one part of the TV (say, the power supply) couples into another circuit (like the receiver) and introduces noise and offset into the signal path. This TV is build really well, though. The more sensitive high-speed digital circuitry is well-protected.
On the right in the picture way-back is the power supply and the high-voltage circuitry for driving the LCD. That's built on a single-layer board with all through-hole components and pretty huge electrolytic capacitors. That design method's been in play since the 1970s. The receiver board and input circuitry is on the left under a shield that screws to the main chassis - we know that because that's where the HDMI and cable inputs are.
Under the first shield is a second shield with a built-in heat-sink for the main video processor. Please note the secret to high-speed disassembly and reassembly: mark the various screw mountings with flag tape as you remove the screws. This is useful because manufacturers cut every corner possible, so you can't trust the assembly markings. The case (and the board) are over-designed, so the manufacturer will strip the actual number of components down to the bare minimum in order to get better profit margins. Some overseas low-cost, high-volume manufacturers are even known to take a PCB design and start removing components until the design fails -- then they put the last component removed back on. Bam! Instant cost-reduction. For this TV, you can see that all of the cabling is unshielded ribbon cable or unshielded 30AWG stranded cable and they aren't using any ferrite chokes (ie, that lump on your monitor cable that also helps improve EMI). But, like I said earlier, their metal chassis makes up for that, and, hey, the low-profile PCB connectors are nice.
I couldn't remove the heat-sink entirely due to some permanent plastic rivets, but I got it up enough to fully expose the receiver boards. There are two: one for all the digital functionality and another, (only part of it is shown) that handles all of the analog inputs and audio out. The first photo is of the digital inputs with the main processor/scalar. The second photo shows the cable tuner on the digital daughter board (in yet another shielded enclosure). The analog daughter board isn't shown, but it's the darker green board you see connected with the 3 flexible headers.
Then I did what I needed to do inside the TV, put it back together, and it still worked! The. End.
I got a chance to disassemble and reassemble an HDTV at work the other day (with some reason). It was a fun afternoon. Disassembly time: unclocked; Reassembly time: 38mins. No screws lost, no extra parts leftover.
I wrangled my way into getting a full technician's tool kit when they hired me, but the project only required a hex wrench and a Philips-head screwdriver.
When you take off the back plastic cover, there's an internal metal chassis. Good TVs have substantial internal shielding because of the FCC's electromagnetic interference (EMI) regulations. EMI happens when there is a voltage transition on a wire (ie, power or data). That transition has a corresponding current pulse, which produces a magnetic pulse that radiates outward. Hence, electro-magnetic radiation. EMI worsens when your voltage swings are large and fast. The larger the voltage transition, the more current you need to make it, the larger the magnetic pulse and the greater the EMI. The faster the voltage transition, the more current you need to make it, the larger the magnetic pulse and the greater the EMI.
The source of the EMI inside a TV is typically from the power supply (if it's a switching supply), unshielded internal cabling and poorly-laid out printed circuit boards (PCBs). Things like proper shielding, short cables, current-balanced signaling (low-voltage differential signaling, like that used in HDMI, or differential current mode logic), and proper terminations improve system EMI performance. However, high-volume manufacturers are cheap and won't use a multi-layer PCB with ground planes when a 1-layer board with jumpers will do. So, they ultimately have to make up for the cheap components with the expensive metal chassis a.k.a. Faraday cage.
Not only do cheap TVs without shielding violate FCC standards, they also tend to have weird artifacts when the EMI from one part of the TV (say, the power supply) couples into another circuit (like the receiver) and introduces noise and offset into the signal path. This TV is build really well, though. The more sensitive high-speed digital circuitry is well-protected.
On the right in the picture way-back is the power supply and the high-voltage circuitry for driving the LCD. That's built on a single-layer board with all through-hole components and pretty huge electrolytic capacitors. That design method's been in play since the 1970s. The receiver board and input circuitry is on the left under a shield that screws to the main chassis - we know that because that's where the HDMI and cable inputs are.
Under the first shield is a second shield with a built-in heat-sink for the main video processor. Please note the secret to high-speed disassembly and reassembly: mark the various screw mountings with flag tape as you remove the screws. This is useful because manufacturers cut every corner possible, so you can't trust the assembly markings. The case (and the board) are over-designed, so the manufacturer will strip the actual number of components down to the bare minimum in order to get better profit margins. Some overseas low-cost, high-volume manufacturers are even known to take a PCB design and start removing components until the design fails -- then they put the last component removed back on. Bam! Instant cost-reduction. For this TV, you can see that all of the cabling is unshielded ribbon cable or unshielded 30AWG stranded cable and they aren't using any ferrite chokes (ie, that lump on your monitor cable that also helps improve EMI). But, like I said earlier, their metal chassis makes up for that, and, hey, the low-profile PCB connectors are nice.
I couldn't remove the heat-sink entirely due to some permanent plastic rivets, but I got it up enough to fully expose the receiver boards. There are two: one for all the digital functionality and another, (only part of it is shown) that handles all of the analog inputs and audio out. The first photo is of the digital inputs with the main processor/scalar. The second photo shows the cable tuner on the digital daughter board (in yet another shielded enclosure). The analog daughter board isn't shown, but it's the darker green board you see connected with the 3 flexible headers.
Then I did what I needed to do inside the TV, put it back together, and it still worked! The. End.
Friday, March 14, 2008
Infante, Infanta
The spate of weddings over the past few years are bearing fruit. Thus, I've gone from having no babies in my life, to having several. This can only mean one thing: amigurumi.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
NEVAR FORGET
Well, it's 1-31-2007, the first anniversary of the Ignignokt scare, and once again, I'm spending this time in NC, land of the polite bitch-slap (you can be as cruel as you want, provided you're polite about it). My prototype demo was completely unscrutinized by Logan security. I have heard (so far), "Wow, that's big!" and, "It's so complex..." It's mostly just a kludge.
Of course, it's got enough parts that it didn't really survive transit all that well. It worked before I packed it up on Tuesday night. Now, after two days, the hardware appears to work, but the FPGA is talking smack to its surrounding circuitry instead of the smooth and rhythmic cadence of jive. Oh, poor retarded thing, bless it's heart.
I'll be here working over the weekend.
Also, if you have to change flights on US Airways, and the new flight happens to be cheaper, you will not get a travel voucher for the remaining difference. Which is lame, considering they'll charge you the full $130 change fee, regardless.
Of course, it's got enough parts that it didn't really survive transit all that well. It worked before I packed it up on Tuesday night. Now, after two days, the hardware appears to work, but the FPGA is talking smack to its surrounding circuitry instead of the smooth and rhythmic cadence of jive. Oh, poor retarded thing, bless it's heart.
I'll be here working over the weekend.
Also, if you have to change flights on US Airways, and the new flight happens to be cheaper, you will not get a travel voucher for the remaining difference. Which is lame, considering they'll charge you the full $130 change fee, regardless.
Saturday, January 05, 2008
Berlin
Schadenfreude is taking pleasure in other's misfortunes. I'm not sure how I'd define the antithesis, but I'm fairly sure Berlin is it. I absolutely love Berlin. It isn't mean, or pretentious like the States often are. Even with the obnoxious tourists, the cocky l33t h4x0rz, the minimalist-techno-loving rave-goers and the ordinary citizenry; there were no train wrecks to glory in or to forcibly tear your gaze from. No one seemed self-righteous enough to support schadenfreude; they were all just doing their own thing in their own way. From the punk with the "no nazi" patch (watch me break the law to protest fascism), and the guy who threw a cherry bomb under the green GDR-era Polizie van, the drunks giggling and running around the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe, to the ravers... the entire scene (strangely) felt as thus:
The glass bottles in Berlin (usually full of delicious beer, eerie lemon-lime Becks, or not-so-delicious Club-Matte) were all rather fragile and care-worn. There's a 0,50 cent deposit for each one (I think that's about $11,000 USD), and they just boil the labels off and re-use the bottles until they break, rather than constantly minting new ones. The clubs don't need fog machines because everyone smokes (the cartons aren't labeled SMOKING WILL KILL YOU like they are in London). East Berlin is depressing with all the GDR-era apartment buildings and vacant space (1/5 the population of Paris in 3x the space). The compromises in comfort for efficiency (resource and energy-wise) are impressive, but they have lovingly constructed new sidewalks, bike lanes, and bike-traffic lights. West Berlin is a mishmash of classical architecture with new construction. Alexanderplatz is still flat and desolate (having had the shit bombed out of it), but Potsdamerplatz is filled with slick modern construction and memorials to the Berlin Wall. The public transportation is surprisingly both complex and comprehensible, and we were lucky that the S-Bahn workers weren't striking when we wanted to go see the East Side Gallery.
The city is still noticeably haunted by WWII and the Stasi. But then, so is the entirety of German culture.
There was a winterfair carnival in every major plaza. I have never had so many different varieties of tube-meat or beer in such a short amount of time. And I never liked sauerkraut before.
New Years Eve was like a war. The shelling had started three days in advance, and people were carrying around bouquets of fireworks which would be illegal even by New Hampshire's standards. By 2am, the streets were paved with broken glass and the remains of bottle rockets, and the radio tower at Alexanderplatz was encased in a haze of cordite and gunpowder smoke. There was no evidence of fights, or gross misbehavior (shenanigans aside); it was just a celebration. A huge, absurd celebration with absolutely no pretenses or spin.
Traveling is good.
The glass bottles in Berlin (usually full of delicious beer, eerie lemon-lime Becks, or not-so-delicious Club-Matte) were all rather fragile and care-worn. There's a 0,50 cent deposit for each one (I think that's about $11,000 USD), and they just boil the labels off and re-use the bottles until they break, rather than constantly minting new ones. The clubs don't need fog machines because everyone smokes (the cartons aren't labeled SMOKING WILL KILL YOU like they are in London). East Berlin is depressing with all the GDR-era apartment buildings and vacant space (1/5 the population of Paris in 3x the space). The compromises in comfort for efficiency (resource and energy-wise) are impressive, but they have lovingly constructed new sidewalks, bike lanes, and bike-traffic lights. West Berlin is a mishmash of classical architecture with new construction. Alexanderplatz is still flat and desolate (having had the shit bombed out of it), but Potsdamerplatz is filled with slick modern construction and memorials to the Berlin Wall. The public transportation is surprisingly both complex and comprehensible, and we were lucky that the S-Bahn workers weren't striking when we wanted to go see the East Side Gallery.
The city is still noticeably haunted by WWII and the Stasi. But then, so is the entirety of German culture.
There was a winterfair carnival in every major plaza. I have never had so many different varieties of tube-meat or beer in such a short amount of time. And I never liked sauerkraut before.
New Years Eve was like a war. The shelling had started three days in advance, and people were carrying around bouquets of fireworks which would be illegal even by New Hampshire's standards. By 2am, the streets were paved with broken glass and the remains of bottle rockets, and the radio tower at Alexanderplatz was encased in a haze of cordite and gunpowder smoke. There was no evidence of fights, or gross misbehavior (shenanigans aside); it was just a celebration. A huge, absurd celebration with absolutely no pretenses or spin.
Traveling is good.
