The Joy of the Greasy Spoon

For those of you who don't know, I am moving. Tomorrow. The city I live in requires that you get permits to block parking spaces with your moving truck, and you have to post about it 24 or 48 hours in advance. So today the Mysterious Mr. Bo and I went out and taped up our moving signs. And then grabbed breakfast, as he hadn't eaten and I'd only had a hastily aborted attempt at a bowl of cereal.

A couple blocks from our new apartment is a place called Capitol Coffee House. Looking at the sign, I expected your stereotypical slightly upscale coffee and pastry sort of place. Oh no. Laminated lunch counters, crappy little tables in the back, specials on printer paper slipped in plastic sleeves, and the old sign boards where you slide or snap on letters to tell you their menu. I got a bacon, egg, and cheese on an english muffin with a cup of coffee, and Mr. Bo got a 1 egg special (egg, toast, homefries) and coffee. And we sat down at the counter.

First of all, that was some mighty fine coffee. I almost wish I hadn't let them put cream in it, although wherever they're getting their cream, it was smooth and rich and so much better than at Dunkin Donuts (where I've stopped letting them use cream. I ask for milk instead). I wonder whether its some kind of fancy coffee, or just that they've managed to keep it hot without burning it the way most places do.

Secondly, an egg sandwich has no right being that tasty. It was just a fried egg, bacon, and a slice of american cheese on an english muffin. But it tasted divine. Best egg sandwich I've eaten. The bacon and the cheese provided all the flavor it needed, so there was no salting or peppering. Unless they're putting something in the butter, I think the food is flavored with old-man cantankerousness. As the cook and the guys behind the counter were all older, slightly surly gentlement. Mr. Bo was equally pleased, and wished that he had gotten two dropped eggs instead of one. Although he says it wasn't that it was cooked with spite or surliness, but onions.

He refers to their home fries, which I did not poach from his paper plate as the portion was not huge. But he says they were excellent. And with everything coming to under $10, I suspect the girls at my local starbucks will be wondering where I have gone.

Oh for the love of . . .

I have three other posts in the editing process, but I need to sound off on this now, because it makes me so angry.

Cankles. Aka: fat, swollen, or otherwise unshapely ankles. They are apparently the new thing women have to worry about. As though it's not enough that the entire rest of our bodies is considered fair game for scrutiny by everyone ever on the face of the earth. Now I have to worry about the fact that I have muscular lower calves, which get swollen when I stand for eight hours a day in heels. Not to mention the fact that, having seen clips of news reports on this oh-so-important subject, I google-imaged cankles, and I honestly can't tell you what what one looks like in real life. It's a made-up thing that people can bandy at someone to put her down.

So, just to recap, all women are supposed to worry desperately about being perfectly beautiful all the time, because otherwise no one will love you. Even if the part of the body you're obsessing over isn't something you can actually do anything about unless you're heavy enough to have more important serious health issues to worry about. And once you acheive this unattainable beauty, you're just supposed to take the honking and cat-calling and constantly being hit on and uncomfortable looks from creepy people because isn't that why you're beautiful after all?

Seriously, people: Cankles?

Dear fad-loving media and people who think ankle shape determines worthiness as a human being: FUCK YOU.

By Way of Introduction, Part II: Feminism

I've been writing and deleting this post for over a week now, trying to say everything I want to have as groundwork for whatever I write on this subject. I realized today that they are all apologia for either offending someone or my own ignorance. But you know what? That goes against the whole point of this topic.

If you're offended by anything I say, don't read it. There are millions of other websites out there. If you disagree with me, I might be up for conversation in comments, or I might not. It depends largely on what's going on in my real life, and how much effort I have to put forth. Because I'm lazy and I don't actually care what you think unless it educates one or both of us.

I am not a woman's studies major, or anything vaguely resembling it. I am, however, female, and was raised by strong women. I don't like it when I get treated poorly, or see other women treated poorly, because of genitalia. Which it really what it comes down to. Last I checked, my brain resided in my head, not my pants. And my brain has absorbed an awful lot of information via the printed word. My library card is one of my best friends (although we're on the outs at the moment, as I am embarrassed to admit that I owe a late fine. I feel like they judge me when I return my books in an untimely manner. Paying late fines is like a walk of shame), and I've read quite a few books on feminism. If I go off half-cocked about something, and you know it, feel free to point me in the direction of an author or book that will educate me.

If our opinions on something simply differ though: tough.

By Way of Introduction: Part I, Food

This is something that has been brewing in the back of my mind for some time, and an idea that I've kicked around for months. What it boils down to is this: My friends are tired of listening to me ramble about food, or go off on tirades about women's rights and the related ills of society. So I'm putting them here, world, and you can either read them or not. I'll freely admit I don't have a particularly picky palate or anything, just a love of food. Eating it, making it, sharing it with others. Because food is, among other things, one of the mainstays of our culture. For generations, people have used food, and the table, and the habits and customs surrounding said, as a microcosm of our world as a whole. Which, when you think about the way people (at least in the Western world) tend to approach food, is kind of scary. We have some really messed up ways of interacting with food. Which is a fuel-the way we keep ourselves, going. It's also an experience- the act of sitting or standing and who is present and why and how during the consumption of food. And it is (or can be) a very sensual pleasure- the actual eating, how food looks, tastes, and behaves on our plates, in our mouths, in our stomachs.

All of which doesn't even begin to discuss the preparation of food, what we make and why and how. With whom and for what. Does it ruin a carfully coordinated multi-course event of flavor if we eat off of mis-matched plates (or-heaven forfend- with our plates balanced on our laps)? Is my pie any less delicious because I like to listen to old Metallica when I bake? And then there's who does the cooking in our culture. After all, this is yet another food blog by some girl with some free time on her hands and a kitchen. While most of the professional chefs in this nation are men. Which gets into the second topic of this blog, and will be addressed in part II of this introduction. Although, clearly, the posts as a whole will not be subdivided in this manner regularly. I find I can switch back and forth easily. And do, often without pause for breath.

I hope that the food portion of this becomes not just recipes, but actually how I go about making and deciding to make things, the whys behind not just the making of this particular dish, but what different kinds of food mean to me. And by mean to me, I mean not only what prompts the dish to be important to me, but most importantly, how it tastes. I'm sure there will be comments on restaurants and dishes friends make on here as well, but as I barely qualify as middle class- don't, in fact, if only my college debt was considered a factor by the government- most of what I consume, I make myself. For varying degrees of the word "make." Which is another rant in itself.

And now I must go make dinner.