Thanksgiving for Grown-Ups

I meant to publish this post on Thanksgiving, along with a gorgeous picture of a roast bird. But things happen (namely, gorgeous birds always taking longer than expected, needing to warm five thousand side dishes at the last minute, and frantically applying mascara before guests arrive). So imagine, if you would, a burnished roast! Or better yet, these Parker House rolls. They were stunners. And Happy Holidays! They're not over yet.

This will be the first Thanksgiving I haven't spent with my parents. I know. I know! I'm 25 years old. I've been away from home (starting with boarding school) for 10 years now. Cue Stephen:

"What, ever?!"

"Yes."

"You mean, ever-ever?!!"

"Yes!!"

I'm going to go for broke and say that British people really don't get this holiday. (Based on my sample size of one boyfriend. Look, I'm an English major. I'm going to let the social scientists worry about the ethics of sample sizes.)

Anyways, vacation days didn't work out, flights were expensive, and here I am in San Francisco. I was feeling pretty bummed about it a couple of weeks out. I just really love holiday cooking with my mom. She's really good at doctoring gravy, and not panicking when the Yorkshire puddings that you promised would be "so easy" happen to set off every smoke alarm in the house. Also, she has a generous hand with the Chardonnay. Especially if you're helping out in the kitchen.

So, I was feeling glum, and so, to cheer myself up, I did the obvious, and ordered an 18-pound turkey. Nothing like a massive roasting project to get the old spring back in one's step, right? Then I bought 3 pounds of Brussels sprouts at the farmers' market. The Brussels sprouts dude said, and I quote, "You must really love Brussels sprouts!" Yes. Yes I do.

We have two friends coming over, one of whom is vegetarian. Just thinking about the leftovers makes me a little weak at the knees. It's going to be great. My apartment may be outrageously small, but where there's a will, there's a way.

I also plan to open the first bottle of Chardonnay around noon. What can I say? I learned from the best.

The Challenge: Dumplings Galore

In a city of vast and various dumpling offerings, a few stars shine through. Take Yank Sing, of the legendary sesame balls. It's a lovely experience, posh, downtown, and priced like it knows it. The waiters/cart pushers even wear little headsets, so when you make a special request for sticky rice, they'll radio it back in to command. The only thing is that you might want to think twice about is taking an actual Chinese person. Once I lunched there with my friend Shawn Chen, who appeared to be enjoying himself, up until the moment the check arrived. At which point, he (a financier, even!) exclaimed, "This is for dim sum?!"

Venture out into the avenues, however, and it's a different story. Thanks to the 7 x 7 challenge, another shining star has swum into my ken: Ton Kiang, of the outer Richmond. What's that you say? You don't want to trek to the Richmond for brunch? Me neither. Good job I have a friend with a car.

My friend Lily, owner of said vehicle, happens to be a vegetarian who is having second thoughts. I was surprised, to say the least, that she was up for dim sum. Dedicated fans know there is a lot of pork involved. Lily, however, required no cajoling whatsoever. Guns were not put to heads. When I invited her, I even offered an easy out, with an alternative of buttermilk pancakes at Zazie's. But no, she really wanted dim sum. She was downright gung ho, proclaiming happily, "I'm going to eat meat today," as we stepped into the car.

On first inspection, the Richmond looks like a lovely residential neighborhood. We parked fairly easily, and strolled past a cute playground, as well as an abundance of nail salons. I'm not going to live there, due to its deal-breaking distance from major cultural events such as the Nordstrom sale. But what Ton Kiang lacks in centrality of location, it makes up for in an avalanche of little pork buns. Of this I assure you. For roughly FIFTEEN DOLLARS EACH--you heard me--one can have barbecue pork, steamed shrimp and scallops, shu mai, and spring rolls galore!!

Eat meat we most certainly did. Loads of it! It was lovely! Lily had just gotten a fancy new camera for her birthday, so we shamelessly snapped pictures, and chatted, and munched, and sipped tea, and the plates swung around, and they said, "Would you like such-and-such," and we said, "Yes, please!" and "Absolutely!" At one point Lily even had to restrain me from ordering a turnip cake. We were on a roll. I felt like a stuffed little dumpling when I left, and I had the most delicious of pork-induced naps that afternoon.

I like this version of dim sum. A little less decorum, a little more reckless abandon.

Incessant, Unavoidable Observation

I’m taking a copyediting class. It’s really fascinating, provided you’re really into things like comma placement. (Look, I never made any promises about not being a geek!) Last night, our instructor concluded with a quotation, which I found so wonderful I felt compelled to share it. It’s from editor and autobiographer (“whatever that means!” interjected our teacher) Margaret Anderson:

I was born to be an editor, I always edit everything. I edit my room at least once a week. Hotels are made for me. I can change a hotel room so thoroughly that even its proprietor doesn't recognize it . . .. I edit people's clothes, dressing them infallibly in the right lines . . .. I change everyone's coiffure—except those that please me—and these I gaze at with such satisfaction that I become suspect, I edit people's tones of voice, their laughter, their words. I change their gestures, their photographs. I change the books I read, the music I hear . . . It's this incessant, unavoidable observation, this need to distinguish and impose, that has made me an editor. I can't make things. I can only revise what has been made. [sic]

Do you constantly revise and rewrite the world around you?

The Casualties of Competitive Reading

The more that you read,

The more things you will know.

The more that you'll learn,

The more places you'll go.

Young cat! If you keep

Your eyes open enough,

Oh the stuff you will learn!

The most wonderful stuff!

I Can Read with My Eyes Shut! Dr. Seuss

One may not think of reading and writing as activities that are inherently dangerous to one's health. Compared to a career in construction, or, say, professional ice hockey, it pales. But I will assert nonetheless that there are a number of injuries related to too much reading. My chiropractor has chided me--more than once!--on neck craning. As for writing, much as my father suffers from tennis elbow, I'm confident I have an equally serious case of typing elbow. Ergonomic desks aside, one's elbows can only take so much. Sometimes I try this technique I learned from my friend PJ, voracious writer of research papers, which involves resting one wrist at a time on your desk. But so far as I can see, there's really just no way to stretch your elbows. (You're welcome to try at home and get back to me, but don't say I didn't warn you.)

The worst casualty, however, has to be the eyes. Reading is stressing out my eyes these days. Have you ever had an eye tic that started in your left eyelid, crossed over to your right, crossed back over to your left, and THEN, to be extra cute, decided to keep starting up again every time you sneeze? Try proofing iBooks for a few days. You'll get there. The zooming, oh, the zooming! I had sore eyes for weeks after our last deadline.

Previously in life, I've prided myself on being one of these people with annoyingly perfect vision. There's a certain amount of satisfaction in being able to read street signs that nobody else can. When I was a sharp-eyed little girl, I blithely disregarded reading lamps. As the sun was going down, and the colors of the room shifted softly from golden to blue tones, I would snuggle down deeper into the couch, happily engrossed in my E. Nesbit. Once, my Nana Pete came to visit, and I remember her catching me engaged in such activities. Snapping on a light, she exclaimed, "You'll hurt your eyes! You'll have to get glasses!"

Overly nervous grandmother, or prophet? Only time shall tell. But oh, reader! I have fears. I fear the day of glasses approaches. Combine a childhood of consuming Black Stallion novels under the covers by flashlight, an education in the literary arts, and a career in wading through semicolons and dashes, and it is starting to look like a losing combination.

And now, just because I'm an English major and we can get away with this kind of thing, I'll leave you with Milton. As any good student of literature can pedantically tell you, Milton went blind later in life. He also made his daughters read aloud to him in languages that they did not understand. I would not have wanted to be Milton's daughter, but I do love this sonnet.

When I consider how my light is spent

E're half my days, in this dark world and wide,

And that one Talent which is death to hide,

Lodg'd with me useless, though my Soul more bent

To serve therewith my Maker, and present

My true account, least he returning chide,

Doth God exact day-labour, light deny'd,

I fondly ask; But patience to prevent

That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need

Either man's work or his own gifts, who best

Bear his milde yoak, they serve him best, his State

Is Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed

And post o're Land and Ocean without rest:

They also serve who only stand and waite.