A Passion for List Writing

Things to Love about Making Lists:

1.) Starting off with a frivolous entry, just because you can! Topping my Christmas list every year since I was literate: a pony.

2.) Practicing parallel construction! Because you just took a copyediting course, and you're an epic nerd.

3.) Scribbling (if working on paper).

4.) Color coding (if working on Word or Excel).

5.) Thinking about what my brothers and sister want for Christmas.

6.) Thinking about what Stevie wants for Christmas.

7.) Thinking about what I want for Christmas.

8.) Singing to self, "All I Want for Christmas Is You," the Mariah Carey version. There is no other version. Don't start.

9.) Checking things off, with big, swishy, inky check marks. I swoon for inky pens.

10.) Striking things through. I don't know which I like better between checking and striking. They're both so good. It really depends on the list.

11.) Feeling a sense of accomplishment! To quote my materfamilias: "I love writing lists. It's like getting things done."

12.) Perusing old lists of yore. For example, the Christmas list in which my brother Bruce, six years old at the time of writing, requested "gold," "silver," a "hullmeat" (sic), and other brilliantly spelled viking accessories.

13.) Bringing back the phrase, "Number one with a bullet!" Not only is it pithy, it's true. Things really do sound more important when they're in list, numbered, bulleted, or otherwise.

14.) Sleeping soundly at night. You don't have to worry about it! It's on the list!

Happy list writing! Happy shopping! Happy checking, striking, and scribbling! And most importantly, happy Christmas!!

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.

The Challenge: A Working Girl's Afternoon Off

Last week, my parents came to visit. They are always up to things, but my mom found a window to swing by the Financial District on a sunny Friday afternoon. After some hugging and mutual dress compliments, she said those magical words of parents everywhere: "Well, sweetie! Where would you like to go for lunch?"

I replied, "Just let me get my list." (Commence rummaging through oversize handbag.)

And because she is a particularly indulgent mother, she suggested we go to Perbacco. Now, keep in mind that my mother used to be a young urban professional herself, back in the day, in 'frisco, no less, during the 80s. Rest assured that she knows how to treat a working girl to lunch.

Perbacco it was. Is it just me, or does San Francisco have approximately a bazillion upscale/Italian/Californian/rustic/house-cured/house-pickled restaurants? I don't really care. If they are all this good, keep it coming. Per 7x7's recommendation, we had the salumi misti. Made in house using "traditional Piedmontese recipes." You heard me.

But we really fell in love with some Brussels sprouts. Now, Brussels sprouts and I are old friends, but I understand there are people in this world who feel otherwise. If you labor under any delusions that you don't like Brussels sprouts, for heavens sake, I beseech you to stop boiling, steaming, and otherwise abusing them. Roasting really makes their nuttiness sing, but Perbacco does one better. Panfried, crispy-edged, bathed in (most likely an unconscionable quantity of) brown butter, tossed with burst capers, and sprinkled with a generous handful of Reggiano, they were to die for. Little cabbages to die for, I say. (Slams fist clenching fork to table.)

Then, after you've polished off your exquisite Italian/Californian/house-cured lunch, I highly recommend blowing off work for the afternoon, and going shopping at Loehmann's with the original working girl. One never knows. That next Diane von Furstenburg could be just around the corner.

The Art of Email

I'm an avid reader of etiquette columns. Etiquette, it seems to me, is ultimately an expression of how much care and thought you extend to members of your acquaintance. It's also clearly delightful to read anecdotes of people behaving badly. Someone's neighbor keeps giving them terrible cakes? Outrageous! You tell them, Philip Galanes. Where would we be without you.

If there is one area in which etiquette is lacking, however, I'd point to email. To be fair, email is a younger medium, and the social customs are not as ingrained just yet. (By comparison, my Great Aunt Leigh's first edition of Emily Post from 1922 contains suggestions on sharing tennis courts and how to tie a red ribbon on your pony's tail if he kicks. Email is what, 20 years old? Whereas it would appear that grouchy ponies have been frequenting the hunt club for centuries.) I also know we're all short on time, and admittedly emails, by nature, are meant to be written and read fast. But you know what? I think we can agree that there is room for a little more care and craft in most of the emails one reads these days.

A few points to consider:

Salutations: Use them. It takes approximately two seconds to type "Hi Ali," and hit hard return twice. And to paraphrase my friend's mother, writing someone's name on something is a really easy way to make it personal. (I believe she was talking about homemade Valentine's cards at the time, but the point stands.)

Signatures: Again. Use them. It'll make you feel strong. These should require at least a half second of thought--I read a charming piece in the Times demonstrating the pitfalls of automatic signatures. The classics such as "Thanks" and "Sincerely" never fail. Personally I tire a bit of "Cheers," which seems to me to be misused by most Americans (more as a general cheerfulness, rather than the British usage, which is more of a casual "Thanks"), but as you would. And let's face it, a well-crafted signature is a delight. "Stay fabulous!"

Capitalize and punctuate: Okay, I get it. Not everybody adores semicolons the way I do. But periods? Commas? Seriously? No one is that busy.

Emoticons: Emoticons are a really easy way to inject a little bit of warmth or tone. I use them all the time, in texts, Facebook posts, gchats, and casual emails to friends. But let's be firm. They have absolutely no place in any kind of professional email. And honestly, at the crux of the issue, when it really comes down to it, there's a much better way to express warmth and tone: words. Use your words. Even if it's just an "I kid!" bookending a sarcastic comment, or an "it was such a pleasure" or "so delightful" amending a sentence, there's a more elegant and accurate approach you can take. You'll end up looking smarter for doing so.

Proofing: Read before you send. There is an unnamed person from an unnamed institution that I once attended, who periodically sends out email newsletters, updates, and solicitations to an alumni list. Every time I get one of her emails, I immediately start counting the typos. It's embarrassing. She looks incompetent, and more to the point, it very much lessens my desire to hand over my money. If you're writing a long, formal email, go ahead and draft it in Word. While email clients have some spelling checks these days, there's no support for grammar. And regardless of level of formality, at least give emails a quick scan before hitting send.

Responding to invitations: It seems to me that with the immediacy of email, people are really slipping on RSVPs. Just because you can respond up to the last minute absolutely does not mean that you should. So don't take your host/hostess's time and efforts for granted. When you receive an invitation, open up your gcal. (It's one click away. I promise it won't hurt.) At which point, let me remind you, there are two correct responses to an invitation: you say thank you and accept, or you say thank you and politely decline. It is absolutely amazing to me how many people of my generation skip right over that first part. I really don't want to hear about how busy/important/hung over you are! I just invited to cook you a homemade meal on Friday night. I would be happy to talk about how annoying your boyfriend is once you're here and we've had a bottle of wine, but right now, all I really want to know is how much brisket to buy. Seriously, who raised you?

Don't say anything you wouldn't say to the person's face: Emails can get forwarded. Enough said. And I've personally had enough long, drawn out fights over email to be able to attest that there are certain conversations where you really ought to reach for the phone, or better yet, sit down and have a cup of coffee. Know email's limitations, and let's try to steer clear of embittered typing into the void, shall we?

Response times: My mom gets busted for this all the time. Between smart phones and the fact that most office jobs entail sitting in front of a computer for eight hours at a stretch, people expect you to be pretty instantly available. My personal policy is to try to respond to all emails the same day, or within 24 hours at the latest. The courteous emailer will also take into account time zones, which means that if I'm answering a food blogger in New York, or our IT guy in Colorado, I make sure I get back to them by early afternoon. But to be clear--I'm a big believer in having a life beyond the screen. If you're going to be away from email for an entire day or longer, post an auto response and let your correspondents know when you'll be back online. That way, when you abandon your email to go on a three-day spree of painting/book organizing/Christmas shopping/houseguest entertaining, you won't wind up with disgruntled colleagues/friends/family members on your hands. Not that anyone's mother I've ever known has ever done that.

The Oxford comma: This has nothing to do with email in particular. I just really love the Oxford comma, and you should, too. It makes life better. You also get a gold star in my book if you use proper dashes, learn the keyboard shortcuts for accents, use the active voice, and sport a stylish vocabulary. Such are the details that separate the boys from the men.

Finally, let me leave you with one of the great take-away points of nearly all etiquette guides I've ever enjoyed: just because someone else is behaving badly, it does not give you permission to do so yourself. There are a lot of poor communicators out there in this world. This does not give you license to write shoddy emails. Communicate well. Write well. Your emails are an extension of yourself, and your readers will be judging you by them. Most especially if you happen to know any English majors.

Did I miss any? Do I expect too much? Feel free to add or refute, in the comments section.