Day 6: Never have I ever... had AppleJack

Am I the only person who didn't know that the popular breakfast cereal marketed to children is actually named after a moonshine spirit popular during Colonial times? Who knew the folks at Kellogg's had such a good sense of humor. 

One of my friends, who shall remain nameless, crafts his own applejack for personal consumption. He is among the many people I know who live in Ithaca, NY.... a college town that's the perfect blend of hippie town+scenery. Not by coincidence, many of my friends went to school in Ithaca. And so began a tradition of a winter pilgrimage to Ithaca... a friend convention, of sorts. An adult sleepover. 

Two glasses about this size=drunk

To kick off the merriment, my friend arrived with a 2-liter coke bottle full of cloudy, piss-colored liquid, and announced we'd be drinking it. Mmmm. Sign me up. He poured small amounts into 10 glasses, we toasted our annual gathering, and down the hatch it went. Applejack? More like Applesmack. That's exactly what it did to my tongue. Ka-pow. 

But, since consuming Applejack was my *new* task of the day, one sip wouldn't do. So I poured myself a full glass and feared the aftermath of an Applejack hangover. A few sips in, and the bite was gone. I was now swilling tasty apple juice as the temperature of the room suddenly spiked. 

This is the orchard from which
the apples were picked

This A-J is particularly special. My friend picks the apples from his own orchard.  Seriously, who's ever had alcohol made from their own land?! I think this is pretty rad. First he mashes the apples, then presses them. Voila, homemade apple cider. From there, he puts in brewer's yeast, which munches up the sugar, excreting alcohol. And then he lets it sit. In a few days, he takes this alcoholic liquid and freezes it. The H2O freezes, leaving liquid with a higher alcohol content. He pours off this reduced liquid and tosses the frozen slush. This process can be repeated for a higher proof final product. He estimates that his Applejack is 50-70 proof, but there's no way to really know. Part of the excitement of the consumption is this mystery. How drunk am I gonna get here??

Results: Two glasses later, I was happily inebriated with a very light headache coming on. It wasn't a wine drunk, and it wasn't a liquor drunk, it was something in between. The Applejack was now delicious, and I craved one more, but I switched to a beer for my final bevvy of the night. And then I slept like an apple-cheeked baby. I woke up feeling a bit sluggish, but without a headache or any other measurable hangover symptoms. The second bottle of Applejack was just cracked moments ago, and my friends are currently hollering at me to stop typing and come have a drink. Gotta go...  

Status: Success! (not that consuming alcohol is exactly fail-able..) 

Day 5: (Boring Alert) Never have I ever... Haggled with a Big Bank

What? Every day can't be babies and adventures and rainbows. Some days are a little more oatmeal than omelette.

By nature, I'm not a haggler. I can negotiate well for business, but when it's MY money, I'm much less aggressive because it just seems.... pushy. So I've been putting off this annoying life task for months and losing money in the process. Stupid, I know.  It's easy to procrastinate on a task you've never done, because you tell yourself it's going to be JUST AWFUL. Ugh, i'm going to have to go there, and spend HOURS at the bank, and fill out tons of paperwork, and I probably won't even have the right documents, and then I'm going to have to go home and research tons of boring stuff to make sure they're not screwing me over... and I really don't want to do that on my Saturday morning. I'll go to brunch instead. 

Six months later you realize that you've spent more on sneaky little fees than you've spent on gas. So it was time to man up and go in there and get myself a better deal. This is America! Land of the deal!

I opened my accounts with my current bank when I was still a minor. So I'm a longtime client (you do the math.) For the sake of this blog, current bank will go by the alias Blochovia. It's not a bad bank. Actually their fraud protection has proven to be quite thorough. It's just that they charge me $2 to use an out-of-network ATM, in addition to the $2-3 charged by the ATM bank itself. Because the bank only has, like, 3 locations in all of New York City, and ZERO in Brooklyn, that brings their service from OK to useless. 

So I headed in to the bank (the very same suburban branch that I sat in more than 14 years ago opening the account with my Mom) and told my assigned Personal Banker that I wanted to stay with Blochovia, but now that I live in NYC, it's just not practical, unless they can work with me on the back-end ATM fees.  "Many other banks don't charge these fees, and several will even refund a certain amount for the other bank's ATM fees annually. How can Blochovia expect to keep clients if they can't match the competition?" I said.  I showed her fees from my account and compared them to other banks' fee structure. I was reasonable. I was polite. I was prepared. I was firm. 

I was also (later) appalled. First, my Blochovia rep looked at me blankly and say there was nothing to be done, before continuing on with her explanation. 
"Yeah, if I was spending money on ATM fees, I would be pissed, too. I don't blame you." 
I replied "I'm not upset, I hope I'm not coming off that way. My hope is just that Blochovia will work with me as an individual to keep my accounts. Because I should be saving my money with Blochovia, not spending it on ATM fees." 
Blank stare in return. 
She then continued on in an inappropriate tangent about how the bank merger with the Bell's Embargo Bank (alias) means that things are just "day to day" for them right now. 

What does that even mean? Why is she telling me this? I didn't want to give up. I tried harder to get her to understand, and make the exception, or get a manager, or something. I asked again politely. I said, if Blochivia couldn't help me resolve this, I would have no other option but to close my accounts. No luck. In the end, I'm just one of millions of accounts, and helping me is probably a bigger pain in the ass fo her than closing my account. 

I inquired about the process of switching banks and she handed me an annoying packed of papers to sign. With that, I said farewell. 

Results: Just as I expected, the conversation was uncomfortable. I hate uncomfortable conversations, which is why I procrastinate on stuff like that. Can't say this is a new experience I want to repeat. The closing/switching part was remarkably painless, and I can't believe that I let myself think this was going to be such a hassle. The biggest hassle was trying to get any useful information out of Ms. Blochovia. Though she was remarkably informative about account closing procedures. 

Status: Depends on how you look at this one. I'm sure I'll just be gauged by a new bank in all new ways, but for now, I took care of my something new by crossing off an old task! 

Day 4: Never have I ever... made a home video

This post could also be titled "Never Have I Ever Had SO MUCH Respect for Stay-at-Home Moms", but i'm really trying to avoid clichés here. But seriously... to all the parents out there: RESPECT.

I just spent the past three days with my adorable, hilarious nephews and I feel like just ran a marathon. Oh fuck, the clichés. I'm too tired to think. You people seriously do this every day? Come on. Surely you must lock them in the closet or tie them together from time to time. Child abuse? Please. That's sanity. They.never.stop. 
(Before anyone gets all worked up and calls CPS on me, let me be 100% clear: I'm kidding.) 

Taking care of young children all day long isn't exactly challenging. But damn, it's hard. It's exhausting, repetitive, ridiculous, and is the greatest exercise in patience I've ever had... and I only do it on snow days.  

Carter, Oliver, and their Jammie, Pop-pop and I were snowed in for two days while my sister had to trudge into work. (She works in healthcare, and sick patients don't take snow days...) In this childcare scenario, I try to make it easy on my parents so they can enjoy the kids rather than tire at their merciless energy. I usually handle the most annoying duties like meals, diapers, discipline, chasing. But I'm not delusional. This caregiving situation is easy-peasy compared to the typical day for most parents. I can say "Hey Dad, please watch Oliver for a minute. I really have to pee." The alternative if I actually was a stay-at-home mom? Oliver stands there looking at me quizzically as I drop trou, and I speculate permanent damage to his perception of normal family boundaries. 

I could go on and on about how much patience and love it takes to raise children well, but I don't want to overstate the obvious here. Plus, what the H-E-double-hockeysticks do I know? I'm not raising these kids. I'm just the babysitter. I aim to be a nurterer, but I know I'm only toe-dipping in the vast ocean that is Parenthood. And man, that bitch is deep. 

Today's New Experience: Shoot and edit a short home video. That's it. Simple? Tricky? Fun? Tedious? I didn't know. 

Six months ago, I got a new MacBook Pro, but I have barely scratched it's capabilities. I haven't even cracked iMovie, and just started with iPhoto last month. I'm surprised the folks at Apple haven't knocked on my door and taken it away to go live with a foster User.

Between iMovie and Flip, homemade movies so ubiquitous that it's almost embarrassing to admit I've never made one. There are elementary school children learning how to edit videos right now in their "TechnArtology" classes. But making good homemade movies require a dash of skill. My friend Christie, in particular, has demonstrated her Edward Scissorshands-like editing talents on multiple occasions. She hits all the right notes: Appropriate music, humorous captioning, clever timing. I aspire to make a piece that's a fraction as cute as her works. 

So, I spent all day Wednesday casually shooting the boys in their daily activities with a Kodak HD mini-videocam.  After the goslings went to bed, and after wiping the floor with my Dad in a few games of of Jotto, I began to upload the footage to iMovie. I didn't want to watch the stupid tutorial; winging it with iProducts is usually effective thanks to their intuitive UI. It took me about an hour to figure out how to import the footage, basic editing, music, text, and transitions. About 2.5 hours of actual editing and creative experimentation, and I was done. Unfortunately, starting this project at midnight was a bad idea. I was up until 4:00 a.m. binging on the meaningless details before forcing myself to shut down and get some rest. A mere four hours later, I woke to a tiny little hand pushing my door open. "ReeRee, are you awake? Let's go play games." 

Results: A cute little ditty* that the grandparents might even forward on to their AOL friends. Please keep in mind, after two days with cabin-fevered boys, things got a little wacky at Casa Bruno. And yes, we know that hand trucks aren't toys. 

Status: Success! 

Notes:
- I showed the video to the boys this morning. Carter thought it was the most hilarious thing he's ever seen. He laughed uncontrollably, danced around singing "i'm crazy like you!" and exclaimed "Play it again!". Oliver began to wail as soon as he saw the close-up shot of his own face. Upon the second viewing, Ollie made it a little further into the video,  and then again had a meltdown.... at the sight of his own face. Kids are so weird.  
*Warning: Contains nudity. Video not intended for children and pets under the age of 18.

Day 3: Never have I ever... channeled my inner Babka

Every good Polish grandmother makes her own pierogis. Whipping up hundreds for every family occasion is probably just another Thursday afternoon for Babka. But let me tell you... this is one laborious Polish delight. 

Quick backstory... 

I'm not the best chef among us. I love to cook, especially for others. There's nothing better than preparing a meal for someone you love to enjoy. It's even better when they don't spit out the food. As a budding chef, I've had some hits, I've had some misses. My family tends to remember the misses. If I offer to contribute a dish to a family function, I'm prepared for giggles. Back home in Brooklyn, a recent Boeuf Bourguignon effort was met with this question: "Um, Carrie, is 'bourguignon' French for 'leather'?"

So for all of you gourmands out there, don't laugh too hard at my modest culinary pursuits. Or I'll invite you over for dinner. 

Ok, back to yesterday's challenge: Make pierogis... from scratch. Serve to family for dinner. 

Since this isn't a culinary blog, I'll skip the actual recipe. But here's the basic gist: 

1. Make dough

2. Make filling

3. Shape pierogis

4. Boil and/or sauté

Seems simple, eh? Well, it's not. First off, making proper dough is never easy. And I had no idea what the consistency of pierogi dough should feel like, having never made it before. It seemed remarkably gluey to me. I had visions of my family futilely gnawing on rubbery shells of dough with forced smiles. So I mixed a little extra sour cream into the dough, and crossed my fingers. (I didn't know that pierogi dough has sour cream in it, the reason for the dough's unique zing.) After an eternity of messy kneading, I wrapped the dough ball in wax paper and stuck it in the fridge.

Making the filling was more idiot-proof, but equally time-consuming. The potatoes had to be peeled (the absolute worst kitchen task in my opinion), and then boiled. The onions had to be diced and then sauteed until translucent. The two then had to be mashed together until smooth. With no lubricant like butter or milk, much elbow grease was required. I added generous amounts of salt, pepper, chives and fresh parsley for seasoning. Finally, I mixed in about 8 oz of grated sharp cheddar. 

Next up was the pierogi construction--the really long part. The sticky dough had to be rolled thin and cut into circles. Due to the dough's shrinky-dink effect, the cut circles needed to be re-rolled to thin. Then, I placed a spoonful of filling on a dough circle, carefully wet the edge (by dipping my finger into a cup of water), and closed up the Polish Hot Pocket. However, pierogis require a sturdier seal, so I took a scallop-edged cookie-cutter and pressed the round side of each half moon. Otherwise the potato filling would escape when boiled. Then, I repeated that process for the next three hours, until 40 large raw pierogis emerged. 

Pierogis are cooked by either boiling or sauteing; I chose to boil. When I saw the doughy masses begin to float to the top of the water (the fully-cooked signal), I was thrilled. The dish at least passed this first test: they float! 

I served the pierogis hot, with sauteed onions, apple sauce, and of course, sour cream. The meal was rounded out by deliciously simple fresh beets. (I bought the beets with the intention of making borscht, but when the darn pierogis consumed my entire afternoon, I had to scrap that plan.) 

The family dug in. No one was spitting it out! 4 adults and 2 children ate about half of the monster batch, and we froze the rest. The dough wasn't rubbery at all (phew!) and the classic applesauce/onion/sour cream combo really let the flavorful pierogis shine. 

My parents had never had pierogis before (what?!!), and actually seemed to like them. Of course my father, who can't imagine a world without meat, commented "they're delicious, but would be improved with some bacon bits, the real kind, not that fake crap in the cupboard."

Results: Delicious pierogis and a sated family. But time investment+cost of ingredients vs. quality of product yielded makes it a no-brainer: I will return to buying Mrs. T's pierogis in the freezer section of my local grocer. 

Status: Success! (and leftovers) 

Day 2: Never have I ever... Bouldered.

I've heard Boulder is a lovely city. Legend has it that it's the jewel of the Rockies: a postcard-worthy town against snow-capped mountains, packed with shaggy-haired folks who bathe infrequently.... an irresistible trifecta! Luckily for likeminded New Yorkers, there is a headquarters for this type within city limits. Brooklyn Boulders, abbreviated BKB for those in the know. (I'm not in the know.) 

I've wanted to try out BKB since it opened last year, and I even had a $5 off coupon sitting in my desk. But it wasn't until my friend Ethan provided me with the impetus to go that I finally made it through the door. And by impetus, I should say awkward self-invitation. You see, we were at his birthday party discussing a good date to meet up with some friends. The interaction went something like this:
Me: So, are you free this Monday, the 31st? 
Ethan: Ah, I can't, I'm going rock-climbing with my friend Chris on Monday. (points to Chris a few feet away) 
Me: Ooooh! Rock climbing!! Where are you guys going?! In the city?? 
Ethan: (calling to Chris) We're going to Brooklyn, right? 
Chris: Yep. 
Me: Ooooh! Brooklyn Boulders!? I've heard that place is great!  I've been meaning to check it out! 
Ethan: Yeah, well, Chris goes a lot, I think he likes it. 
Me: Really?! That's so cool! Um, could I maybe come with you guys? I mean, would that be OK? I mean, if you guys want to just hang out just the guys, I totally understand, but if I'm not crashing the party then maybe I could come and, yeah, I really like rock climbing, it would be fun, um...
I don't need to keep going, do I? You get the idea. Ethan graciously encouraged me to come, despite my clumsy breach of social protocol. He didn't even make me feel like an overexcited asshole about it. Which I kinda was.

So that's the story of how I ended up at Brooklyn Boulders at 8:30pm on a Monday night.

BKB is the mecca for cool, urban hippie-types. Overlooking the fact that the entire, gi-normous establishment is seasoned with eau de B.O., the vibe of the place is laid-back and non-judgmental. The staff was familiar and competent, and the place was PACKED. Mind you, it was freezing cold Monday night in late January. I can only imagine how crowded it must be on weekends...

I have climbed many times before in my past, so climbing in itself isn't a new experience for me. In college, we had a free climbing gym on campus, and my high school was even lucky enough to have a climbing wall right in our gymnasium. But that was all top-rope climbing. With a harness and taut rope attached to one's pelvis, you have security. Actually, falling is fun. You swing back and forth suspended in air. It's like the circus!

But this bouldering business was new to me. Bouldering, for those who don't know, is a style of climbing without a rope and on lower walls over a crash pad. If you fall, you fall. The walls are only about 15' high, so falling wouldn't kill you, even if you were landing on hard ground. But would you want to jump out of a second story window?

On my first attempt (on a V0, the lowest level), I slipped reaching for the second set of holds. Lame. To add insult to more insult, all of the cool, urban-hippie-types scrambled up the much-tougher nearby walls like it was no big thang. I sheepishly looked back to Ethan and Chris and asked if we could start on a wall that didn't have an inverted angle.

From our newly-selected wall spot, I began to hit a stride. Chris pointed out some good routes for me. I silently instructed myself to chill out and ignore the fear of falling. A few half-successes up the wall later, I felt my beginner skills coming back to me. My moves were by no means pretty, but hey, I was climbing.

Finally, I made it to the top! It was then that I realized how friggin' high this "short" wall was. I looked down, clung to the wall, and hollered "So, guys...what now? I just have to jump?" I was freaked out. Chris told me I could jump, or climb down a bit. I chose the latter, and then jumped to safety on the marshmallowy crash pad below.

Yep, there it was. That same feeling I used to love: the jello-jigglers legs sensation. Like your knees have started yodeling. I'm not sure how else to explain it... but if you know what I mean, you know exactly what I mean.

We played around on the boulders for about two hours. I succeeded on two or three routes, and made valiant attempts at many others, including a "fun one" (as labeled by Chris) where you start clinging to the wall, almost horizontally, and then climb up to a vertical position. I failed miserably. Moments later, the friendly staff member who gave me a free climbing shoe rental came along and Spiderwomaned it.

Ethan and Chris* both did much better than me, but they are muscly boys and I'm just a tiny little woman. I asked the very nimble Chris how long he had been climbing, expecting his response to be in years. Turns out he's only been bouldering twice a week since November. (NOVEMBER?!?) Evidence that regular practice and dedication brings great reward, sometimes even speedily.

Results: A lot of laughs with two fun people, a reinvigorated interest in climbing, and one very sore body today. (My quads and arms are aching!)

Status: Success-ish

*Huge thanks to both for letting me tag along, coaching me up, and pretending that I didn't completely suck at it.

Day 1: Never have I ever.... Gone snowshoeing!

I love the fluffy white stuff. It's so purty. I usually appreciate the snow in one of two ways: 1) zooming down a groomer, or 2) watching it fall gently through the window as I sip cocoa next to the fire. See, I don't really like to be cold. I hate it, in fact. So it's safe to say you won't find me as winter outdoorsman without a Thermos full of whine.

But yesterday I strapped on some stainless steel 26" snowshoes and traversed 2.5 miles of the deep, snowy trails of Caleb Smith State Park Preserve on Long Island. I embarked on this expedition with D.Coops and his parents (who benevolently provided us with all our 'shoeing gear, and then whizzed ahead like agile gazelles on X-country skis). It was an easy skill to master, though getting the "right" stride took some experimentation. Due to our most recent blizzy, the blanket was 3' high, which really added to the cool-factor. It wasn't quite the graceful picture I'd imagined (us gliding across the top of a great expanse of the snow like Jesus on the Sea of Galilee,) the shoes and poles sunk in about 3-4 inches and we plodded along slowly and clumsily in our enjoyment.

Terribly unflattering photo of too-large snow clothes.
Dave eating a yellow snowball. 

Result: A stunningly beautiful winterscape and a surprisingly good workout! We wove our way around a winding creek, snow-covered trees, and pristine white meadows, and appreciated a glimpse of winter wildlife (fine, some ducks). Overall, it was a great new way to enjoy the outdoors in winter.  Being cooped up all season isn't good for our bods, and my lungs appreciated a few hours of crisp, fresh air. I'm not kidding about the good workout part, either. 90 minutes of this strange, new motion was exhausting! About 1.5 miles in, I tried to bitch out by taking the short route, but my snowbuddy kept me motivated and we did the full loop. I'm so glad we did.

Status: Success! 

In the next 30 days, I will have 30 new experiences. One each day.

Most people have a routine. Most people enjoy routine. Work, home, friends, hobbies. Even the most adventuresome among us will have their go-tos: favorite restaurants, shops, activities, vacation spots. When we find something we really like, why wouldn't we choose to thrive on the routine and dependable happiness it brings?

Well, two weeks ago, my routine was thwarted by a professional interlude... a little life intermission... a spontaneous hiatus, you could call it. If you want to get all technical about it, you could also call it unemployment. But around here we don't use that kind of harsh, judgmental language. Because life could easily become a dark emotional abyss called Loafing Loser-town, but I can't let it. No way, José. It's like constant recess around here! Euphemized metaphors are my new best friend.

Being unemployed is weird. Not only is life's routine suddenly 80% gonzo, but all of the other parts of your routine are now scrutinized based on cost, value, and neccessity. Unemployment is like a boxing match: you don't know when the heck it's going to end until  someone's knocked out and it's all over. In light of this great unknown, I decided that I needed to weigh my options:

1. Move back into parents' house.
Pro: Half of my stuff is stored there anyway, thanks to teeny-tiny Manhattan apartments. 
Con: Eradication of remaining shred of dignity by moving back into their house at age 30.

2. Move into sister's basement à la Robbie Hart. 
Pro: Fridge is always stocked; Plus, her two plucky little boys make it very life-imitating-art Con: She doesn't actually have a basement. She does have a doorless ground-floor playroom that I could pirate from the children. But the giant, gaping doorway is really not ideal for changing without being walked in on or sleeping without a daily alarm of crying baby, not to mention the other stuff...

3. Head out to the Hamptons and try back doors and side windows of vacant mansions until one of those puppies is carelessly unlocked. 
Pro: Living in style through Memorial Day!
Cons: Slow winter economy. Possible jail time.

4. Try heroin to see if all of those whiny musicians were right, and it really does only take just one time to get addicted. 
Pros: Rainbows dancing inside my eyelids over fields of puffy pink clouds that fill my soul; Never worrying about finding job again.
Con: Track marks.

5. Start a blog. 
Pro: It's my chance to be completely original and unique, since no one without a job thinks it would be a good idea to write a blog. And it's an awesome way to see who your real friends are.
Con: Con? Is there a downside into pouring over a 200 word blog post every single day for a month, only to have it read by 2 people, one of whom is my retired mother, the other is bored-friend-who-happens-to-be-home-sick-that day? No way! Totally worth it.


So, here I am. Free agent. Wiii-iide open. I do realize that if I don't use this vocational halftime wisely, I'm a real bonehead. For the first time in 9 years, I actually have a chunk of time to do stuff that I want to do. I can learn about stuff! I can try stuff! And, I think I will actually learn some stuff about myself, too.

Of course, one of major flaws of being unemployed is that I ain't got no money, but I sure got a whole lotta love. So while I would L-U-V this blog to include posts about skydiving, music festivals, or with titles like "Never have I ever... survived the Encierro!", unfortunately that's just not realistic. I do promise that posts will not be completely lame. I plan to include a bloggy potpourri of culinary feats, athletic challenges, regional exploration, and always-wanted-to-try-but-never-got-around-to experiments. I will not insult the internet by an entire post dedicated to a TV show. I will not shame the word "experience".

I really wish my first post could be "Never have I ever... started a blog!" But that would be a lie. I started a blog two years ago. I posted once. This time, I hope to do better. (and it's actually impossible for me to do worse, sweet!) My mission is clear, my intentions are positive. Here is what I hope to accomplish by this 30-day experiment and blog:

Mission:
In the next 30 days, I will attempt a new experience every day.
Goals: 
1. Succeed at most new experiences, fail at few.
2. Push my own boundaries and find some things I enjoy that I never thought I would.
3. Spread the new experience bug by inviting friends to do new stuff with me.
4. Inspire all/both people reading this blog to go out and try new stuff, too!
If you have suggestions for new stuff I should try (suggestions welcome and very much needed!) please email, Facebook or comment.


Notes: 
+ This first post is of abnormally long length. Future posts will be much shorter, promise. Please don't be scared away.
+ I'd like to thank two of my most creative friends, Beth Mercante and Diana Erskine, whose own personal projects (One-a-Day and 30 by 30, respectively) helped to inspire this experiment's format. I'd also like to give naming inspiration credit the nosy binge-drinker who came up with the Never Have I Ever game.  Wherever you are, I salute you and your liver donor. 
+ How did I do on my first post, friends? I'm dangerously close to italics overuse and abuse, I know. I'll walk the straight and narrow (font) on the next post.