Day 14: Never have I ever... tried to knit

Knitting has always seemed like the kind of repetitive, mechanical craft that I'd be good at. I've always wanted to try it, despite missing the hipster knitting craze of the mid 00's. So I looked up knitting classes in Brooklyn, and found one that was free (free!) from 5-7 PM on Saturdays. Most others are upwards of $100, which was out of my blog project price range, so despite the undesirable timeframe, I decided to give this one whirl. Enlisting a knitting buddy in my friend Beth, we set off for the Brooklyn Yarn Cafe. 

First of all, the journey to the store was an adventure in itself, through some of Brooklyn's neighborhoods least likely to ever make it to New York mag's annual liveable list. The main drag was sparsely populated and bleak. Having had my car broken into two years ago mere blocks from this location, I was extremely wary of leaving my Golden Girl on the street. But luckily, we found a spot right outside the yarn store, and I had to admit... it did look like an adorable shop with it's bright window painting of yarn and cupcakes. It was a warm and inviting oasis in the middle of a sparse, gray, run-down area.  

Enthusiastic beginnings

Miss Rosemary, the proprietor and teacher, greeted us. Her business was eclectic, to say the least: café/yarn shop/laundry service. It took me a while to catch on to that last part. I couldn't understand why people (mostly men) kept coming in with large, bulky bags... until I eavesdropped on an interaction between Miss Rosemary and a mystery customer. I guess peddling yarn isn't the most profitable endeavor, and Rosie seemed like the resourceful type. A girl's gotta pay the bills! 

We waited for a long time in the "back room" with a Guy Friday-type employee named Al. He was a young guy from Tennessee with a molasses-thick accent and black newsboy cap. We endured his random dissertation about the nuances of Tennessee county politics with a smile, but when we asked if he knit and his reply was "I'd love to, but where I'm staying doesn't allow me to keep needles," well, that's when things started to get weird. Would this class start already? Finally, Miss Rosemary came in to help us pick out some yarn and announced the class would be starting in the front room. I looked at my watch, she was starting 45 minutes late. But, hey, it's hard to complain about a free class, right?

Yarn Disaster

Right away, I could tell Miss Rosemary was a thorough teacher. She first taught us about "casting-on", or starting the yarn on the needle, which was a skill I picked up right away. This was easy! I would have this baby blanket done in no time! But no, she had a system. She made both Beth and I do and undo our stitches 4 times, to ensure we had the skill mastered. After about 45 minutes of this tedium, we moved on to the actual knitting. This is where it all fell apart for me. My smug mastery of casting-on meant nothing now. I fumbled with the needles and simply could not visualize the stitch. Finalllllly, I finished the first row after about 45 more minutes. Something looked weird. When I got to the second row, it became clear that my work was beyond repair. It was a tangled mess of pink and blue fuzz. Miss Rosemary took one look, and promptly ripped the whole knot off the needle. All of my hours of fine motor skill down the drain. MY MASTERPIECE!?!?! 

I doggedly started again, but had less patience this time. It was 8:15, and I was getting hungry. Now, it's important to mention that the knitting class was also attended by four interesting and friendly ladies. Their intimate tone made both Beth and I assume that they were a group of friends. Turns out, they met last weekend at the shop, and had come back for another stitch n' bitch sesh. They welcomed us right into their group, allowing us to truly understand the concept of a knitting circle. There was something profoundly connective (and quite relaxing) about rocking back and forth, as our fingers worked away, our mouths laughing and chatting, our eyes micro-focused. Who cares that it was a Saturday night, and most of NYC was getting dressed in their best for a hot night on the town. We were knitting ladies. 

But we were also hungry ladies. Bob (female), a spunky and spritely massage therapist who lived in the apartments above the shop, was very enthusiastic about a group dinner. It's uncommon to meet random, new friends and head out for dinner within a few hours of making the acquaintance, but hey, what did we have to lose? Bob's husband Lez joined in to complete our eclectic group. So the ladies-plus-Lez packed up our projects, paid for our yarn, thanked Miss Rosemary, and went to a nearby Japanese restaurant owned by Bob and Lez's friend. 

Sushi "Bombs"

It was the kind of secret place you have to know to find. It blended into this mostly industrial neighborhood seamlessly. There was no sign. No sound from the street. But once the massive, wooden door opened, we stepped inside an intimate and aromatic secret sanctuary. Long wooden tables filled with the hipster glam. A funky music mix of Duran Duran b-sides, Dr. Dre, and Fela Kuti. And a totally bare, minimalist asian design of the small space. The friendly owner, Phil, greeted our new friends with hugs and kisses, and showed our group inside. He asked us how much we wanted to pay per person, and announced he would do all the ordering for us. $25? Ok. Any food allergies or aversions? Nope. Great. Sit back and enjoy. 

Pork Perfection

With minutes, the courses began to arrive, one after the other. Salad with fresh miso dressing (made six times nightly for optimal flavor), braised lotus fruit, pickled japanese vegetables, perfectly crunchy vegetable tempura, three plates of "sushi bombs", crispy dumplings, and the pièce de résistance: a ring of pork belly slivers with crème fraiche in a salty, bacon-y broth that we sopped up with sticky rice. Did I mention the potpourri of freshly made sauces and purees with interesting ingredients like yuzu and 6-hour soaked chiles? This meal was thebomb.com, and was only $25 a head?! We were getting hooked up. Look at all these other suckers in here. They have to look at the menu. Order food? We just chatted with our new friends as plate after plate of deliciousness was presented to us in bountiful quantity. We felt special. Phil was treating us like old friends rather than new customers. It was delightful.  

As I parked my car in my neighborhood at midnight, hours after my anticipated 8PM homecoming, I couldn't help but think "This is exactly why I'm doing this blog experiment." Openness to new experiences can lead to the most unexpected adventures.... 

Results: I sucked at knitting, but I intend to keep trying. It just takes practice, I'm sure I'll get it down eventually. However, the social aspect of this classic American craft* led us to make some unique, new friends and share a very special meal. It's a night I won't soon forget. 

Status: Craft FAIL; Life SUCCESS! 

*Knitting's origins date back as early 300 AD with Romano-Egyptian socks, but the knitting circle is an iconic American symbol of domesticity and female community. 

Day 13: Never have I ever.... skied a double-black-diamond

Most avid skiers have blazed down double-blacks all over the Rockies, the Sierra Nevadas, maybe even the Alps. But not me. I'm a pansy. I stick to my blues and zig-zap happily down the mountain, sometimes I even like to sing as I ski. I'm not exactly a mountainside daredevil. See, I'm fond of my face, and all four of my limbs. And I've heard one too many horror stories (Friend A broke his leg last year in Wyoming. Friend B required medical heli-transport in order to survive her skiing accident. Friend C broke his arm and leg, requiring six permanent pins in his bones. Need I go on?) I just don't care to ever know how it feel to ride down the mountain on one of those red sled-gurneys. 

Warning: Ski Patrol's last sweep is 3PM. If you ski this trail 

after 3PM  and become injured, you will  not be rescued, 

and will  likely die  alone overnight on the side of a 

freezing cold mountain. Happy Skiing!

But, I went skiing out in Utah this year. And it was gooooood. Thigh-deep powder. 50 inches in four days. Trails called "Mystic Pines" that literally made me weep. Constant falls, near-constant fear. Runs so long, I had to stop seven times on the way down. And when I ski east coast mountain, the blues suddenly feel  like greens. The blacks were like blues. I'm not really challenged? This is strange. So, since I was skiing with some trés advanced skiers that day, I felt the confidence to go for broke. (no bones.)

So, I saw the double-black-diamond trail called "Outrage" and thought.... I want to be Outraged! I'll do it! Down the wooded, steep, mogul-y trail I went.

Results: My form was terrible. The trail skied me. But, I was in control about 90% of the time, and the other 10%, I was lucky enough not to crash or fall.

Status: Success! 

Day 11: Never have I ever... channeled my inner Bubbe

I recently received a request from my roomie to make matzoh ball soup. Or matzo ball soup, or matzah ball soup, depending on how you spell it. Now, I really should know a thing or two about matzoh ball soup, seeing as though half of my family (and half of my heritage) is Jewish. But the truth is, I've only had it once, tasting a friend's order at a diner. And I thought the balls were kind of.... meh. I much prefer slippery, slurp-able noodles. But, honoring such requests make for a happy home, and I like to try new things. So Matzoh Monday it is! (well, I think it was a Wednesday. Whatever.) 

I should mention that the request wasn't for any old matzoh ball soup. It was for his mother's recipe. The request every woman dreads: Please live up to my infallible Mother's famous signature dish. I felt destined to fail. As I began the recipe, he said "I don't know about this.... you have 29 years of Debbie's Matzoh Magic to live up to." Great. 

She had graciously sent her recipe, but unfortunately we went shopping without it in hand, and guessed at a few ingredients. Right away I realized I couldn't follow it exactly. First of all, I had bought boneless chicken thighs instead of a whole chicken. Second, her recipe only called for water and no stock (the whole chicken would soon turn the water into stock). But without the chicken innards, I knew a flavorful broth would require a boxed stock. Cheating? Maybe. But nothing is worse than bland soup. 

I also browned the chicken thighs first, my own little additional step in the recipe. Then, I covered the thighs with half water/half stock, and added heaps of chopped carrots, celery, and onion. Then it was let to simmmmmmmmmmmmmer... for about two hours. 

In the meantime, I began to make my first matzoh balls. I bought whole-wheat matzoh meal, partly because it's healthier, and partly because that's all the store had in stock. In the middle of February, without any matzoh-mongering holidays in the near future or recent past, I guess it isn't a top-seller? The recipe distinctly said that I should mix the matzoh balls in "a non-metal bowl". This perplexed me. Why a non-metal bowl? I googled it. Apparently there is some debate over whether yeast reacts with metal, giving dough a funny taste. However, I'm pretty sure that the whole point of matzoh meal is that there is no yeast, as it's ground-up unleavened bread made of flour and water. But regardless, I didn't want to monkey with the rules, and so I pulled out my Grandma Marie's orange milkglass mixing bowl circa 1935. It's such a classic. 

I mixed eggs, water, oil, baking powder, salt, pepper and matzoh meal until it became a glue-like paste. After a good chill in the fridge, I shaped the paste into ping-pong sized balls and dropped them into boiling water to cook on low for 30 minutes. 

By now, the soup smelled delicious. The chicken had completely broken apart into strings and small chunks, and the veggies were perfectly tender. I ladled the soup out first, then placed 1-2 cooked matzoh balls in each bowl, as per the recipe's instructions. I wondered if I could have just plopped the cooked matzoh balls right into the soup all at once, but it was insisted upon that the two items needed to be stored separately until they were to be consumed. Because that's the way it has to be, and always has been, forever. 

Results: It was delicious!! I can't pretend this was some great feat. It was chicken soup and some dough balls. And my slight adjustments were (surprisingly) noted as welcome changes, as they made the soup slightly healthier by way of whole wheat and less chicken fat. 

My opinion of matzoh balls remains the same: meh. But I was just relieved that I didn't mess up 29 years of magic. 

Status: Success! 

Gone Fishin'

I wish. Actually, I've been sick. And turns out that the only new thing I've wanted to try this week is the new Puffs Plus Lotion with the Scent of Vicks. Inhaling the soothing menthol felt so good on my burning lungs. And made me smell like this guy.
Thank you for understanding my recovery hiatus. I'm almost all better, and will be resuming my activities today as well as catching up on two long overdue posts. I have lots of exciting, new activities planned this week, none of which include coughing up blood or passing out in the grocery store. Fingers crossed.

On the trails, off the rails

Uh oh. My blogsperiment was derailed by an annual tradition called Ski Bunny Weekend. (Technically, now it's Ski Bunny+Squirrel Weekend, but that's not really important...)

Unfortunately two days worth of posts were compromised by the travel required to get to and from our destination. I thought that perhaps I could squeeze in some manageable new experiences... but yeah, that didn't happen. I thought about trying snowboarding, but the prospect of watching my friends zoom away together as I joined Snow Stars Ski School to spend the entire day bumbling down Hot Dog Hill, well, that made me cry tiny, frozen tears. It was also suggested (by a squirrel) that my new experience should to reenact the Columbia Sportswear ad campaign, since I had all of the elements present: lots of snow and undergarments. But that seemed more like a cheap stunt than a new experience.

So, I just hit pause. Sometimes it's just not practical to shoehorn new stuff into old traditions. And some things are perfect just the way they are, and shouldn't be messed with. Ski weekend. And s'mores. Just two examples off the top of my head...

Now, it's back onto the rails. I have two backlogged experiences to post, a two-day extension on my 30 days experiment, and a giant inflatable rat outside my house that says "Unreliable Blogger Lives HERE".

Day 12: Never have I ever... seen a Sexhibition

Today I went to one of NYC's finest cultural institutions. Forget MoMA. Guggenheim-Schmoogenheim.  If you're seeking curatorial genius, look no further than 233 Fifth Avenue: The Museum of Sex. The gift shop says it all with Pink Sock Tissue dispensers. His and hers! 

Actually, I've been wanting to check out this museum for a while. I've passed by it dozens of times. But it always seemed like a strange activity to suggest. Hey guys, after brunch you want to hit up the Sex Museum? Lucky for me, my chosen day of attendance was a very special day at the Museum of Sex, or MoSex, as they've dubbed it (creative...). It was a calendar signing for New York City Hunky Firefighters of the Month. 12 of NYC's bravest and a sad turnout of even sadder women in large, giggling gaggles. It really added to the ambiance. 

The first question asked by a friend about the Museum of Sex, is "how porn-ey will it be?" The answer? VERY PORN-EY. The curators don't care about easing the visitor into the experience. First piece in the first exhibit... bam! Hard core porn. The entire first-floor exhibition chronicled the depiction of sex in film. I was shocked and humored to see the earlier works, some of which were quite graphic. There was also a section about sex in modern movies. N-O-T for the faint of heart. I felt remarkably uncomfortable watching the famous 9 1/2 weeks bathtub scene in a public setting. That's the weird dichotomy of MoSex. The carnal content sparks the most intimate of thoughts, but it's set in the sterile, analytical environment of a museum. And is there anything analytical about sex? 

The second floor was dedicated to a strange, disjointed mix of media: the depiction of sex in art, photography, sculpture, and thennnn... some sex toys you could touch. There was The Sex of Robots, a super-disturbing tiny metal model of a robot orgy, with a child doing things a child shouldn't be doing. Yikes. In a less freaky corner, there were some cool old pornographic photos. It was most interesting to see the sepia-toned Victorian-era photographs with poses that resemble the raunchiest porn photos from today. It reminds us that no matter how much our culture shifts, and no matter what inappropriate television show MTV has created this year, people have been knockin' boots since the beginning of time. Since before boots! So what's with the big taboo? 

The third floor was the most interesting. It was a special exhibition on the sex lives of animals. Mostly photos and lots of text, it focused a lot on nature's sexual anomalies: gender-bending animals, female penises, male mammaries, sex-role reversal and more. From homosexuality to gender, masturbation to monogamy (or lack thereof), the exhibition looked at animal sexual behaviors that humans have classified as deviant. Acts that we've outlawed, punished, and shamed, animals don't give a shit. And who's usually right... man or Mother Nature? It was cool to see that animal sexuality is every bit as weird and complicated as human sexuality. So next time you go to spank the monkey, you can feel better knowing that right now, a monkey is doing the exact same thing. 

Results:  Learned a lot of fun factoids about the animal kingdom, saw some weird, old porn, and checked an oft-overlooked NYC museum off my list. Uninhibited museum-goers will appreciate an intense look at the chronology of human sexuality in culture. It wasn't the most impressive museum in the city, but no one could ever accuse it of being boring. Oh, and definitely don't bring your mom. 

Status: Sexcess! 

Day 10: Never have I ever... sung a madrigal

Ok, I couldn't have done this one on my own. It's only thanks to 12 other ladies that I am able to include this new experience in my 30-day project. Therefore this is more of a "we" post than an "I" post. However, I can't speak for the rest of my group mates. Perhaps madrigals are just another day in the choir room for them. But for me, this was a first. 

Madrigal Mates

The musical group I sing with is strictly a pop group. In our repertoire, the 1938 jazz standard "Our Love is Here to Stay" by Gershwin is as ancient as we get. So singing a madrigal is completely out of our wheelhouse. Many of us, myself included, were trained to sing in classical choirs. I've sung my fair share of true choral works: Handel's Messiah, Fauré's Requiem, Mendelssohn's Elijah. Legit stuff. But a madrigal is something I've never touched. Madrigals are a type of chamber music that originated in Italy in the 14th century. It's perhaps best connected to its second popularization in the late Renaissance and early Baroque periods. Either way, this shit be old. 

Most importantly, Madrigals are sort of like a cappella musical poetry. The usual form is two or three stanzas of three lines each, with 7 or 11 syllables per line. It also usually changes tempo from common time to 6/8, which is a particularly tricky tempo change to maneuver. And it's polyphonic, meaning it's always meant to be sung by multiple voices. Enter Treble. 

We began learning the madrigal two weeks ago. It was a piece of cake. We nailed it. The end. 

Yeah. Not so much. We started out by learning the rhythm only. We spoke the lyrics to rhythm over and over again before even attempting the music. That seemed to go OK. Then, we banged out the notes. Ok, time to put the two together. It was like a peanut butter and vaseline sandwich. There was nothing... no song... not even a sloppy madrigal. Cacophony. So, under strict instructions, we went home and worked on the piece individually. I must have listened to it 25 times over the past week. 

We reconvened last night. The first go wasn't impressive. We banged out the tricky measures over and over, building the sound brick by brick, layer by layer, until we were making it through... slowly. Then, something just clicked. We could hear what it was supposed to sound like... rich, beautiful harmonies, tightly bobbing and weaving around each other in less than two octaves worth of musical space. It was gorgeous. The movement of each part showed its purpose. But that purpose couldn't be revealed alone. Only when the four parts lock together could we see the composer's destination. We were singing a madrigal. 

This awesome high carried us through the rest of an awesome (and long) rehearsal. Our sense of achievement was palpable. Every song we sang after that was better, juicier, more dynamic. The madrigal was almost... magical. 

Did I forget to mention that it is a madrigal version of "Hit Me Baby One More Time" by Britney? Oops. Must have forgot. 

(Yes, that Britney.) 

Results: Though chamber music isn't my usual genre of choice, I'm so incredibly happy to have learned one. And I cannot wait to perform it with 12 amazing musicians next week! 

Status: Success!