Hollywood will destroy us all

I keep meaning to write about my newfound obsession with late Milos Forman films; specifically, Amadeus, Leibniz, and the rhetoric of failure as theorized by 17th century theology. Instead, I spent today cleaning the house and watching Julie and Julia, as a result of which this post will be about... you guessed it.

Dinner.

When it comes to dining alone, I'm as guilty as the next lazy foodie of taking startlingly little care of what goes into my stomach. Often on solitary nights, "dinner" is an umbrella term for such diverse crimes against mindful eating as: microwave popcorn, raw veggie sausage, eggs (just eggs!)... and, when the old mood's really taken a nosedive, the classic sweet-savory-carby trifecta of Ben & Jerry's, brick of cheese, and a bag of salt and vinegar chips. Don't judge me. But once in awhile, and especially after watching the lovable culinary antics of Meryl-Streep-as-Julia-Child (and Amy Adams as, swear to God same exact face as a girl I went to college with, zomg!!), I start to feel ashamed that I always save my kitchen skills for the sometimes-appreciative masses, but somehow rarely think to splurge on myself. Tonight was one of those nights that I needed to be reminded of the independent existence of my own taste buds, apart from the influence of elaborate homecooked meals for friends and loved ones.

There is one major problem, however, with the cooking-for-one endeavor. When planning a meal for others, part of the fun is guessing their tastes and putting together something that syncs up, not just flavor-wise, but in sociological terms -- will it be something fancy, pre-plated, with garnish? quick-and-dirty finger food? a cheeky haute-cuisine adaptation of an old childhood classic? Especially since I never had anything resembling a standard American baseline to work from (I still have to read the box to figure out how to make Kraft Mac & Cheese or an Oscar Meyer hot dog), my flexibility in this respect is dizzying. I can happily cook anything for anyone, from just about any regional and class background... but when it comes to what it is that I want, I tend to start complicating things with all manner of useless intellectualism and second-guessing, all of which just leaves me starving and scraping clean a can of refried beans at 9 o'clock at night.

Luckily, this evening, I had a few solid parameters to work around. First was the fact that, probably due to Cinco de Mayo and summer being generally around the corner, I've recently become obsessed with all manner of salsas. Since I learned to roast peppers, I've been excited to show off by making things like a really tasty grilled pineapple and pepper salsa (bee-tee-dubs, this is a fantastic food site for the non-fussy non-pro) a few nights back, to go with some otherwise boring but oh-so-healthy broiled salmon. Second, in an early scene in Julie and Julia, Amy Adams is whipping up something that looked to me like salsa on bruschetta, which reminded me that I still had some red onion and cilantro in the fridge that needed using up fast. And lastly, after last night's epic dinner here -- an enormous bloody rare burger smothered in boursin and grilled onions/mushrooms, fries, onion rings, and a chocolate malted frappe -- I was understandably concerned about gout fresh vegetable intake.

So, in the interest in simplicity and healthfulness, this is what I had for dinner tonight: Mango avocado salsa on toasted pita bread, with homemade sangria. Proportions scaled to feed one person*; double for a cute, funky, dressed-down light dinner date that will most probably get you drunk (and/or laid!).

Mango avocado salsa

1/2 mango, diced
1/2 avocado, diced
1/2 beefsteak tomato, diced
1/4 red onion, ... you get the picture
1 Anaheim hot pepper, seeded, deveined, etc.
juice of 1/2 lime
juice of 1/4 orange
splash of olive oil
handful of cilantro, roughly chopped
pinch of kosher salt

Mix all of the above in bowl and refrigerate. In the meantime, toast some pita bread. I ended up experimenting (inadvertently, ahem) with lightly-toasted soft pita pockets filled with salsa and hard-toasted homemade pita chips loaded up with salsa. Though it was the result of a timing fluke, I actually preferred the over-toasted pita that led to chips. The crunchy chips/sweet-tangy-spicy salsa is just too perfect a combination to pass up.

Sangria

1/2 bottle of old/cheap red wine
1/2 bottle Orangina (or, in my cheapskate case, Stop & Shop brand orange seltzer)
splash spiced rum (Sailor Jerry!)
1 small apple, chopped
1/2 orange, chopped
1 lime, cut into wedges
ice

Combine all of the above in a pitcher. Or, in my aforementioned cheapskate case, an old coffee can, because you've never bothered to buy yourself a real pitcher. Cover, refrigerate for about an hour... or however long you can wait to start drinking. Yes, this serves one, on a Wednesday night, if that one is me.

And, for dessert, pick out and devour the fruit that's been soaking up all that alcohol. With some ice cream, maybe, if you're still lucid enough to be concerned with appropriate pairings. Otherwise, kick back with the entire David Bowie discography and call it a successful singles night.



Bon appetite!

*Sidenote: may require late-night raid on the cheese drawer and an impromptu peanut butter + fig jam + feta sandwich to supplement. So much for health!

Vanitas

Given the unseasonably warm weather this spring (80s in early May?), the citizens of the greater Boston area have shed their down comforter coats early to reveal both their soft white underbellies and snazzy new summer attire. The other day on the T, that neat cross-section of urban fashion, I noticed something a bit surprising: the appearance of high-waisted shorts and skirts... not on out-of-touch grandmas or soccer moms, but ultra-hip kids.

Maybe this is only surprising for my generation. I came of age at the peak of the great Low-Riding Pants Phenomenon of 1998-2002, when the mass popularization of the thong coincided with Old Navy jingles set to limbo music, enticing all 12-25 year-olds with the provocative query: "How low can you go?" I'm fairly certain that every sartorial cohort tends to place special and totally arbitrary emphasis on one particular part of the body. Today, that part of the body appears to be the legs: whether stuffed into skin-tight skinny jeans or leggings, highlighted by big clunky boots, or exposed via micro-shorts. But back in my day, legs were irrelevant, practically canceled out of existence by shapeless, baggy boyfriend jeans or voluminous circus-tent raver pants. The corporal focal point of my generation was -- appropriately enough for the early adopters of blogging technology -- the navel, flaunted through a combination of midriff-bearing tops and low, low, low-slung bottoms. To wear any pant, skirt, or short that rose higher than the hipbone was unthinkable. To be caught dead in a lower-body garment that actually covered the navel -- anathema.

Which is why seeing hip young things wearing skirts and shorts that creep up into the rib region is a so disturbing to me. Not because I think it looks stupid or weird (what fashion trend doesn't?), but because this is the first time in my relatively short life that I've been directly confronted by the cyclicality of fashion, the way it insidiously perpetuates itself by replacing one look, line, or silhouette by its opposite, thus casting all conservative hangers-on of the past into the dreaded territory of "so last season." Skinny jeans, this generation's answer to the wide-leg carpenter pants I still own and wear, were a harbinger, but the high waist silhouette is the nail in the coffin, the done deal of the late 90s as anything but a retro throwback to be ironically appropriated by future fashion aficionados.

But it's not just clothes that follow this pattern; everywhere you look, fashion is the guiding force that's quietly, relentlessly shaping our daily lives. Fifteen years ago, nobody outside of a 20-mile radius in Northern California gave a damn about organic produce; now, "green" and "organic" are the words of the day, used to move everything from vegetables to shoes and cars. Product packaging has changed, the color palette shifting from eye-catching neons to earthy browns and greens, the material mimicking Spartan textures like cardboard and burlap. Cheetos bags now come adorned with blurbs about the wholesome goodness of American corn. Overnight, we all became concerned environmentalists, just like, overnight, we decided that low-rise jeans look trashy, while high-waisted shorts look sophisticated and cool.

Except, "we" obviously didn't actually decide anything -- it was a complex interaction between a few avant-garde cognoscenti, a savvy team of marketing middlemen, and the massive weight of the American advertising machine. Countless focus groups, meticulous market research, and a sum total of months, perhaps years of intense number-crunching have all come together to instill in any sensible young person the absolute necessity of buying organic, rBGH-free yogurt from Whole Foods, as well as the equally inalienable necessity of buying high-waisted silk sailor shorts from Urban Outfitters. We sail through the aisles and proudly claim our product of choice, resting assured that we, unlike those unwashed masses who guzzle Go-Gurt and sport flares from last century, are in the know. And next season, when the restless winds of fashion again pick up and shift, we'll be forced to internalize a new necessity or risk becoming the cavemen fashion victims we despise.

In short, forget safety pins, leather jackets, and torn fishnets. The truly subversive fashion choice for this season's sartorial rebel: