insomnia haiku

A dream in which the SAT tastes like chicken

In a new variation on the recurring dream/nightmare in which I haven't studied for any of the finals I'm about to take, last night I dreamed I was taking the SAT.

This time, the SAT consisted of a published article that I had to proofread; or rather, someone else had made markings on it -- I checked, and apparently this was part of the test -- and I had to indicate which ones were correct, and where they had been made. I read through carefully and slowly, making some extra proofreading marks of my own, even though it wasn't required, because I wasn't positive what the test entailed, and anyway I can't ever resist catching typos. (I don't know whether finding a typo makes me feel self-satisfied because I caught it, or angry because someone made the mistake and it wasn't caught. In this excellent New Yorker essay on Mitt Romney's high school bullying, the tag down at the bottom originally had Mitt Romney's name spelled wrong, as "Romeny," and when I saw that I almost felt like a great piece of writing had been ruined. At least someone's fixed it by now. And it's not like I've never made a mistake like that. Why am I talking about this?)

I took some small comfort from the fact that my friend Tom, who happened to be sitting next to me, had written the article, and that my two of my friends were mentioned in it. I got up, went to the bathroom or something, came back, and turned the page -- only to realize that in the next step of the test, I had to write flap copy for the imagined book, and then also write an essay about either the article or the plate of fried chicken that was suddenly in front of me. And I only had ten more minutes. (Your dreams are this confusing, too, right?)

I stared at the clock. Ten minutes wasn't going to be nearly enough time, particularly since I'm not a fast writer. I turned to Tom. I said, "I fucking hate the SAT." He nodded in assent. I turned back to the test, contemplated the remaining two questions, and then started eating the fried chicken.

~~~

Note: Last night, after finishing and submitting an article for a travel website at 3 a.m. (this was the first one I did for them -- I'm not happy with the editing on it, so please don't make too much of the weird stilted writing), I got an email from the editor asking if I could please write an intro for the piece. I'd spaced and forgotten. I asked her if she needed it right now, and in fact got out of bed to write one even though it was, by now, 3:30. I realize that this incident was maaaaybe not unrelated to my dream.

Also: In my calculus class during my senior year of high school, I learned after taking a big test that there had been a whole last page I never saw. I've blocked the grade out of my memory, but it may have been the worst grade I'd ever gotten on a test. It's no "Romney cut off my hair," but for a teenage nerd, making a mistake like that was kind of traumatizing.

I'm looking forward to his homemade foosball table

I will admit, I cried watching this. Just a little. It's a tad on the long side, so give yourself ten minutes to watch it; but the payoff -- of a boy who builds his own arcade out of cardboard boxes -- is worth it.

All I ever made out of a cardboard box was a "clubhouse" that looked like a cardboard box (with a door in it). And actually I think my dad made it for me, so never mind. If this kid doesn't go to engineering school, it'll be a tragedy.

Lesson: Richard Gere can climb fire escapes because he's a billionaire

Today, I went for a run -- just under 2 1/2 miles, which isn't a lot, but something is better than nothing, is what I always say (or at least it's what I always say after doing any exercise).

Upon returning, ready for a big glass of water and dinner, I tried to open my front door ... and couldn't. Usually the key requires a bit of jiggling to get the door to open. I jiggled the key, a lot. This did not do anything. I was reminded of when I babysat Annah's kids, and we got locked out, and her 3-year-old son happily sang out, "Are we trapped in the haaallway?" like it was the best adventure in the world. I was glad that kids can still be so easily amused in this age of TV and video games, but yes. Yes we were. And yes I was.

I had recently made copies of my keys -- I needed an extra set for my houseguest -- and after doing so, had found out almost immediately that the copy of the door key didn't work. I'd guessed it was a problem with the lock itself, since even with the original you could only unlock the door by jiggling the key just so; and the door wouldn't lock at all from the outside, so when leaving the apartment, I always turned the lock from the inside before closing the door. When I had the houseguest and gave her a spare set of keys, I'd gotten around this problem by locking just the top deadbolt, not the bottom lock in the knob. But today I'd taken the spare keys with me running, and I'd forgotten about this, and I'd locked the door from the inside and now I couldn't get back in. I'd meant to call the super about this whole key situation, but naturally, I hadn't gotten around to it.

I was trapped in the haaallway.

So! What do you do when you're locked out of your apartment, no one else has a spare set of working keys, and you don't have your phone?

First: You ludicrously try to jimmy the door open using not a credit card, since you don't have one on you, but a postcard that you've retrieved from the recycling bin downstairs. (It was a promotional flyer addressed to me, which I had dumped in the bin that afternoon. I don't steal, people.)

After that fails -- because it's not like a piece of paper can open a lock -- then oh, right, neighbors! This is what neighbors are supposed to be for, right? To prep, I went back downstairs where I knew there was a "Need a locksmith?" sticker on the intercom, and scratched the number on the pilfered postcard with my key. Just call me MacGyver. Or, caveman. Either one. Then I went up to my floor and knocked at the door of the apartment next to mine. The woman who answered (yay) had just moved in with her fiance at the beginning of the month. She was kind enough to let me use her phone to call the locksmith, then came downstairs to alert me when they called back on her phone saying they couldn't find me. (I'd been outside the whole time, so who knows what happened.)

I know this is overdramatic, but waiting outside for the locksmith -- no cell phone, no human company, no reading material, nothing to do but stare at the buildings across the way -- was so boring, I wondered if this is what prison was like. And then I envied prisoners their reading material. Yes, I am ridiculous. This is what goes through your head when you're locked out of your apartment with nothing but running clothes and your iPod Shuffle.

As I was waiting for the locksmith, a neighbor of mine arrived -- the only other one I'd met so far -- who, after I'd explained the situation to her, wondered why I hadn't just gotten into my apartment using the fire escape. In fact, this had occurred to me five minutes before. But the locksmith was already on the way, and I figured I was going to have to pay him anyway, so I simply eyed the fire escape and pictured myself climbing up and trying to open one of my windows, while people on the street pointed at me and I called out reassuringly, "It's OK! I live here! I'm locked out! Hang on and I'll show you some ID ... in a second!"

Once the locksmith arrived, I told him what the deal was, and he said, "You know I have to charge you $25 just as a service fee, right?" OK, fine. How much was it to get me into my apartment? Another $115. I stared at him. Was he trying to tell me something? "Do you think I should just try to get in by the fire escape?" The look he gave me was inscrutable. "I can't recommend that. It's dangerous. You could fall."

"Well, how would you get into my apartment, if you did?"

"I would have to drill a hole through the lock."

I considered this. It sounded kind of like a big deal. I can't exactly afford $115 for a locksmith these days. And the guy was like 25 years old. I was supposed to trust him as an authority on fire escapes? "How about this," I said. "What if we go downstairs, and I try to climb up via the fire escape, and you just stand there and tell people I'm not breaking in? And if it doesn't work, we'll do it your way?"

Locksmith: "Uh, I don't ..."

Me: "I'll even pay you extra!"

Locksmith: "What am I going to do, say no?"

[I suppose this is one of those things a woman can get away with, but a man can't. Then again, a man would have gone for the fire escape in the first place, without even calling the locksmith. Because men have poor impulse control, otherwise known as "courage," and women have moxie.]

We went back downstairs, and he was on the phone while I stood under the ladder and looked up at it and tried to figure out how to pull it down. In the movies and on TV, it looks so easy. They just hold up their umbrella and pull the ladder down with their umbrella handle and scamper up. Example A: Richard Gere in "Pretty Woman." And he was in a suit, even. Came out smelling like a rose.

I am here to tell you that there is no way you can pull that ladder down with your umbrella handle so that you can reach it to climb up. I tugged at it with my hands. I pulled wherever it was that could be pulled. That thing was either rusted in place or wasn't supposed to move in the first place. All I got was dirty hands.

Yet I refused to be daunted. I found a big flower pot in the corner of the front courtyard, and first placed it open-side up, underneath the ladder. Tried putting my foot on one edge. OK, that wasn't going to work. Meanwhile, the locksmith had finished his phone call and was regarding me with an open expression of alarm. I had a genius idea and turned the flower pot upside down. This! This was what was going to work. Maybe. 

"Um," the locksmith called out, able to stay silent no more, "I don't think you should do this."

Sigh. Fine. He was right. Even my genius idea of the overturned flower pot wasn't filling me with confidence that I could pull this off -- it was still a decent distance to the bottom of the ladder, and from there to the bottom platform.

He came back upstairs with me, pulled out his power drill, aimed it at the lock, then paused and said, "When we get inside, could I see some ID?" A logical enough request, though I stifled a laugh. Then again, this might be a lucrative gig, posing as some just-returned-from-running naïf who can't get back into her apartment, then pays a locksmith $100 to steal thousands. Some drilling and some more drilling, and the lock fell entirely off, and we were in. It took me 15 minutes, during which I was retrieving ID and writing a check, to realize that my bra had been hanging off the back of the couch the whole time.

Now there's a giant hole in the middle of my doorknob (thank goodness the super, at my request, had installed a new deadbolt when I moved in). "I hate to tell you this," the locksmith said, "but this was a really old lock, and it wasn't very good." Why do you hate to tell me this? I'm going to take that and use it as ammunition to try to get reimbursed.

The guy reluctantly accepted a check but wanted only cash, which I suppose I should find sketchy -- especially since the check was made out to someone's name and not the name of the company -- but I was back in my apartment, so I didn't care. I ended up giving him all the money in my wallet, $110, and a check for $30. In retrospect I wonder if I should have tipped him, but how could I, if he'd taken all my cash?

Here are the lessons I learned today: 1) never leave your bra hanging off the back of the couch, lest someone (a locksmith, say) unexpectedly enters your apartment, 2) don't put off calling your super about your lock until you "get around to it," 3) only billionaires and cat burglars have the necessary skills to break into an apartment via fire escape. Good to know.

The Roast Chicken Project: Final Exam

At last, it was time for Lydia's final roast chicken: the one she made her own. (Sounds so poetic, doesn't it? Or rather like a pet she's adopting?)

She'd invited me over to help sample the chicken, but first she started the night before, using parts of the various recipes we'd covered. I'll let her explain:

A great start! And thus, wine bottles in hand, I headed to Lydia's apartment on Friday night to taste the results of all her hard work. This time, I took the pictures (and was not nearly as prolific in this task as she had been).

We had a tiny hiccup at first because Lydia had preheated the pan, as the Zuni recipe instructed, but then turned the heat back off before placing the chicken in the pan. While this initially struck me as something rather basic, I realized, after thinking about it, that "preheat the pan" as a recipe instruction assumes a knowledge that not everyone has. It doesn't actually say, "preheat the pan and then, leaving the heat on, put the chicken in the pan." It just says "preheat the pan." You're just expected to know that preheating the pan is the prelude to doing some next step with the heat still on. And that terminology disconnect is what I assume can make things hard for novices, in ways that people with more cooking experience can't anticipate.

Lydia put the chicken in the pan (this time with the heat on), but she hadn't preheated the oven, so we had some timing issues—having to take the pan off the burner while waiting for the oven to heat—but eventually she worked it all out.

Meanwhile, Lydia's cat was bored.

Since Lydia was using the Zuni method to cook the chicken, she had to flip it after 30 minutes. It looked great pre-flip ...

and post-flip.

After one more flip to recrisp the breast meat, here it is out of the oven (yes, it looks the same as the previous two pictures of the chicken, but let's go with it for the sake of the narrative).

Spooning the fat off the pan was one of those things I found easier to explain in person than via text. (Go figure.) The last time she'd made the Zuni recipe, Lydia had been unsure as to what "pour the clear fat off the pan" meant, and this time I was able to show her which part was the actual fat that had to poured (or spooned) off. It is hard to get it all, I'll admit. I once gave my mom one of those pitcher things that separates the fat from the not-fat. It's kind of cheating, but I always found it cool-looking, like some gravy/fat Napoleon. (The dessert, not the dictator.)

Now Lydia had to test to see whether the chicken was done or not, something she'd had trouble with in the past. But this, to my mind, is something that can be hard for anyone, since your indicators can often be so vague: "see if the juices run clear," "see if the leg moves easily," etc. Then one look at something reddish and you go into shock, thinking you'll kill all your guests. She was a little worried, but I had her cut into the joint, and everything looked good to me. I think this is just one of those things you get to know with enough practice. (Which was the point of this whole experiment, really.)

She served with "potatoes a la Brian" and a mango-something salad from a restaurant in London whose name I forget (here is where taking notes might have been helpful).

Sorry for the imperfect picture taking; I was so impatient to eat that I didn't maneuver for a better shot.

The finished plate:

All in all, a lovely meal—the chicken was perfectly cooked, the potatoes nice and crispy, the salad an enjoyable accompaniment (I might have gone with something lighter and green, for contrast; but I'm not the hugest mango fan, so I don't feel entirely qualified to comment).

When I asked Lydia what she'd learned, she said that next time she'd use the Zuni method, but dispense with the oil, because it wasn't needed; and she'd also leave out the garlic, which didn't cook through or influence the flavor at all. (She said the same about the lemon, but I disagree. The chicken had a slight lemony taste to me, which I always like in my roast chicken.) Plus she's learned more about her oven and its ideal temperatures. I'd also venture to say that she's learned which end of the chicken to stuff the lemon into, as well as what the "clear fat" is in a roasting pan and how to get rid of it, and what you do after preheating a pan. And she got a cast-iron skillet out of the deal.

Final grade: A. Well done, Lydia. I really do hope she learned from this little experiment—I'd like to think that she did, but the proof was in the cast-iron pan. The final final test someday will be to see if she can roast a chicken without any recipe at all, but I'll just have to trust that she can make that happen. When she tells me about it, I'll feel like a proud ... err, mother hen.

And now, on to the next project. Any ideas?

Now I'm just craving breadsticks.

An 86-year-old columnist for the Grand Forks Herald in North Dakota reviewed the city's new Olive Garden recently, and the review went viral today, mostly because it got picked up in Gawker, which more or less made fun of it. And then people piled on, and the columnist got interviewed -- either ironically or unironically, depending on how you read it -- by the Village Voice and other places, and ultimately this was a pretty big day for the Olive Garden, not to mention Grand Forks, ND. And 86-year-old reporters. (Go, you!)

Now, I suppose I can understand that at first people thought it was satire, because big-city denizens (by which I mean "we") are mean-spirited, pretentious people who think we know better than to eat at Olive Garden. It's certainly true, there is much better Italian food in the world than at Olive Garden. But in a town like Grand Forks, an Olive Garden is a big deal. And I hope we're not all too cynical to remember what that's like.

During my childhood in suburbia, going to someplace like the Olive Garden was a treat. Chain restaurants were the height of fine dining in my hometown, and we ate at home most of the time, so getting to eat out a chain was rare and fun. The waiters at TGI Friday's made me laugh; I couldn't wait for the pie at Marie Callendar's; I still like the Chinese chicken salad and cheesecake at the Cheesecake Factory. (We didn't have an Applebee's. We were deprived. But we did have a McDonald's with a statue of a horse in it.) And the Olive Garden -- those breadsticks, my god! Pillowy and dunked in garlic and butter ... I'm sorry, what's not to like?

I don't remember when my tastes changed. But a few years after moving to New York, I ended up at the Olive Garden in Times Square one day, and I looked at the menu and was stunned at how expensive it was. Yes, this was my first reaction -- not that the place was tacky or cheap, but that it was expensive. $16 for pasta? I may as well go someplace good. Then I ate the food, and it was mediocre, which meant that my palate had changed such that I could no longer enjoy the Olive Garden, and I haven't been back in more than a decade.

Side note: If there had been blogs when I'd first moved to New York, I should have done a blog on my eating habits on an editorial assistant's salary. Chains were a lifesaver back then. I have fond memories of the two-piece value meal at KFC and the 99-cent menu at Taco Bell.

But my entire point in writing this post is that in reading the articles and comments around the Olive Garden review, I have discovered that even here in New York City, until 4 pm every day, you can get unlimited soup, salad and breadsticks at Olive Garden for $6.95. I am serious. Here, look. Less than $10 to eat until you're stuffed. And I do remember that the salads were good. Doesn't this make you want to run out and eat at an Olive Garden right now? Nice job, Grand Forks Herald.

Watching the Oscars as a civilian (or: The curious absence of hate)

Last night was my first time watching the Oscars purely as a spectator in six years. 

Years ago, I used to love watching the Oscars. I never went to Oscars parties, because people would talk over the speeches, and I wanted to catch every single minute of everything. I would order indulgent food just for me. I would revel in the show, soaking it up: the musical numbers, the jokes, the speeches. I loved watching the Oscars even when "Titanic" beat "L.A. Confidential."

Then I got a job at a movies site, and watching the Oscars that way went out the window. After a couple of years of making minor news updates, we started doing a full-court press on Oscars coverage -- news, features, photo galleries, video -- and I was put in charge. Therefore I spent every Oscars weekend stressed about the thousand things I had to take care of and the million things that could and did go wrong. Then I spent the show with one eye and ear on the ceremony while I was working, barking out instructions, putting together galleries, generating ideas, editing copy, troubleshooting disasters. We'd pay attention to the big things so that we could capture them for our readers, but we missed a lot of the little details, and we didn't have a DVR to rewind and catch them.

We did have fun, though. We always ordered good food (covering the Oscars marked the first and second time I ever sampled the heavenliness that is Dinosaur Bar-B-Que) and after a few years started adding alcohol to the mix. It was entertaining to watch the show while eating and drinking (and working) with your colleagues who knew what they were talking about, and with whom you were entered in a viciously competitive Oscars pool with results monitored by your intern on a moment-by-moment basis. 

This year, since I no longer have that position, I was finally going to get to watch the Oscars without having to work. Free! I was free at last! ("Free" in this context is not entirely a good thing, since I'm "free" of a job, but let's just go with it.) I was disappointed that this monumental work-free Oscars was going to be so boring, though. I didn't care about any of the nominees (my favorite movies last year were "Warrior" and "Bridesmaids"), and though I was oddly looking forward to Billy Crystal at host, I can't say I was excited about it.

Here's the interesting thing I noticed, though. All those years I was working the Oscars, we would sit in the room and the snark would fly freely. We hated everything. I can't even remember the last ceremony any of us thought was good. (I vaguely remember thinking Ricky Gervais was funny at his first Golden Globes, but I can't remember a single thing he did or said.) All of us thought Hugh Jackman was awful, and then were surprised the next morning to hear that most of America liked him.

Last night, as I was watching, I checked in on Twitter to see what people were saying. Most of the entertainment editors and writers I follow hated Billy Crystal's performance, loudly and consistently declaiming how unfunny he was, how old and unbearable the humor, how terrible a show it was.

I didn't necessarily disagree with any of that -- Crystal's schtick was old, and corny, and stale -- but curiously enough, as a viewer, I found that I didn't mind so much. And I realized that when I had to cover the awards for work, I approached the Oscars with a cranky, already critical eye, bemoaning how long and tedious the ceremony was getting because the longer it went, the later I'd be getting home that night; and the more boring it was, the less there'd be to write about. Though at the same time, it's far easier, and more fun, for a writer to bash something than to heap it with praise (particularly if it's faint praise).

Watching the ceremony last night as a member of Joe Q. Public, I forgave Billy Crystal a lot even as I was unmoved by him. Last year, I would have spent the entire three hours complaining about how this was the worst Oscars ceremony ever, and how the jokes were so bad and the filler so boring. This year, I thought, how mean everyone on Twitter is being! Give the guy a break -- hosting the Oscars is hard. (Just ask James Franco and Anne Hathaway. Or Rob Lowe and Snow White.) I came to the show willingly, and therefore I was rooting for it to succeed.

And in the end, I realized, does having a great host even matter? Sure, we remember Billy Crystal getting wheeled out as Hannibal Lecter or joking about Jack Palance's one-armed pushups, but that's not the reason we watch the Oscars. It's a competition: We want to see who wins. We want to root for the films we like. We want to be there when those impromptu water-cooler moments happen, like Christopher Plummer gives a charming speech, or Dean Pelton from "Community" sticks his leg out like Angelina Jolie. The rest of it, the host part? All the banter and filler? Eh, who cares? If it's funny, great; but if it's not -- if, at worst, it's inoffensive, like it was last night -- we'll sit through it just to be shocked that Meryl Streep beat Viola Davis for Best Actress, and be glad anyway because her speech was so adorable.

Sure enough, this morning there were plenty of critiques from movie critics and editors talking about how tired and unfunny Billy Crystal was and how boring the ceremony had been, and sure enough, in response there were comments from readers exclaiming that critics don't know anything, because Billy Crystal had been great.

I won't disagree that the ceremony could use some livening up, but then again, so could the movies. (Last year was a pretty off year in film.) And goodness knows Billy Crystal was just a stopgap here -- the Oscars do need someone with fresher material and a more modern take on things. But then again, it's the movies that need to be fresher and more modern, as do the Academy members that vote on them. I really am disturbed by the recent Los Angeles Times report finding that Academy members were 77 percent male and 94% white.

When it comes to the host, though, there's a limit, because the Academy doesn't want edgy, and neither do most viewers. Chris Rock was hilarious last night, but remember, he hosted the Oscars once, and he was never asked back. Last night people on Twitter were saying things like, "Let's get Robert Downey Jr. as host," or "Let's ask Will Ferrell and Zach Galifianakis to host" -- anything but Crystal. You think any of those actors would work as Oscars host? Please. No. You need someone a little funny, a little dull, a little safe. Because that's what America likes, and that's what Hollywood has become, and I'm not necessarily saying that as a criticism. I love Jon Stewart, but as a host he wasn't everyone's cup of tea, least of all an audience ranging from a theater full of self-important Hollywood types to millions of viewers whose favorite kind of movie is one that stars Kevin James.

Anyway. All I'm saying is while I'll always have somewhat elitist taste, I'm finally starting to get that whole "critics don't know what they're talking about" thing. Force someone to do or watch anything mediocre, and they may get stratospherically cranky about it. Stay at home with your lemon-rosemary chicken and a bottle of wine, with no pressure to do anything at all but watch the parade of stars in front of you, and maybe, just maybe, you'll give what's going on in front of you a little break.

For the record, I was fine with "The Artist" winning, but I sure hope something excites me more next year. My money's on "The Great Gatsby" or "The Hobbit."

The Roast Chicken Project: Zuni Cafe Roast Chicken

After making Thomas Keller's Simple Roast Chicken, Ina Garten's Perfect Roast Chicken and Mark Bittman's Simplest Roast Chicken, it was time for Lydia to tackle a roast chicken that's not simple, but certainly perfect. I'm talking about the creme de la creme of roast chickens, Judy Rodgers' Zuni Cafe Roast Chicken.

Nearly everyone I know who loves to cook has made the Zuni Cafe Roast Chicken, which, full disclosure, comes from the cookbook published by W. W. Norton, my former employer. I've given that cookbook to every member of my family. My mother now cooks almost all her meats "a la Judy Rodgers," meaning she salts it at least a day, if not more, before cooking. Both she and my younger brother have cooked Thanksgiving turkey this way, and my brother used to make the Zuni chicken once a week.

The Judy Rodgers method of cooking a roast chicken is a bit more involved than the "simple" recipes we've covered before. This roast chicken is predicated on a few basic tenets: 1) use a small bird, 2) dry the bird thoroughly, 3) pre-salt, to improve flavor and lock in moisture, and 4) cook at high heat (475 degrees). You pre-heat your skillet -- see, this is where Lydia's purchase of a cast-iron skillet for the last recipe comes in handy -- over the stove, place the chicken in it, then put it in the oven for 30 minutes. Flip the bird over (and because the chicken has been patted so dry, it won't stick to the skillet -- this amazes me every time it happens), roast for another 10-20 minutes, flip again, roast for another 10. Done.

Meanwhile, you're making a bread salad of crispy bread pieces and greens, dressed with a vinaigrette and topped with pine nuts and currants. The chicken's great without the bread salad, but it makes the dish different and interesting, so I told Lydia she had to make it. Confession: I got so excited about Lydia making the Zuni Cafe chicken, I made it myself a few days before she did. I have a tiny kitchen, and since I moved in I haven't much used the broiler, which is one of those under-the-stove drawer deals. After a minute, the bread caught on fire. I'm talking flames shooting skyward, the bread completely black. I scraped as much of the black parts off as I could, but my bread salad did not turn out as delicious as I've made it before. Sadness. (Chicken was lovely, though.)

Meanwhile, Lydia had already started on her chicken, pre-salting it on a Friday night and duly sending me pictures. But then life came up, and she wasn't able to make the chicken until the following Tuesday. Since the recipe calls for salting the bird one to three days in advance, and she would be leaving the chicken salted and waiting in her refrigerator for four days, I'll admit I got a little worried that the bird would last that long. But, my mom, Knower of All Things, assured me it would probably be fine; and though Lydia wasn't able to check the sell-by date because she'd already thrown away the packaging, I figured grocery stores don't really sell chickens right up to the last day, such that you'll have to cook it immediately or you'll die. Right? Well, we would just have to see.

Here's an edited-down version of the recipe, though I recommend getting your hands on the cookbook and reading the recipe in its entirety, as it's marvelously thoughtful and instructive. And away we go!

In which I am forced to pretend I like talking to people

In lieu of securing a full-time job, I've been trying to expand my experience and contacts by doing more freelance writing. I've never considered myself a "journalist" or even a "writer," but today, in service of an assignment, I spent three hours running around Manhattan investigating budget hotels.

The experience was wholly strange, and probably good for me in some ways. Despite what some people may think, I'm not a naturally outgoing person. I'm shy. I'm an introvert. This is something you never kick. If I seem outgoing, it's because I'm acting a part, donning a mask, of a person who enjoys talking to people. In reality, I'd rather be home on my couch, watching TV and interacting with not one human soul.

But writing this piece involved getting out there and talking to people, getting information out of them. Since I would feel uncomfortable writing up these hotels without visiting them first, I covered some serious ground today.

Money-saving transportation tip #1: Take the subway to your first destination, then the bus to the next place. Free transfer!

Money-saving transporation tip #2: Get in line at the turnstile behind two cops and their bomb-sniffing dog. They were so impatient at having to wait behind a Metrocard-incompetent woman while the train pulled into the station, they waved six of us on through the emergency exit. The look on that cop's face said, "I'm doing you guys a big favor, so take advantage, before I change your mind and arrest you all for jumping the turnstile." (Kidding. "Nice" and "impatient" are synonymous, no?)

At each hotel I visit, I take a deep breath, pretend I know what I'm doing and that this is a normal thing for me, and say, "I'm writing an article on hotel value in New York, and I hope to include your hotel. Do you have rooms for under $200 after tax, and if so, may I see one?" I figure that's the easiest way to go about it. What's the point in hiding my purpose, after all? I know that restaurant critics do that in order to avoid special service, but a room is a room is a room -- if it smells like feet, they won't be able to hide that from me. And it seems weird to pretend like I'm a potential guest. What would I do, act like I want to book a room, and then change my mind after seeing it?

Most of the front-desk people I've talked to have been really nice and taken my request in stride. I met one manager of an inn today who, while clearly overworked and initially abrupt because I hadn't made an appointment, gave me a lot of good information and made me like the place even more. (It has an artists' rehearsal room, with a piano! Come on.)

But in a couple of instances, my "I'm writing an article" spiel saddled me with me a full-on sales treatement. I guess it comes with the territory, but this wasn't something I'd expected or wanted. At one newly opened boutique hotel, I was introduced to a young, besuited sales person who shrugged off my questions about room rates (I believe he actually smirked when I asked about rooms under $200), and talked up the hotel's design and room size but refrained from giving me any information about how much stuff cost. At another, the woman at the front desk called the manager, then asked me for my "press pass" -- and, when I said I didn't have one, since I was writing this article as a freelancer (albeit for a legitimate publication), told me I'd have to make an appointment next week, and declined to show me a room.

I was a little baffled at all this. Sure, writers and editors who cover movies and TV have to deal with publicists; but that's usually because they're being given sneak previews or special access to celebrities. This hotel didn't want to show me a room... at all? Isn't that something they would normally grant a regular person who was curious about the hotel? So, because I'm being up front that I'm considering writing about the hotel, I get treated not better than a customer, but worse?

I would hate to have my treatment as a "journalist" influence which places I decide to cover, but in a way, it does. For one thing, customer service -- even toward a non-customer -- is an important part of the travel industry, and I have to take that into account. To be charitable, maybe they want to give me special treatment to influence my coverage, but in doing so, they're putting me off. All I wanted to do was see a room. To be uncharitable, maybe they don't trust my motives, seeing as how I'm a member of the press; but that strikes me as odd, since the best I can do is write about them, and the worst I can do is leave them out of the article because I was treated rudely or, you know, never got to see a room. (It just occurred to me that perhaps they think I would give them a bad writeup if left to my own devices and not given an official PR talk. Please. The only way that would work is if the official PR talk included payola, a bottle of champagne and a free room. Kiiidding.)

That said, I'm starting to think that next time, I'll try lying. "Hi, I'm thinking of booking a room for my, uh, aunt, but it has to be under $200. Could I see one?" Maybe I'll go full Ruth Reichl and don a wig and sunglasses. If they question me, I'll tell them the truth, because I'm a terrible liar. 

Running from place to place and asking strangers to talk to me, over and over again, is not my strong suit. At the end of the day, I was exhausted. But I'm trying to regard this period of my life as an opportunity to reinvent myself, to look around and see what I can introduce into my life that's new and maybe even difficult. To that end, I was at least partly successful. Maybe I'm not a real journalist or even a writer, but with my pad of paper and pen and questions, for brief moments today, I almost felt like one.

My culinary bucket list

Yesterday, I finally persuaded someone to go to Momofuku Ssam and have the duck lunch with me. It's not that people I know don't want to eat the duck lunch; it's just not the easiest thing in the world for most people to leave their offices and go have lunch in the East Village for an hour or more.

Momofuku Ssam is one of my favorite restaurants in New York, if not my actual favorite. Maybe I like the whole David Chang aesthetic, or maybe I'm just so powerfully under the sway of those damn pork buns, which cause me to go into paroxysms of ecstasy every time I bite into one. I've had them several times, and still -- every time. (I should note, I've had two pork belly bun-type concoctions that at least come close to Momofuku Ssam's, and they were at Animal in Los Angeles and Family Recipe in New York.)

Still, I'd never had the duck lunch, which was instituted only last year; and I'd wanted to go ever since I'd first read this glowing review. Yesterday, with a friend newly in town and between jobs, I was able to go. And my word, did it live up to the hype. Here, with apologies for the bad lighting, is what it looked like:

We didn't order the duck bun, though I'd like to in the future. But perhaps the best part was after we'd ordered, when the waitress came over to our table with a plate of the steamed pork buns in her hand. She told us that the kitchen had fired an extra by mistake, so she was giving it to us. Hang on. One of my favorite foods in the whole world, and she was just... giving it to us, for free, even though we hadn't asked for it but secretly wanted it all along. Is this what it's like to be a millionaire? Or in heaven?

I would provide a humorous example about angels bringing me things unbidden in heaven, but to be honest, I can't think of many things I'd want more than a Momofuku Ssam pork bun I didn't have to pay for. (Sorry for the rhyme.)

As for the duck itself, it was fantastic -- bursting with flavor, lusciously fatty, skin that was shatteringly crisp. I said to my friend, "I could eat this forever." And I might have, except of course we had to save room for Momofuku Milk Bar across the street (for once, I forwent the crack pie for the candy bar pie).

So that's another dish that's long been on my bucket list, that I can finally cross off. It got me thinking about other dishes on my culinary bucket list. I've done pretty well at eating most of the legendary dishes whose reputations loom large on the epicurean landscape. But there are a few still left, and no doubt, as each year passes, there will be even more.

Here's my culinary bucket list -- based on dishes, not just restaurants (with two exceptions) -- in vague order of how much I'm salivating to eat the dish. I'm sure I'm forgetting some. What's on yours?

Mutton Chop at Keens Steakhouse (New York)
I'm such a Peter Luger fanatic that I confess Keens wasn't even on my radar until it was re-reviewed by the Times in 2005. There hasn't been a suitable occasion for me to go since then, but I've been wanting to go, and the mutton chop is what you're supposed to get. I mean, just look at that thing. Last week someone in my Facebook feed posted a picture of it just before he devoured it, and I felt a white-hot jealousy akin to how I feel whenever I realize Ryan Gosling can never be mine.

Burger at Peter Luger (New York)
Yes, I have been to Peter Luger several times. The burger is supposed to be quite good, even extraordinary; but I can't ever bring myself not to order the steak. That'd be like traveling all the way to the Grand Canyon and then not actually looking at it because you got distracted by a nice tree. I'm sure it was a very nice tree. But it was no Grand Canyon.

Black Label Burger at Minetta Tavern (New York)
It's tough to get a table at Minetta Tavern, but I've somehow managed it three times. Twice, I couldn't resist ordering the famed Côte de Boeuf with bone marrow. Once, I got incredible crab cakes and shared the regular burger. Maybe it's the $26 price tag, or maybe it's the fact that if you're lucky enough to get a table, you feel you should order something more "special" than a burger that's so expensive. Still, next time, I'm getting it.

Burger at DB Bistro Moderne (New York)
Are you sensing a theme here? I've been to DB Bistro Moderne twice, and neither time did I pay for my meal. Why did I not take the opportunity to order the famed burger of sirloin, braised short ribs, foie gras and black truffle? Was it guilt that I'd be sticking my hosts with a bill for a $32 burger? I don't know. But I've been kicking myself ever since.

Pastrami at Langer's (Los Angeles)
I adore the pastrami at Katz's. I will defend it vehemently against all other New York pastramis. But I've heard that the pastrami at Langer's is even better -- mostly because of the bread -- and I don't doubt it could be true, but this is just something I have to find out for myself.

Pizza at Di Fara (New York)
Apparently the pizza at Di Fara is the best pizza in New York. I only know this because the people on the boards at Chowhound say so. Be that as it may, I know next to nothing about Di Fara except it's in Brooklyn somewhere, and it's not a part of Brooklyn near me, and the lines are long, and ... well, that's all I know. Someday I will get there. If I can ever find out where it is. (OK, I just looked it up. It's in Midwood, off the Q train. I am an intrepid eater, but I can tell you right now that I'm probably not taking the Q train just to eat pizza.)

Fried Chicken Dinner at Momofuku Noodle Bar (New York)
This is one of those group things you can't just decide to do; you have to get a minimum number of people together to do it. I love fried chicken, and this is supposed to be excellent fried chicken, and I craaaave it but whenever I mention this to people, they say, "Oh yeah, I've always wanted to do that!" and it never comes up again. Cowards.

Bo Ssäm at Momofuku Ssäm Bar (New York)
Momofuku Ssäm popularized the large-group dining experience in New York with their Bo Ssäm, which is a slow-cooked pork shoulder with Korean fixins; and though I've already had a whole-pig dinner (at Back Forty, for my birthday), I'm still looking forward to the day I finally get to experience the Bo Ssäm, because it sounds so fun and like such a spectacle. Runner-up: the whole pig at the Breslin.

Cheesesteak in Philadelphia
I have never been to Philadelphia. (I KNOW.) Therefore, I have never had a real Philly Cheesesteak. I would name Pat's or Geno's as my purveyor of choice, but I know some consider them touristy now, so I'd have to do some research before picking a spot. One of these days I'm going to hop on a train to Philadelphia by myself, have a cheesesteak, go to the museum, and head home.

Tempura Bacon at The Red Cat (New York)
This is probably the easiest item on my bucket list. I've just never been to Red Cat for some reason, and why wouldn't I want to eat tempura-fried bacon? C'mon.

Foie Gras Brulee at Jean Georges (New York)
As a rule, I don't eat foie gras, for ethical reasons. But I would make an exception for this, because it falls under the Allowable Exclusions Act: "I'm on vacation," "Someone else ordered it," "The host served it to me and it'd be rude not to eat it," and "It's famous."

Po-Boy at Mother's (New Orleans)
There's no good reason I've never been to Mother's -- the line, maybe? But I've only been to New Orleans twice as an adult, so obviously there were a ton of other places we had to go. It's possible the po-boys here aren't even that good anymore, but it's just one of those things I want to try. Also: the fried chicken at Dookie Chase, since I went to Willie Mae's last time.

Ricotta Pancakes at Locanda Verde (New York)
I love Locanda Verde, but I've only been there for dinner. It's said they have a great brunch, and many speak highly of the ricotta pancakes. That's... um, all I have to say about that, since I'm not normally a huge pancakes fan.

Anything at French Laundry (Yountville, CA) or Per Se (New York)
Sometimes I despair that I will ever eat at French Laundry or Per Se. I've wanted to eat at French Laundry for, what, 15 years now? More? But it's not so convenient for me these days, and no matter how I look at it, I simply cannot justify spending $300 or $400 or whatever it is on dinner at Per Se. This is just going to have to go on my "if I ever win the lottery" list or my "if I'm dying and decide to blow all my money on decadent food" list. Which is sort of what a bucket list is anyway, right?

"He's coming for the party?"

Um... WTF, Kristen Bell?

I'm not one of those "Veronica Mars" fans who worship at the cult of Kristen Bell, but I do find her funny and appealing. This clip from "Ellen," in which she completely flips the freak out about a sloth coming to her birthday party, is endearing and disturbing and hilarious all at once and I cannot stop watching it. CANNOT. STOP. 

Though I'm worried about her sanity, I'm pretty sure I love her now.

The Roast Chicken Project: Mark Bittman's Simplest Roast Chicken

For Lydia's third roast chicken, I wanted a recipe that involved either turning the chicken, or playing with oven temperature. I decided to go with Mark Bittman's "Minimalist's Simplest Roast Chicken" recipe, which calls for placing an oiled chicken in a heated cast-iron skillet, roasting the chicken at 500 degrees, then turning the oven down to 350 degrees. Putting the chicken in a heated pan starts the legs cooking before the breast, and lowering the heat then prevents the breast from overcooking.

The problem: Lydia didn't have a cast-iron skillet, or any other skillet that you can put in the oven. And a roasting pan wasn't going to conduct the same amount of heat. I was going to start searching for another recipe, but then Lydia, dedicated project-er that she is, cheerfully volunteered to buy one. (Which is good, because recipe #4 is going to require a cast-iron skillet, too. It's also good because cast-iron skillets are wonderful things to have.)

Here is her bounty, a 12-inch Lodge:

Congratulations on the newest addition to your kitchen, Lydia! May you get years and years of enjoyment out of it. A cast-iron skillet is excellent, as my brother pointed out, for making panini ... or, as a colleague pointed out, for bashing a mouse with it and killing it dead.

Mandatory side dishes this time: green beans, again (using a different method than the sauteeing of the first project); and roasted potatoes, via the parboil-then-roast method suggested by my brother Brian. I made these recently and they were incredible -- they turned out almost like big, crispy + fluffy french fries. It probably did not hurt that I followed his instructions and used bacon fat. But then, how many things are ruined by adding bacon fat? Um, none, that's how many.

And now, on to the project.

Roast Chicken #2: Ina Garten

Roast Chicken #1: Thomas Keller

Ed. note: Good girl!

Ed note: I did not see any of these texts until this point, as I was out doing karaoke for a friend's birthday. My version of Counting Crows' "Mr. Jones" killed. Anyway, here I saw the texts and suggested she cut into the thigh to see if the juices ran clear.

Ed. note: Maybe...

Ed note: I suggested that next time she blanche instead of parboil. Me, I usually dispense with the blanching and just saute the hell out of mine, steaming them a bit at the end... but then I like mine a little burned, Chinese-style.

So there you have it. New cast-iron skillet, "best so far" chicken, amazing potatoes! Unfortunately, during the process I couldn't help Lydia much with whether the chicken was done or not, as I couldn't tell from the pictures -- it looked good to me, but hard to say. I'm going to guess that opening the oven door frequently may have thrown the cooking off a little. But I don't really mind if the breast meat is a touch pink.

I don't have a recipe for chicken salad; I just add mayo, maybe some pickles or celery, with possible additions of walnuts, apple, raisins, even a little salad dressing. (Usually just mayo if that's all I've got. I still dig it.) I think this is just one of those things you have to do a few times, sans recipe, until you figure out what proportions you like -- it's certainly something my mom had me make when I was younger, and I didn't even realize I was learning a skill. But I'll try looking for a recipe anyway. My question to you: What do you like to add when you make chicken salad?

Coming up next time: Yes, you guessed it, I'll be throwing the Zuni Cafe roast chicken with bread salad at Lydia. Probably won't add sides at all, unless any of you can think of some (besides potatoes and green beans) that would go well with that. But I think the bread salad should be plenty. And I may even make it alongside her, just because I love it so much.

The more other directors change, the more Wes Anderson stays the same

This trailer for the new Wes Anderson movie "Moonrise Kingdom," due out on May 25, was released online a couple weeks ago. Upon seeing it, I immediately remembered how much I like Wes Anderson movies.

There are some directors who try to do something different with every movie, or at least, they try to progress and change every once in a while. You wouldn't know without someone telling you that "Schindler's List" and "E.T." were directed by the same person. Martin Scorsese's made a lot of films with similar themes, but "Hugo" will never be confused with "Goodfellas," not even if someone re-scored it with a Rolling Stones song.

With a lot of directors, their movies are different, but there's a theme that threads their films together. David Fincher's films are dark. Quentin Tarantino movies are violent. The characters in Coen brothers movies like to talk.

Wes Anderson movies, however -- aside from "The Fantastic Mr. Fox," which I still haven't seen, and I know I need to, so shut up -- all look kind of the same. And that's the beauty of them. Sometimes, variety is overrated. Wes Anderson knows what he's good at, and with "Moonrise Kingdom" he's going to do it again, and God bless him for that.

This movie appears to be about a couple of kids who escape from camp to be together, upon which a search party is assembled to rescue them. And, um, that's about it. But then again, what was "The Royal Tenenbaums" about anyway? The trailer has all the marks of a Wes Anderson movie: the dreamy, evocative music (it's Francois Hardy's "Le Temps de L'Amour"), the deadpan looks, the old-timey font, the Jason Schwartzman and the Bill Murray. The Bill Murray shirtless, at that. I suppose that's something different.

So here's a director who knows his style, and isn't going to change, and I love him for that. Personally, I can't wait to see "Moonrise Kingdom." Bring on the quirk.