I’m a Jinius

When you grow up in an immigrant household, you start to yearn for all things American. You’ll do anything to fit in. Like listen to Michael Jackson. Join little league. Tell your neighbors that your name is Jennifer. (They believed me for an entire summer but it was a little awkward once we started school in September.)

But the most American thing to me was food.

My mother would never buy us the good kind of American cereal. You know, the ones with 500 different colors and 10 pounds of sugar? With a plastic toy at the bottom of the box? We had Korean food for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. My clothes and hair smelled of pickled vegetables and fish. I wanted mac and cheese and Flinstones cereal and lasagne. Oh, god, how much my 9 year old self fiended for lasagne! It was just layer upon layer of cheese and meat. (Okay, so lasagne is Italian but it seemed American to me )

That’s why I always slept over my friend Krista’s house. Her mother would prepare home made lasagna and buttery garlic bread. They had Breyer’s icecream and Cookie Crisp cereal. And they had a cat. My parents didn’t let me have a pet so I was in love with Krista’s house. I think her parents were concerned that I never wanted to leave.

When my mother was ready to deliver our baby brother she had me and my younger brother stay at Krista’s house for the weekend. We were elated. All the lasagne we could eat. We were like, “Peace out, Moms. Have fun delivering your baby!”

So tonight I decided to make my own lasagna from scratch (except the noodles). I used a recipe from Gourmet mag circa 1995. The sauce calls for turkey meat so it is fairly healthy. If you’re not counting the four cups of cheese.

Since I made the sauce from scratch it took about an hour and a half to make. But it was so unbelievably worth it. There is nothing like the fragrance of home made sauce dancing through your apartment. It made me feel like I was 9 years old again.

(mise en place)

(ready to go in the oven)

(come to mama)

My mother worked 6 days a week, nine to five, drove me and my brothers to and from school, transported us to piano lessons and baseball practice and even Korean language school on Saturdays. She always managed to have dinner on the table. A Korean dinner no less. And for those of you who have had Korean food know that it consists of about 10 different dishes, including one protein and one stew.

Nevertheless, I didn’t inherit any of her cooking skills. My mother insisted that I study or practice some instrument I had no intention of ever playing professionally instead of learning how to cook. So now I can play chopsticks on the piano but I have no idea how to make bul go gi.

Anyway, with my 28th birthday just looming in the background, I’ve decided that I should probably add some more dishes to my repertoire besides baked ziti and challah back french toast.

So over the weekend I attempted to recreate this lemon risotto and scallops dish that I found via Smitten Kitchen.

Let me tell you, I have never sweated so much in my life. I was like Howie from Top Chef. But it was SO worth it. The risotto was creamy but still tart and fresh thanks to the lemon. And perfectly complemented the scallops. Also, I like any dish that is prepared with wine because then you can drink the rest of the wine for dinner. I love killing two birds with one stone!

Smitten was kind enough to email her scallops recipe. Enjoy!

My scallop recipe is really, really unscripted. I chop a shallot, then heat a little bit of butter and olive oil in a pan on medium, add the shallot, move it around a little until it is soft but not browned at all, add scallops which I have patted dry and then (this is the trick) — don’t move them, because you want them to sear. Once they’ve seared on one side, I repeat this on the other, season them and add a squeeze of lemon juice.

That’s it. It’s pretty simple but you can add any other seasoning of flavorings you like to the pan. (By the way, the time I made the lemon risotto the scallops totally got stuck to the pan and ick because I had not patted them dry, had not put enough oil in and had moved them too soon. If you move them too soon, they’ll really stick and tear. I’m sure yours will look better!

Of course mine didn’t look better but they still tasted fantastic. Next, I learn how to knit. (Yeah, right. My domesticity ends in the kitchen.)

You know you have good friends when they are willing to sabotage someone’s career for you.

When I told Meredith that I received the “lets just be friends” talk from a musician boy she said, “I’ll make sure he never plays in this town again. Mercury Lounge? Forget it. Bowery Ballroom? It’s over.” (Of course, dear readers, I would never do anything to damage his career. Just his knee caps.)

Aside from a willingness to destroy someone’s reputation, the mark of a good friend is how they can make a simple dinner of pasta and wine seem like a feast fit for a Dionysian.

Last night we had a farewell dinner at Supper restaurant for my friend and now ex-roommate Victoria. Not only is she the type of friend that will help you plot against ex-lovers but she is the kind of friend that reminds you that there is no problem or heartache too grand that can’t be resolved with a little bit of wine and laughter.

Supper has a dimly lit and cavernous downstairs area that’s perfect for a big group. We shared bowls of luscious spaghetti al limone and my favorite dish the priest stranglers (tubes of pasta with ricotta and marinara sauce).

Then we went off to our friend Edward’s apartment and had a mini dance party with flashing lights and thumping house music and more red wine.

When life turns sour, all you need are comfort food and comforting friends to make it all better.

And I’d like to wish a good journey to the most comforting friend of all. She may be moving to Greece but her light and laughter will be here always.

*And special thanks to the folks at fuelmyblog for making this their blog of the day! You can peruse other blogs on their site as well.

It would be an understatement to say that I’m obsessed with Top Chef.

I screen my phone calls when it airs on Wednesday nights. I’m careful not to schedule any plans during those nights too (although some dates have had to endure watching the 11 p.m. repeat with me). I read the blogs on bravotv.com. I cry when the booted off contestants give their tearful goodbyes. And I even derive life lessons from the show.

The episode that resonated the most was from the season 2 challenge when the contestants were told to make a hearty breakfast dish only to later find out that they would be cooking this meal…at a beach. This was one of the harder challenges as the chefs had to re-think their plans and battle wind and sand as they prepared their dish over an open fire. This challenge even tripped up a strong contender like Sam aka Chef McHottie.

I’ll never forget Tom Colicchio’s remarks at the judge’s table. Actually, I can’t remember word for word because my memory has dissolved thanks to hard liquor but I do remember the gist of it. He basically talked about how you have to be prepared for the unexpected. And the mark of a true top chef is to see how he can ride out that hard wave. Does he balk under pressure or does he make the most of the situation in order to succeed?

I’ve been thinking alot about that episode these past couple of days. Life has definitely thrown some curve balls. I’m not really sure if I quite want to blog about it but I do know this: you can either cry and say “why me?” or you can assess the situation at hand and make the most of it. And succeed.

When life unexpectedly tosses you lemons you can make lemonade with vodka and fresh basil (my favorite drink recipe).

Crazy things happen during a full moon.

Back in March, my friend Sally emailed me and asked if I was okay because I looked like I had lost my “spark”, my “joie de vivre”. I confessed that I was feeling a bit out of sorts because my ex boyfriend’s birthday was approaching and I was getting all nostalgic and misty eyed.

So she wrote back and gave me very specific instructions on how to move on.

She told me that there was going to be a new moon on the 18th and that I should sit down and write a letter to my ex and just get everything off my chest. I was not supposed to actually send this letter to him but it was for myself. To express all the hurt, anger, and love. And then I was supposed to end the letter with good wishes to him and let him go. After writing the letter, I was to set it on fire and see all the old emotions burn away.

Now I must preface that my friend Sally is one of those people who is into all those celestial beliefs like horoscopes and Venus shifting in Mars blah blah but she is also one of the most intuitive people I know. So I trusted her. And, dear readers, you will not believe what happened.

I can not tell you how emotional that process was. I cried the entire time writing the letter and I actually felt as if I was getting lighter and lighter, unloading all the feelings from the past year.

Then she instructed me to write a different letter after the new moon. This time writing a letter to the new person I wanted in my life. I had to describe all the qualities I was looking for in a person. I don’t know why I was supposed to do this but I guess the universe sends you what you want to attract. So I did this. I said I wanted to meet someone who was tall (of course), had nice eyes, dark hair, liked current events and exotic food, had diverse friends. I felt like I was writing a profile for Match.com.

And I’m not kidding here folks but exactly 7 DAYS after writing that new letter, I met…Activity Partner.

He fit the EXACT DESCRIPTIONS of who I was looking for. He loved to travel. He liked tapas and sangria. His friends were like a mini UN delegation. We actually had met a while ago through a mutual friend but re-connected through facebook.

Granted we never had a romantic relationship but I seriously believe that meeting him made it so much easier to get over my old relationship. He was exactly what I was looking for at the time. I wasn’t ready to be in an actual relationship but it was just nice hanging out with a guy without any of the expectations or insecurities that accompany a relationship.

Activity Partner and I would go out for brunch, watch Lost on Wednesday nights with a bottle of wine, go running on the East River (okay we only did that once because I couldn’t keep up with him), exchange advice and stories on relationships, and just hangout.

He moved to Israel a couple of months ago but I’m so grateful for the short amount of time we spent together. I really think he helped Jinius get back on the saddle. Of many different horses. Ha.

So maybe you think all this full moon stuff is crap. Well, yesterday was a full moon and this morning I discovered that maybe my gyno doesn’t know what he’s talking about.

Now I can add “visits to the gyno’s office” to the list of things I detest (along with rollercoasters, wet socks, airplanes, and black licorice).

I went for a check up yesterday because I hadn’t been to the doctor in two years and my roommate told me that women our age our supposed to go every six months.

But trying to wrangle a doctor’s appointment in Manhattan is like trying to reserve a table at Babbo. The phone lines are always busy and the earliest reservation isn’t until November. I finally snagged an appointment but the receptionist asked if I cared that the doctor was a man. I said no. I asked how old. She said 70.

Okay, I have no problem with a seventy year old grandfather examining my lotus blossom. But how was I supposed to ask him for free samples of contraceptives without breaking into raucous laughter?

I arrive at the doctor’s office. It is a typical waiting room with the obligatory paintings of fruit in a bowl, pamphlets advertising birth control pills, and brochures with geriatric women extolling the benefits of ky jelly.

There is a hodge podge of women sitting in the waiting area. There’s an elderly woman who cannot stop staring at me, a robust looking Caribbean woman, and an older Southern woman with a blazer the color of passion fruit margarita.

The nurse calls me in and tells me to sit in the doctor’s private office for a brief meeting before the exam. The doctor enters and he has deep creases on his forehead as if someone had been using his face to play scrabble for the past thirty years.

The first thing out of his mouth, “You must be Chinese.” I correct him, “No, I’m Korean.”

He says, “I know a phrase in Chinese: Konichiwa.”

I don’t have the heart to tell a seventy year old medical professional about to embark on my pelvic region that konichiwa is actually Japanese not Chinese.

He asks me when I had my last period. I tell him that I’m pretty irregular.

He says, “I’m going to ask you a series of questions. They may be embarrassing.” I answer, “Okaaay.”

“Have you ever had surgery?”
“No.”
“Are you sexually active?”
“Um…yeaaaah.”
“Have you ever been pregnant?”
“Not to my knowledge…hahahaha….er...um…no”
“Do you consider yourself a hairy person?”
“Whaaa? Um….I don’t think so…”
“Do you have hair on your upper lip?”
“Um, no.”
“Do you ever shave your upper lip?”
“Well, I have to wax every now and then…who doesn’t?”
He scribbles away.
“Do you have hair on your nipples?”
“Um….no!”
“Do you have to shave the hair on your stomach?”
“No.”

After he interrogates me about my hirsuteness, he tells me that he wants to take some blood tests because I may have an excessive amount of testosterone. Me? Testosterone? How is that possible? I cry during those “diamonds are forever” commercials and I watch an excessive amount of the Food Network. I don’t play sports. I like to wear dresses and heels. And I think the movie Fight Club has too many fight scenes. How could I have too much testosterone???

We go to the examining room, the nurse takes my blood, and then asks me to take my clothes off and put on a robe.

The doctor enters and begins his examination.

He asks, “Do you wax or shave because you have a profuse amount of hair down here or because it is part of the current trend?”

YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME! IS THIS OLD MAN FOR REAL?!?!

“Um, I guess option b?”

He examines me for a couple of more minutes and I try to think of happy thoughts like chocolate eclairs and dalmatian puppies and try to ignore the fact that there is a seventy year old man inspecting me like a plumber.

“Okay, get dressed,” he says, “And meet me back in my office.”

I rapidly dress and hobble back to his office.

“I think you have polycystic ovarian disease. Come back in a week for a sonogram. For now, I’m going to prescribe you some birth control pills which will regulate your period.”

“Um, I’m sorry…what is polycystic ovarian…whatever?”

He then gives me this monologue about how my ovaries are not releasing ovum (ova?) and that this mainly afflicts women of Mediterranean heritage and it is very rare for Asian women to have this disease so there may have been some crossbreeding in my family.

“So then we won’t really know until we verify it with a sonogram, right?”
“No, I’m pretty sure you have it.”
“Well, then I guess I shouldn’t have to worry unless we find out it’s serious?”
“It’s serious.”
“Oh. Will I still be able to have children?”
“Are you and your husband planning to have children? We can discuss fertility treatments later.”
“Oh, no, I’m not married. I don’t even have a boyfriend…I just….I was just thinking I might want kids, you know, eventually…I mean, will I still be able to have kids?”
“You will have a less chance of having children than other women.”
“Oh.”

He then speaks into his tape recorder and mumbles some medical jargon about my cervix and lazy ovaries.

I admit I was a little thrown off by his diagnosis. I just wanted to make sure that I didn’t have the herps or anything and then this grandpa is telling me that I may have trouble conceiving children?

But obviously I’m not going to worry until I get the test results. It’s not like I have hostile ovaries, they just like to take mini vacations every now and then. And I’m definitely getting a second opinion. I’m not sure if I can rely on medical advice from a man who thinks all Asian people look and talk the same.

*The title is a nod to Tucker Max, the original drunken Jinius.

It was Christmas Eve. I was sitting on my couch with a fever, tissues, and my cat. I wanted to watch a movie so that I could feel like I was in the company of someone. Anyone. That someone turned out to be Vince Vaughn. I watched The Break Up.

I don’t know if it was the fever, the movie, or the nyquil but I bawled. I was too young to feel like a single woman’s cliche. I was angry. At everyone. My ex boyfriend for not calling me. My neighbors for playing hip hop music too loud. All the happy people celebrating the holidays. I hated them.

I spent Christmas Day at Sabbie’s house. I was barely sustained by advil and caffeine but I needed to be in the presence of something other than my own anger.

The next day I came back home to my apartment, digested more nyquil and fell asleep on the couch. I had an image of maps. When I awoke I drifted to my computer and started writing. Writing so urgently that your fingers can not keep up with your thoughts. Writing your wounds into words.

I spent the next couple of days sequestered in the corner of my apartment, feasting on tea and tylenol, turning off the ringers on my phones, and talking to my computer screen as if someone were on the other side. My characters, who were originally faint sketches, slowly fleshed out before me. I saw them. I talked to them. Oh, you would never do that in that situation. Why did you make that choice?

Friends started leaving messages. “Are you mad at me?” “Are you still alive?”

It was self-indulgent but I couldn’t break away. I had to let the characters unfurl before I was ready to head back into my own dreary life.

I explained this to my friend Ilana and she directed me to Orhan Pamuk’s nobel speech which was published in The New Yorker. This excerpt caught my attention:

A writer is someone who spends years patiently trying to discover the second being inside him, and the world that makes him who he is. When I speak of writing, the image that comes first to my mind is not a novel, a poem, or a literary tradition; it is the person who shuts himself up in a room, sits down at a table, and, alone, turns inward.The angel of inspiration (who pays regular visits to some and rarely calls on others) favors the hopeful and the confident, and it is when a writer feels most lonely, when he feels most doubtful about his efforts, his dreams, and the value of his writing, when he thinks that his story is only his story—it is at such moments that the angel chooses to reveal to him the images and dreams that will draw out the world he wishes to build.

If this blog were written by a true literary jinius, this is the part where I start talking about how I created a masterpiece. I’ll be honest here. It’s flawed. But the heart of it, the soul, the foundation is what I am proud of. It’s funny because I wrote this at my most loneliest and angriest and I ended up writing a comedy.

I’m sure many people will not understand my anti-social behavior. They’ll call it selfish and strange. But when I think this I remember my mother telling me that when I was very young, maybe 4 or 5, she would walk into my room and find me talking to myself. Just chatting away at god knows who.

I write to satisfy the characters in my head. To let them play. And I will stop writing when they stop talking.

So tell me, why do you write?