So Chic en Belgique (Part II)

A Brusselian street:
visions of cobblestones still dance in my head.

London bridge is falling down. And it's raining cats and dogs.

Well, no, it's not - London bridge is in Arizona and all the cats and dogs are safe and sound. But it might as well be with all the other absurd things happening around here.
Among them:
- London is STILL freakin' hot.
- London has also become ridiculously HUMID (I thought I left Texas for a reason?).
- And yet, it's raining like hell the night before I embark on my first camping trip since Girl Scout days.

Oh, the irony. But, I am not here to talk about our upcoming camping trip in the English countryside (that's for a later post!) - I'm here to finish reporting on the beautiful madness that was our super-cool (said with a Belgian-French accent) trip to Belgium. It's good to have an extra week or so to digest one's travel experiences before fully spewing them onto the virtual word-canvas that is the blogosphere. So without further ado, part II of So Chic en Belgique. :) Brace yourselves - this is a long one.

* * *

The Chicness That is Belgiqueness
(in anecdote form):
Parts IV-VII

or, when in Bruges, leave your kids at the hotel

IV. The Much-Hyped Bruges: No Dogs, err, Kids Allowed.
We had heard so much good about Bruges. So much good and so little bad, in fact, that I have to admit I started to wonder how a place could be so absolutely wonderous. Bruges this, Bruges that, did you see the movie? oh the beauty! oh the sights! Yadda yadda. I was predictably skeptical.

Architecture in Bruges;
for some reason they make me think of mustard and horseradish.

Getting there from Brussels sounded easier than it was - probably because the people who told us about it traveled without an infant in tow. An hour long train ride with everyone and their mother-in-law-with-a-bad-leg on which there are no reserved or assigned seats: not exactly ideal. On the local trains it's first come first sit, so it was a miracle we nabbed seats at all; the aisles were entirely full of the standing and perturbed. And despite having a baby in his arms, Matt still got glares for not giving up his seat. (Gee, I wonder why the two 15 year old boys in front of us listening to their iPods didn't give up theirs? Bitter? Me? Never!) Mean glares for papa bear. Strike one.

Our arrival into Bruges;
getting a seat on a crowded train makes me want to click my heels.

Anyway, we made it to Bruges eventually and managed to somehow still be in high spirits.

First stop (at my request) was a little tea room I'd looked up rumored to have the best hot (Belgian) chocolate in town: Tea-Room De Proeverie. It took a little walking, but we finally came to it and found it to be a beautifully quaint little place nestled just outside the medieval center of Bruges. It was empty but for two or three people sitting inside, and at the entrance were two seemingly cheerful people making delicious looking chocolate creations of some sort.

I all but cart-wheeled inside, almost maniacally chomping at the proverbial bit. It was warm outside and as a rule I don't drink hot chocolate anyway, but this hot chocolate was too good to pass up because it was the kind where they give you an actual piece of chocolate which you then dip and swirl in the hot milk to create your own drink. (Kind of childish to still love doing that, but hey, life is too short to be a snoot.) Weather and general dislike of hot chocolate be damned*, we waltzed inside. I'd just requested a table when the chocolate-making-waitress spotted Matt and Roman, and therefore, the stroller. Her smile disappeared and she warned me that if we couldn't fold the stroller and put it behind their door, we wouldn't be served. There was nobody in the place, and plenty of room for the stroller (which is not very big to begin with). When I told her the baby was sleeping and we couldn't fold it up, she shrugged and said they couldn't serve us. We were literally turned out. Wth? No hot chocolate for mama bear. Strike two.

Next stop: De Vlaamsche Pot. Because of all the hype surrounding Bruges and its picturesqueness, I made it a point to try to find the absolute perfect restaurant at which to have a late lunch / early dinner before we headed back to Brussels. I wanted something quaint, traditional but with a real Flemish flair, something with that certain Belgian...je ne sais quoi. :) After much internet research and pouring over what seemed like every restaurant review out there, I fell in love with De Vlaamsche Pot.

Spotless, tastefully decorated, and boasting what was hailed by many a visitor as the best, most authentic Flemish Beef Stew in Bruges, I decided it was the place for us. Armed with their address and phone number, we made our way over at around 5pm for a very early dinner (perfect timing for catching an 8pm train back to Brussels). To get there we had to fight our way through a swarm of European tourists so thick the sidewalks were almost completely invisible. Silly people stopping every two feet to buy another chocolate or postcard masked any antique charm the architecture might have had. Oh, that and the fact that every chain store and restaurant on earth seems to have hit Bruges. (There was a Pizza Hut prominently set up in one of the bigger squares we stopped at. Shame, really.) We eventually came to Helmstraat and our restaurant.

De Vlaamsche Pot is as quaint in person as on the web (if not more). The restaurant looks like a tiny Flemish home, decorated with beautifully rustic and yet somehow modern wooden tables and chairs. The atmosphere is relatively casual, yet adult. Too adult, apparently because prominently displayed on their front entrance was a large sticker with a picture of a stroller and a giant strike through it: no strollers, no children allowed. What is this place? I can understand not allowing children into a Michelin-starred restaurant, or a formal place in the middle of a busy dinnertime, but Bruges seemed to have a complete ban on children and strollers altogether! How did we end up turning into Snoopy in Snoopy Come Home!

I asked the waiter if he was serving dinner and he said yes, happily, excitedly - until he saw the stroller. We were asked to sit outside and given terrible service. He was friendly enough, but we felt so uncomfortable Matt had to get up and walk around the block every time Roman made a noise - and the place was empty except for two other couples, one of which was seated inside! No love for baby bear. Strike three! Bruges officially strikes out in my book.

But enough complaining - the food was awesome. We ordered the Flemish beef stew, which comes out in a not-so-mini mini cauldron with an even mini-er cauldron full of homemade apple sauce. You are given a giant bowl, which the waiter fills with freshly made Belgian Fries, which he brings out in an aluminum frying dish and servers directly onto your plate. You then presumably serve the stew over them. The stew is very sweet, even without the apple sauce. And it goes perfectly with a trappiste. :)

Meaty, morsely deliciousness of the Flemish persuasion. And fries, with which everything in life is better.

Our starter was a homemade pate, which was decent - probably chicken liver. It was served with a confit of onions and some salad and berries. The berries did not necessarily enhance the experience, and neither did the ranch-like dressing. Very odd combo, IMHO.

Dessert was a forgettable berry parfait of some sort. I don't go for that kind of thing. I'm in Belgium. Give me chocolate dammit.

Roman really wants my fries.

So, no, we probably wouldn't go back to Bruges. Yes, it was pretty and quaint - just like they said. But no place is worth going to that doesn't like the Master of the Forum. Period.

*It is a little known fact about me that one of my greatest fears and worst nightmares is to be caught in a sauna wearing a thick unrefined wool turtle neck sweater while being force-fed really hot hot-chocolate. Because I always think of this ridiculos scenario when offered hot chocolate, I generally don't drink it. Somehow I got past this image as I stood before De Proeverie.

* * *

V. French Baguettes, Fries & Waffles on Steroids (if steroids were a good thing).

Back safe and sound in good old Brussels, Matt and I indulged in the other noteworthy foods ubiquitous in Belgium: baguettes, fries and waffles.

We ate at the same little sandwich shop near the Galerie de la Reine every single day for lunch: De Pistolei. We spotted it because there was always a line out the door and because it had the most gigantic and delicious looking baguettes we'd ever seen. They were easily 4 feet high and prominently displayed in the window. At 3 Euros a pop, it was a cheap and delicious lunch. I don't know what it is about French and Belgian bread, but it has powerfully addictive qualities. The soft, chewy crunchiness (contradictory, I know) it one of the textures I can never get enough of.

The fries in Belgium are unique because they are served with ketchup and mayonnaise. They are also much thicker - more akin to steak fries in the States, yet somehow lighter. They come wrapped in a paper cone and are eaten using a diminutive little pitchfork.
Being that annoying person who loves to eat her ice cream with an espresso spoon or the little flat mini-shovel pre-packaged ice cream often comes with, I am a huge advocate of the midgi-fry-fork. :)

And lastly, the Belgian waffles, or "Gaufres de Liege" as they call them. According to our cab driver (infinitely informative, I warned you), the original Belgian waffles are made with sugar in the batter and therefore not eaten with all of what we perceive to be the "traditional" accoutrement. No chocolate sauce or whipped cream or dribbly strawberry topping.

If you want to be authentic, you eat them plain.

We didn't want to be authentic. :)

* * *

VI. Manneken Pis: The Biggest Waste of Time Ever.

I will waste as little time on this as possible: if you go to Brussels you will be virtually bombarded with random awful souvenirs of a little cherub-like boy, naked, peeing. It's a fountain - much hyped. You'd think it was a masterpiece of art, or a gigantically triumphant celebration of the cherub-form. it is neither. What it is is a ridiculously small fountain on a random corner with a bunch of tourists stupidly taking pictures of it (without knowing why) and then going to buy the even more ridiculous Manneken Pis cork screws (yes, with a cleverly placed screw). Sad, sad, and sad.

Sadder still is that we wasted the time and energy to walk there at all. Well, at least we got was this semi-artsy picture.

* * *

VII. Magritte & Marat: Art in Belgium

I was an art history major and somehow I did not remember that Magritte, Brueghel and Rubens were Flemish and/or Belgian. I also had no idea the much acclaimed "Death of Marat" by David was housed in Brussels. Armed with these facts alone (the last one would have been enough), I chose to devote an entire afternoon on our visit to Brussels to trawling the Musee des Beaux Arts and the Magritte Museum. It was well worth the 13Euros per person, which gave us access to three museums: The Musee des Beaux Arts, the Ancient Art Museum and the Musee Magritte.

For the record, Death of Marat was worth the trip. That painting is amazing.

Death of Marat
a picture of a picture

a picture of a picture of a picture

I thought the museum excursion might be risky with an infant, but amazingly enough Roman was enthralled by all the colors (notably in the Magritte paintings). He was quiet and cooperative the entire time and he was especially taken by a giant globe made entirely of beetles (I won't start a rant on post-modern art here). There were lots of highlights in the museums, but I have to admit, I probably had more fun taking ridiculous pictures of Matt and Roman. Here are some choice shots:

Roman is clueless that Prometheus is being ripped to shreds behind him. Apparently so is Matt.
Ah, to be a child again. >:)

Deep thought #27.39: does life mimic art or art mimic life?

Good thing, cause I've always wondered what a giant
globe made entirely of dead beetles would look like.

* * *

Go to Belgium. The end. :)

The Tortilla Crisis &, um, Happy 39 Weeks!

I am a serious corn tortilla hoarder.

Another Friday has come, and with it the end to another week of pregnancy (Thank God).

How callaced and bitter do I sound and it's not even my due date?!

Nobody really tells you about the dark side of pregnancy - those last mortifyingly endless weeks of heavy and constant anticipation. Or maybe if they do tell you, you're still so far stuck in the pink cloud of early-pregnancy euphoria that you refuse to listen and assume they're just bitter and pathetic. I'm pretty sure that's what I did anyway, but now I know they weren't lying. I am humbled by my own deluded willingness to believe that I would never reach this stage (especially knowing my own impatience).

Yes, it's "Happy" 39 weeks - but I have to be completely honest, I'm a little less than on cloud (3)9. Not that I'm angry or bitter, I'm just frustrated and impatient. And I think I am allowed to say that without seeming really horrible, because (in all honesty) the impatience and readiness to have this baby does not in any way lessen the excitement and happiness I feel about it.

On that note - I figured it was about time for a little pictorial bump update. Here's the midge and me last week, in the kitchen, as usual. O Sole Mio and all that jazz.

38 weeks and still smiling.

* * *

On a somewhat unrelated but almost equally important note, there is one other big reason (besides my entirely-selfish impatience) why Ludovictus needs to get his butt out into the open air: I have reached a serious corn tortilla crisis.

It is a little known fact (because nobody seems to care) that the UK is pretty much completely and utterly devoid of good corn tortillas (my personal crack cocaine). What they sell (in copious amounts) are these wretched things they refer to as "wraps." They come in all sorts of ridiculous "Mexican" flavors like "salsa," "cumin" or "chili & jalapeno." *insert mini gag noise here*

I'm sorry, but if I wanted badly made flour tortillas, I'd whip up a batch myself. My grandmother and her family are from the north of Mexico and I'm willing to bet my first attempt at their staple starch would STILL be better than the crap Tesco sells.

Yes, I freakin' do judge people who use "fajita kits." Because if they'd tasted the real thing, they would too!

I could go on about this for pages and pages (and probably will at a later date), so I'll stop here, but if you want to see what "Mexican Food" means to most British people, simply take a gander at this website and see the constant hell I have to endure when trying to make some comfort food.

If it's not sh*tty products, then it's blatantly ignorant portrayals of "Mexicans" on packaging and the media.
Sadly,I buy these chips every week from Tesco. Love the um, mustard bottle (wtf?) in his "belt."

There is actually one tortilla machine in the UK (called "El monstruo"), located at a decent restaurant in Notting Hill. But they're version of corn tortillas is as good as biting into stale cardboard. Your tacos crack, your huevos rancheros are impossible to cut through. You have to sell an organ to be able to afford them. No good for anyone involved.

For these and many other reasons, I basically force my mother to break international customs laws and bring me copious amounts of my favorite corn tortillas straight from Texas whenever she comes to visit. This usually means that half of one entire large suitcase is lined with pre-portioned ziplock bags containing pre-frozen corn tortillas from H.E.B. It is always a big production when she gets here to unpack as quickly as possible and transfer the loot to my freezer, where I carefully ration and hoard them until her next (or our next) scheduled visit to the US.

Sadly, pregnancy has made me less than careful with my rationing. Usually I'm a pretty strict totalitarian with regards to household corn tortilla usage. Matt is typically relegated to the Tesco Slighly Salted Tortilla Chips (see above) or bread, being a hopeless gringo at heart (unless he really demands tortillas). He just doesn't show me the kind of orgasmic culinary joy I expect when I toast my little preciouses by hand on the gas stove to eat with a Mexican meal (probably made with my also-rationed salsa verde and Sazon Goya).

Point being: today I used two of the last four tortillas in the last package of rationed corn tortillas that were in the freezer. And mom doesn't arrive for baby's arrival until the 13th of April. Can you really blame me for the less than chipper post?!

Happy Friday!

Eat a corn tortilla for me, especially you lucky bastards in the Southwest and California. :)

Stitch & Bi-otch: Brenda's Pregnancy Rage vs. The Girl at the Yarn Shop

I think I've mentioned before that one day a week I attend a local knitting group, a "stitch & bitch," if you will. It's something to look forward to. And it sure beats getting advice from the knitting videos at youtube.com (which are all kinda freaky sounding) when I can't figure out what I've done to end up with three arms on my sweater.

I especially like my knitting group (despite being the youngest, least experienced, and least knitting obsessed person there) because it is what I would call "low-key." British old ladies tend to be very mild in their manners (even when they're insulting you) and that does excitable, little old me a lot of good. The other perk about the knitting group is that it is held at a local yarn shop. Literally down the street from me, the place is tiny and run by two American women who also tend to be (surprisingly) mellow. Too bad I can't say the same for their staff. Moving on...

I'm not particularly productive at the knitting group; neither is anyone else as far as I can tell. We all get caught up gossiping and chatting and end up having to unravel whatever we've done by the end of the session anyway. But it's good company and good fun. And the conversation topics in and of themselves provide amusement

Common Discussion Topics at the Knitting Group Sessions

some of the few occasions in life when Brenda is actually silent


These really cracked me up.

1. The cafe down the street and its selection for "soup of the day": nobody (except me) at the group likes anything "spicy." The other day there was complaint of "the strange soup with coconut in it" (read: Thai coconut prawn soup - yum!) and why the owner couldn't just keep making that nice "potato and leek" or "broccoli and Stilton" instead.

2. Recent surgeries or health ailments of the present company or other not-present members of the group: someone had a hip surgery recently and we get updated on that in minute detail. Somebody else had a nasty fall and has to go back for an x-ray to make sure her solicitor can get her the correct compensation.

3. The most recent / most exciting Knitting or Yarn or Craft fairs members have been to: people travel literally across the country to go to yarn fairs. I was pretty shocked to hear about this (and the crazy things they will go through to get there - 3 different trains, a walk through a forest in the dead of the night...), but when you listen to how much they know and enjoy them, I guess it isn't really ALL that surprising.

4. The size of one's 'stash' & how much husbands hate them: I guess 'stash' refers to the extra yarn you keep laying around the house in case the occasion strikes you. My stash literally consists of about 6 balls of yarn I have picked up when on sale at Wal-Mart. Last week I learned that one of the ladies at the group knows someone who actually rents a separate garage for her stash. Others regaled me with stories of stuffing parts of their stash into Moroccan Pouffs (like the one in our living room...hmmm) or hidden compartments in their attics to avoid hubby finding the extra fine cashmere they'd splurged on. Oh the cunning!

a lovely Moroccan Pouffe, not unlike ours

5. London's Yarn & Haberdashery establishments & how well they rate compared to each other: There is one lady in the group who can literally tell you the brand, type and colors of almost any yarn available at any yarn or haberdashery shop in London. She also seems to know all the owners, their stories, their partners (in the UK that doesn't necessarily mean you're gay), and why they stock what they stock. She provides a full and supposedly unbiased account of each and how they rate compared to the shop we're presently located at. Makes for fun knitting gossip.

6. Ravelry: Little did I know, but there is a huge, not-so-underground (wool doesn't keep well in the damp) subculture devoted entirely to knitting and crocheting. Ravelry is Facebook for knitters. I have to admit, I actually joined. It's pretty cool but I hardly use it, despite the fact that they are so hardcore that they actually have a waitlist for you to receive your "you can now join ravelry" invitation. People conduct entire lives on this community. The ladies at my group all have at least a couple of blogs they follow devotedly, and discuss the personnages and their projects as if they were intimate friends. Wait, maybe they are?!

* * *

Anyway, last week I went to the knitting group as usual (though I had been absent for a couple of weeks and therefore probably looked more heavily pregnant than previously). As I am planning to start my next knitting project soon, I needed to buy the appropriate knitting needles to go with.

For those of you unfamiliar, the US and the UK use different sizing methods for the needles (surprise, surprise). The US uses a by-number size (1,2,3,4 etc.) and the UK does it by millimeters (1mm, 1.5 mm etc.). This can sometimes cause confusion when said conversation takes place between - ENTIRELY HYPOTHETICALLY - a heavily pregnant, naturally feisty American ex-pat requesting needles and a British Colonial Singaporean Ex-Pat, who seems to fancy herself entirely British due to historical occurrences beyond her control, selling needles.

I said size 8. She said 4mm. I said, sure. She said, great. I paid (after not being allowed to use my Amex card - pet peeve #27,000.39 about the UK) with a tenner and went upstairs to the knitting group where the new packet of needles sat on the table unused and unopened for the duration of the group.

At the end, entirely by chance, I thought - hey, I should get rid of the packaging before putting away my new needles! Because they are nice needles, they come encased in a plastic sheath - a vagina if you will permit me the use of a bizarre Latin word - which is closed only by the barcode sticker. Generally speaking, I would carefully peel the barcode sticker and take my needles out (yes, I am that anal), but I was in somewhat of a rush so I just took my scissors and chopped the top of the sheath off. That's when I looked at the needles carefully for the first time and realized that size 4mm needles are actually size 6 needles in the US, not 8, like I'd requested. Then, in slow motion, I threw my fists to the sky and cursed the Gods, all the while shocking and scaring the nice old ladies around me.

"Oh, just pop downstairs and exchange them," said one of the nice ladies, having regained her composure. It sounded so simple.

Problematic Pregnancy-Rage Filled Encounter
you've been warned

I had the best intentions. Really, I did. Matt will attest to the fact that since being pregnant my patience (which is pathetic at the best, non-pregnant of times) has basically ceased to exist. I go from fine to completely-utterly-incapacitatedly-rage-filled in under two seconds (it used to take at least 2 minutes). Clearly Singaporean-British-wanna-be yarn girl has not had much experience with pregnant ladies because she did not make any effort to tone down her "I'm British and therefore offer you ZERO customer service" attitude, even after seeing the belly and hearing my American accent. Come on, she was just asking for it.

When I nicely (I really was nice at first) explained the situation and asked if we could just exchange the needles as clearly the error had not been mine and she had just misread the size chart, she stared at me, horrified and twitching in an "I made a mistake?!" short-circuit kind of way that only people who are extremely uptight and therefore never imagine they could be wrong do. Then, she basically said "No."

This all happened in under two seconds. Coincidence, really, the timing.

My face turned red. I gripped the needles tightly.

"Well, I'm not paying for another set. I asked for size 8 needles."

"You damaged the packaging. I can't exchange them."

"Can't we just peel the barcode off of the other package and then carefully place this one on it with the needles I have? They have never been used and I used scissors to cut the barcode so it isn't damaged."

*heavy, gruffy sigh / annoyed breathing noise combined with eye-roll from the yarn girl*

*seriously dangerous eyebrow raise from silently-raging pregnant lady*

She walked over to the drawer and pulled out the right needles, still breathing heavily. After trying - half-heartedly, might I add - to pull off the barcode, she suddenly slammed them down in frustration and said "No, we can't do it. It just won't work."

I yanked the needles away and said "Yes, we can. I WILL DO IT."

I then proceeded to replace the barcode and needles and exchange them for the right size ones. All the while, the girl is rolling her eyes, continuing to twitch and breath heavily in an "I can't believe you did this" kind of way.

Correct needles now in hand, in a last-ditch effort to be amenable, I said (and believe me, this took ALL the restraint in the world), "Well, thank you so much for doing this. I appreciate it."

No answer.

"I hope that's ok?"

She looked up at me, angry, "Well I guess it's gonna HAVE to be now isn't it?"

*fireworks - fireworks - fireworks*
(that's the only way I can accurately describe what went on in my brain at this point)

Suddenly alarmed, "I mean, it was my fault for getting the wrong needles."

It's a good thing, a very good thing she added that last mea culpa. I honestly cannot say that I know what I would have done if she hadn't. And because I'm a brat, and pregnant to boot, I would have maintained the entire time that none of it was an overreaction. Ah the perks. :)

* * *

PS: The thing is, she really was wrong. She WAS.



If only she'd used one of these.

Magazine Subscriptions: The Deception and The Light

Maybe a tad over the top, but I wanted to make my point...

What better way to start off a productive morning than a rant? I actually got up to go to the gym with Matt today and walked on the treadmill. Miracle, miracle! Now I'm home again and flipping through an issue of Olive, which made me think of this...

* * *

The Deception

When it comes to magazine subscriptions, I've been burned too many times. There are few magazines I find interesting enough as it is to actually justify getting them mailed to me, but something about the inherent shadiness and lack of clarity in the subscribing process is what really turns me off. If I do subscribe, I know what I'll generally do with them - let them sit on the coffee table for weeks at a time, until the pile grows and grows. And I'll probably complain to Matt that I never should have subscribed to begin with and curse the gods of get-12-for-the-price-of-1-deals.

There have only ever been three notable exceptions to this in my lifetime:
1. US Weekly (which I ignorantly called U.S. Weekly for the first year I got it)

2. Bon Appetit (kind of)

3. Olive Magazine

No surprise there - two out of three are food magazines. The odd mag out is a shamelessly mind numbing but oh-so-tempting celebrity gossip page-turner that we've all been sucked into reading once or twice before and which merits a lengthy disclaimer unto itself:

Lengthy Disclaimer Regarding my Former Subscription to and Continued Reading of US Weekly Magazine

I decided to subscribe to US Weekly while living in NYC because I got sick of paying the newsstand price and found myself getting strangely annoyed when I missed an issue. Oddly, despite the hell everyone around me gave me for -

a. the poor quality of the articles and the people they were about

b. the morally questionable contribution I was making to the livelihoods of asshole paparazzi

c. and the banality and therefore corruptive-mind-numbing effects of the information contained within

- there was almost never a single person (aforementioned, usually MALE, accusers included) who didn't get hooked into reading the magazine cover-to-cover or at least looking at all the pictures once they'd picked it up. You know who you are.

This is how and why I totally justify my indulgence in that guilty pleasure. And also why I don't feel like a stupid American when I go to my UK newsagent and ask him what day he gets his US Weekly delivery so I can actually venture out of the cave that day to pick it up.

Interestingly, while you may think the British are above all this idiocy, it is actually a fact that the aforementioned newsstand agent has almost always sold out if I ever get there anytime past noon. And that is the case wherever I go: Putney, Earl's Court, Sloane Square. The fact that they even carry it on their stands when it is impossible to subscribe to it in the UK says enough for me.

So yeah, don't judge.

* * *

But actually, I'm more interested in discussing the latter two magazines I've subscribed to in my day and why it is exactly that, as a rule, magazine subscriptions and I don't mix.

As I was saying, when it comes to magazine subscriptions, I've been burned too many times...

Top Three Scarring Magazine Subscription Incidents

not all my fault, but nevertheless, perfect examples of shady marketing

3. Seventeen Magazine: The Adolescent Venus Fly Trap

When I was a kid (and actually even now), I had an obsession with getting the mail. I always ran outside the moment I saw the the mail car drive away and relished handing the mail out to people in my family.

One sunny day I received a free Seventeen Magazine. Being untainted by the ways of the world, I was thrilled when I discovered one of those "Get 6 issues free if you send in this postcard!" thingies. I, of course, without telling my parents, sent it in. The elation continued when I started receiving my free issues and was able to collect copious amounts of picture cut-outs of the likes of Jared Leto, Jonathan Brandis, Gavin Rossdale, and Kurt Cobain. The elation reached an all-time high when I continued to receive "free issues" even past the 6th one. I had screwed the system!, I thought. They don't realize they are still sending me free magazines!

It really hurt when my parents received the bill for the post-6-free-issue issues and I had to pay for it out of my own pocket money. After that I was naturally suspicious of any and all magazines and subscribing to them.

2. Entertainment Weekly: Wait, we're PAYING for THIS?

Ten or so years later, living in NYC with my fiance, we were conned again. Matt made a purchase at Circuit City or Best Buy or something. At the counter, before you swipe your credit card, they asked if you wanted to receive a couple of free issues of Entertainment Weekly with your purchase. Matt, in a rush, agreed without listening and paid for whatever he was buying.

A couple of weeks later, we started receiving Entertainment Weekly in the mail. It is SUCH a crappy magazine that I actually didn't realize it was a bonafide publication people really paid for. I thought it was one of those stupid free catalogues about DVDs or music and every time I saw it, I threw it right in the trash along with the coupons and the random mail left over from the previous tenants.

A year later, living in London, we discovered a charge for Entertainment Weekly on our credit card. Despite being pretty on top of things with our expenses, we had both somehow neglected to notice that we had been paying for a magazine subscription for Entertainment Weekly for more than a year while not even living at the address it was being sent to anymore! Circuit City had used the same credit card number Matt paid with to hand over to EW after the "free subscription" ran out.

If that isn't highway robbery, I don't know what is. Strike two for magazine subscriptions.

1. Bon Appetit: An otherwise good thing gone SHADY

When I got my Masters in Education Matt gave me two great non-education-related gifts: a trip to the Churrascaria in Midtown I had been wanting to visit pretty much since we'd moved to NYC, and a subscription to Bon Appetit magazine (he knows the way to my heart). Both presents delivered unerringly. I stuffed my face with more grilled meat than I thought humanly possible and truly loved getting my Bon Appetit magazines. I read them all cover to cover. I tried out recipes constantly and really enjoyed reading about new restaurants (especially becaues NYC was almost always featured). Then we moved to London.

I called Bon Appetit and advised them months ahead of time that I would be leaving and that I wanted my magazines forwarded to my address in London. I was assured twice this would happen with no problem. Months later, living in London, I never received my magazines. Matt had pre-paid a year long subscription and even when I called to complain, nothing was ever done. I got screwed out of more than half of my paid subscription to one of the only magazines I actually enjoyed reading.

I was broken.

Misery loves company though, so I was glad to see I am not the only one who hates the relentless money-grubbing butt-heads in charge of recruiting new subscribers when I read this article.

* * *

The Light

(At the End of the Tunnel)

It doesn't take much to make the human brain forget pain. I guess that's why I'm pretty psyched about having Ludovictus, and why I have, once again, given the whole magazine subscription thing another try.

For me, the light at the end of the subscription-con nightmare is Olive Magazine. While sometimes a little too typically British in its reverse-snobbery- preachy-preachy-borderline- irrational tirades on the environment and "responsible consumerism," Olive Magazine delivers more than enough in terms of quality recipes, restaurant reviews, and interesting articles on European trends and relevant social and practical issues regarding ingredients and food to make me more than love it. It is like a young, hip, and funny version of Bon Appetit. I am a little sick of Gordon Ramsay (who is featured in ever single issue), but other than that, I am perfectly happy with my once-monthly opportunity to flip through and ogle at all the new, seasonal things I want to try, buy, or discuss with Matt.

So far so good in the con department. I get my monthly issues, I know what I'm paying, and every once in a while they throw in a random recipe book or gift at no extra charge. For this and more, I'll probably mention it numerous times over the course of my culinary dalliance entries.

Not sure if you can get it in the US, but it's worth talking to your newsagent just in case. :)

Randomized and Semi-Legitimized Self-Absorption

Well, the old engine is officially running on this cold London morning now that I've had my requisite bowl of Special K with berries and a cup of decaf instant coffee (shameful, I know, but pregnancy makes you do crazy things for the sake of a healthy child and I just cannot bring myself to buy decaf in coffee's proper ground form - it just seems wrong).

Thought I'd get the proverbial ball rolling with a bizarrely popular post I was introduced to by several friends on Facebook. For the sake of simplicity, we'll call it the "25 Random Things About Me" post. You're supposed to tag friends you want to know more about on yours and surprisingly I've learned an awful lot of random but, yes, insightful things about people I at one point knew kinda well but apparently no longer do.

Before I dive head-first into the dramatic reveal of the 25 random things, I should comment on the irony of my even posting this. There are two reasons why I should probably not do it:

1. As you will soon see, I have a list of retroactive posts waiting (inside my brain) to be posted so that I can put the aforementioned culinary dalliances folder on Matt's picasa to work. I should really probably start with something more appropriate like "Carrot Walnut Bread: a serendipitous waltz with God's gift to bread & pancakes - Whole Wheat Flour." But I'm not gonna.

2. My friends Kristine and Krista apparently met some guy at a DC speak easy a couple of weekends ago who, in his wise inebriated state, declared all bloggers to be "self-absorbed." Well, I can't say I totally disagree with him actually. My only hope is that perhaps this self-absorption is excused and/or mitigated when the declarations of said self-absorption take on the form of relatively unimportant (and therefore non-egotistical?!) details only people who care about you anyway will want to read? You decide.

25 Random Things about Me
*fiendish-introductory-bugle-ditty*

1. My favorite color is and always has been green. As a wee child of 3 or 4 years I boldly declared to my mother I would someday own a green house with a green car and green walls. I am still not opposed to two out of three of those things happening.

2. When I was in 4th grade at Rock Prairie Elementary, we had a playground with gravel flooring. Because I was not above occasional cartwheel or reckless flinging of my then-tinier-self off the jungle jim and onto the gravel, I always reentered the class with dusty, dirty hands. Every day I begged Mrs. Moses to allow me to wash said gravel dust off said dusty, dirty hands. Every day she said no and made me sit down, causing me to develop what I now recognize as a mild form of OCD which mostly manifests itself in an intense and compulsive need to always have clean hands.

3. I always prefer savory or sour over sweet except (apparently) when pregnant.

4. I started using the word "midget" and its contagious and self-created derivations (midgety, midgetesque, etc.) when I was 7 or 8 in reference to my little sister Carla who is now, ironically, marginally taller than me.

5. I LOVE tripe - against all odds. I especially love it in the form of the Mexican soup called Menudo (no, not the band). Not only is the texture one of my favorites, but this particular ingredient in this particular soup is a tried and true Mexican miracle cure for the world's worst hangovers (yes, better than Taco Cabana). You just can't hate anything about that.

6. My dream kitchen is the Mexican/Spanish Hacienda style kitchen out of "A Walk In The Clouds" (yes, the Keanu Reeves movie), which incidentally is also the movie I had my first (and highly traumatic) kiss at in the summer before 9th grade.

7. My first kiss was traumatic because my mom and dad were sitting in the same movie theater about 10 rows behind me and my boyfriend and saw the whole thing. I was subsequently grounded for two weeks. Thank you for that Mexican Gods of child-rearing.

8. I taught myself how to knit five years ago and only made my first legitimate creation - a green Debbie Bliss cashmerino cardigan for my unborn manchild - two weeks ago.

9. I have an olive tree in my living room and a laurel tree in my sunroom. I one day aspire to have a full-fledged orchard including (but not limited to) the following trees: lime, lemon, orange, olive, laurel, avocado, cherry, almond, fig, and hybrid orange-lemons like my grandma used to have.

10. I have, for the past 6 months or so, been eating bell peppers and cucumbers like apples. There's just something so appealing and refreshing about them.

11. I dislike cats.

12. As a child, I used to have a reoccurring dream that I was being chased in slow motion by a lion living in my mother's boss's garden. I now have the reoccurring and highly irrational paranoia that I will get stuck in a public bathroom with those stalls that have a door that goes a foot above the floor, and that a rabid lion will be on the loose looking for Brenda-flesh to devour and I will not be able to climb high enough on the wall or toilet to get away from that grizzly death.

13. Most nights I eat half a lemon (and when I say lemon, I mean lime, because I'm Mexican), salt shaker on the table next to me, one strand of lime pulp at a time. I'm not kidding. According to my dentist, this has not yet adversely affected my tooth enamel, so I'm just going to keep on keepin' on until it does.

14. I am obsessed with Dim Sum and regularly drag Matt to Chinatown for what always turns into a tribute to gluttony more than a regular meal. On that note, Happy Year of the Ox!

15. A couple of months ago (much to Matt's horror) I cursed at a Barclays bank employee after two years of pent-up frustration with their ineptitude finally released itself on an unsuspecting Indian woman at the Wandsworth branch stuck with the weekend shift. Further explanation of this may require a separate post. Stay tuned.

16. The only thing I have ever "stolen" was a couple of gummy bears from one of those Brach's Candy stands at Kroger and I felt so ashamed about it I broke down crying and confessed to it as soon as I got home.

17. My first pet was a black gerbil my uncle gave me in Mexico at the age of 3. I named him Michael Jackson.

18. I once had a dream to be in the same eating or drinking establishment with Tony Danza while living in New York. I missed out on it by five minutes in 2006 at Jake's Dilemma on the Upper West Side.

19. Before I met Matt, the only thing I really knew about Connecticut was that PT Barnum was once the Mayor of Bridgeport thanks to the 4th grade play I was part of the "Prologue Cast" (wtf is that?!) in: "The Life and Times of PT Barnum."

20. I'm not gonna lie - I like musicals. But mostly the classics like The Sound of Music, The King and I, Oklahoma, etc.

21. I once almost died from an allergic reaction and the consequent onset of anaphylactic shock after eating cajun gumbo in New Orleans. Despite this, I still cannot make myself abstain from ordering it.

22. In 4th grade a bull from the pasture behind the playground (yep, welcome to TX y'all) got loose. We were let out for recess anyway. Of course, as fate would have it, I was wearing a red jacket that day and was convinced it would maul me if I made one wrong move. No gravel-y hands that day.

23. To this day, the best birthday party I ever had was in 8th grade when I stashed a secret holding of 150 water-balloons in the backyard and brutally ambushed my guests with them while they unsuspectingly ate hot dogs and burgers in the backyard. Oh, and then my dad brought out the hose. That was the best.

24. I love eating raw garlic. It comes with the perk of good-smelling hands for the rest of the day.

25. I compulsively watch History Channel shows on World War II and the Holocaust and never get tired of them.