There has been a since settled controversy among the Landenwitsches and the Parkers. Sam attempted to make the argument that New Haven pizza was famous. Team Parker (plus Katy Keifer, Lisa D'Agrosa, and other friends of Team Parker) stood strong that New Haven is not famous for anything at all.
After trying said pizza, I wrote an e mail to both teams, so they would know the Truth about New Haven pizza. The e mail went as follows:
Dear family,
You all have heard about and participated in the ongoing debate over Sam's statement regarding the famous-ness of New Haven pizza. Thankfully, and partially due to the support of some of you, Sam realized that even if pizza in New Haven is very good, and even if people who go to Yale think that New Haven pizza is famous, that in fact New Haven, CT just isn't that famous.
(And Sam, thanks for taking this minor defeat so well. We only tease out of love.)
But I am not writing to rub this victory is Sam's face, I am writing to tell you all that just a few short days ago, I tasted New Haven pizza. Sam gave me a short tour around Yale, and then we went to Sally's. It was quite a scene. We waited outside in line for a while, and then waited after we ordered for a while, but from the staff and the old pictures and newspaper clippings on the wall (from CT newspapers 20 years ago... not enough to dub anything "famous") I had the feeling it was going to be worth it.
We had a pizza with mushrooms, and a white pizza with potatoes and rosemary. "Well how was it?!" I'm sure you're wondering if you haven't had the pleasure. Let me tell you, it was very very good. It was good for lunch the next day too.
And that's the Truth about New Haven pizza.
Since I have everyone's attention, I also wanted to say what a wonderful trip I had on the East Coast. Although I was a little sad to leave, I feel very lucky to have such fantastic people to spend my time with. Love you all.
xo,
Amy
____________________________
Then I decided that this was too funny to keep to myself and I should just throw this thing up on yelp. I took out the parts making fun of The Boy (yes, Sam), and about loving all of my friends and family on the east(... which is oh so true and I miss and love everyone) and posted it.
Hours later I received a disgruntled message from someone named "Joe." He did not refute the point that New Have pizza is NOT famous. But he did further prove that people from New Haven/ people who went to Yale/ people who have not left Connecticut are totally out of control. His message was:
Just my 2 cents...I'm going to have to respectfully disagree with that not "famous" remark. New Haven pizza is well known to lots of die hard pizza aficionados "in the know", not just Yalies.
New Haven has a high concentration of decendents from Italy, particularly Naples (my ancesters included), so it's pizza status isn't really a surprise to any of us living in Connecticut. Outsiders aren't usually aware of this demographic fact.
In Ed Levine's recent book Pizza: Slice of Heaven he acknowledges Wooster Street as making some of best in the world. He thinks so highly of New Haven pizza he gives it its own chapter. And Ed is a die hard New Yorker.
Plus, Jeff Varasano is a wildly respected pizza nut and in his list of top pizza places, the only other city than New York City he considers to have top tier pizza is New Haven. And it's not just one place; he considers 3 places in New Haven to be top tier. Also, Jeff says The Food Network ranks Sally's as best in the nation. I'll take his work for it.
http://www.varasanos.com/PizzaRecipe.htm
Every place has its bad days, including Wooster Street, so it may take more than one visit to generate a solid opinion. But I've lived in both New York City and New Haven and I consider New Haven pizza to be better in general. I say "in general" because there is bad pizza to be found everywhere, including in New Haven.
Like I said, respectfully, just my 2 cents :-)
____________________________
Yep.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Friday, April 23, 2010
falling off the wagon
I have a problem. I am addicted to reality television. Let's take a few moments to track my favorite distraction.
It began early in life. I remember my mom (Pam) coming home from work, and telling me not to watch "that crap," usually referring to Ricky Lake or something like that, but even worse was late at night I would sneak downstairs to watch the Real World or some might even remember Undressed.
I distinctly remember the Real World Seattle , which came out in 1998. (I checked on wikipedia. Yep, I did. I mean, I'm already online.) There I was, part way through middle school, 11 or 12, watching these crazy fools interact with each other. That was only the beginning of the weirdness reality tv brought into our living rooms, bedrooms, and now even on planes.
Who could forget a real turning point in these brain melting candy... bringing semi-celebrities into the embarrassment that is participating in reality television. Anna Nicole Smith. When it first aired, my mom (Alyson) and I stared with mouths open and we kept asking each other "Is this for real?" We couldn't figure out if it was a bad joke or a woman with a drug problem or supposed be reality tv. Unable to peel our eyes from the screen we knew we would need more.
Which reminds me:
Upstairs the other night, we hosted a game night, and there was a controversial match of Celebrity played. Compete with pointed fingers, screaming, accusations, and even a little name calling. During the first round, someone from the other team got stumped. The seconds were running as Diane kept time on my phone, as the appointed referee, an integral role. Finally time ran out, Diane called it, and then a crumpled piece of rectangular paper was getting waived in her face. "Is this even a celebrity?!" JP demanded, head sea-sawing between his shoulders. Diane grabbed the paper out of his hand, she opened her mouth to speak, but JP, had continued to yell "I don't even know who this is!" and "This is not a celebrity!"
I looked over her shoulder to read "Nicole Smith," scribbled down. We laughed and Diane made her ruling as soon as it was quiet enough.
Back to the real story:
Anna Nicole, may she rest in peace, really paved the way for VH1's dubbed "Celebreality," and beyond. There have been some real gems: Bret Michaels, The Osbournes, and of course my favorite, Flavor of Love and all the spin offs. Thanks to gifts exclusively from my mom (Alyson), I am the proud owner of full DVD sets of some of these shows.
My current relapse into reality binging, has been brought on by my mom (Alyson), as she is clearly my worst enabler. In addition to feeding my addiction with Anna Nicole, Flavor Flav, and New York, told me just the other night that I should check out "Jerseylicious." I looked on hulu, the style network, and then took it to a google search. The best I could find was 3 minute clips, but I cannot make it through a reality experience 3 minute clip at a time. Especially when we all know that the most addicting reality characters are those full of New Jersey in their hearts.
In my hunt for this new reality show, as I was looking around hulu, I made the mistake of clicking on the "reality" genre. Little did I know I was just a click away from my 2001 favorite... Temptation Island.
The Premise: Let's take 4 couples, separate them from each other, and stick them with 15 singles picked out specifically to fit their tastes. Now take a second, and just try to imagine how completely fucked up in the head and the heart you'd have to be to think that this was any shade of a good idea. Yikes.
You all should also know that during a week of unemployed pms, this is the best medicine. Hopefully I'll post again before finishing Season Two.
It began early in life. I remember my mom (Pam) coming home from work, and telling me not to watch "that crap," usually referring to Ricky Lake or something like that, but even worse was late at night I would sneak downstairs to watch the Real World or some might even remember Undressed.
I distinctly remember the Real World Seattle , which came out in 1998. (I checked on wikipedia. Yep, I did. I mean, I'm already online.) There I was, part way through middle school, 11 or 12, watching these crazy fools interact with each other. That was only the beginning of the weirdness reality tv brought into our living rooms, bedrooms, and now even on planes.
Who could forget a real turning point in these brain melting candy... bringing semi-celebrities into the embarrassment that is participating in reality television. Anna Nicole Smith. When it first aired, my mom (Alyson) and I stared with mouths open and we kept asking each other "Is this for real?" We couldn't figure out if it was a bad joke or a woman with a drug problem or supposed be reality tv. Unable to peel our eyes from the screen we knew we would need more.
Which reminds me:
Upstairs the other night, we hosted a game night, and there was a controversial match of Celebrity played. Compete with pointed fingers, screaming, accusations, and even a little name calling. During the first round, someone from the other team got stumped. The seconds were running as Diane kept time on my phone, as the appointed referee, an integral role. Finally time ran out, Diane called it, and then a crumpled piece of rectangular paper was getting waived in her face. "Is this even a celebrity?!" JP demanded, head sea-sawing between his shoulders. Diane grabbed the paper out of his hand, she opened her mouth to speak, but JP, had continued to yell "I don't even know who this is!" and "This is not a celebrity!"
I looked over her shoulder to read "Nicole Smith," scribbled down. We laughed and Diane made her ruling as soon as it was quiet enough.
Back to the real story:
Anna Nicole, may she rest in peace, really paved the way for VH1's dubbed "Celebreality," and beyond. There have been some real gems: Bret Michaels, The Osbournes, and of course my favorite, Flavor of Love and all the spin offs. Thanks to gifts exclusively from my mom (Alyson), I am the proud owner of full DVD sets of some of these shows.
My current relapse into reality binging, has been brought on by my mom (Alyson), as she is clearly my worst enabler. In addition to feeding my addiction with Anna Nicole, Flavor Flav, and New York, told me just the other night that I should check out "Jerseylicious." I looked on hulu, the style network, and then took it to a google search. The best I could find was 3 minute clips, but I cannot make it through a reality experience 3 minute clip at a time. Especially when we all know that the most addicting reality characters are those full of New Jersey in their hearts.
In my hunt for this new reality show, as I was looking around hulu, I made the mistake of clicking on the "reality" genre. Little did I know I was just a click away from my 2001 favorite... Temptation Island.
The Premise: Let's take 4 couples, separate them from each other, and stick them with 15 singles picked out specifically to fit their tastes. Now take a second, and just try to imagine how completely fucked up in the head and the heart you'd have to be to think that this was any shade of a good idea. Yikes.
You all should also know that during a week of unemployed pms, this is the best medicine. Hopefully I'll post again before finishing Season Two.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
lost and found
A couple of days after I started this blog, I had a bunch of ideas for posts. Because I can't be sure how long a thought will flicker, I started writing enough so I could come back to these seedlings. Apparently hitting "SAVE NOW" doesn't mean what I expected it to. My new theory is that this "SAVE NOW" blue rectangle, does not do what it implies.
There is no draft section in sight.
I don't have a great understanding of how to work the computer, the internet, or any combination. So, at this point there are two possibilities:
One. It's here, saved, somewhere. I either don't see it or don't know where to look.
Two. I thought I was saving something to my blog area, but it really is just a save as you go type of situation.
Don't worry friends, I always have plenty to say. And even if I don't have a real point, I can go on. And on. I just wish there was a Lost and Found for ideas.
There is no draft section in sight.
I don't have a great understanding of how to work the computer, the internet, or any combination. So, at this point there are two possibilities:
One. It's here, saved, somewhere. I either don't see it or don't know where to look.
Two. I thought I was saving something to my blog area, but it really is just a save as you go type of situation.
Don't worry friends, I always have plenty to say. And even if I don't have a real point, I can go on. And on. I just wish there was a Lost and Found for ideas.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
cowboys t shirt
Third Saturday of every month, right here in Oakland. I've missed it 7 times, but not last night. Hella Gay.
Nicole and I were watching one of the worst movies ever made, if not The Worst. It's called Martian Child, and let me just say, John Cusack should just stop right now. The premise: he's a sci-fi writer who writes about Mars, and he adopts a foster kid who thinks he's from Mars. Maybe they were trying to recapture the magic of Bid Daddy, but they didn't. They didn't capture anything at all.
After about 20 minutes of that nonsense, it was clearly time to rally for Hella Gay. I zipped a purple hoodie over my cowboys t shirt, washed out, and worn since mom (Alyson) was a longhorn, and we crossed six lanes to get to the other side of Martin Luther King Way. We needed juice for the gin I had bought for Sam before the whole ulcer thing. We were weighing the pros and cons of Orange Juice and Lemonade, but we agreed on Grapefruit. It was almost florescent.
A tall, dark, and unhandsome man stepped too close as we were paying, as he said inappropriate things to Nicole, then to me, and then both of us at the same time. Because Nicole has made friends at the corner store, Bill, right in front of us on the register, quietly told this guy to "step away from his hotness." Not the best start, but it took a turn for the best as we returned to mix in the gin.
It felt so warm in our kitchen, and when I unzipped, I realized that I had put my cowboys t shirt on over my head Wednesday, paired with spandex, so I could be comfy for flying. It was now Saturday. Same shirt. The bra went off and on for sleeping, and underwear changed like Roy G Biv, but Yikes. Nicole poured with no regards for measurement, and I took a block of ice that used to be a store bought plastic bag full of ice cubes out to attempt to break it into its intended form.
Tashina (The Other Roommate) was in her room, only separated from the kitchen by a sheer white cloth, so I moved my project into the living room. Arms by my ears, I slammed down the bag against the arm of the futon. I stepped back into the kitchen and plopped ice into Nicole's drink, but the rest of the ice had only broken in two. Fuck it, I thought, and I started hacking away on the side of the refrigerator. Enough ice worked it's way out, and so did Tashina.
We drank, well Nicole and I did, laughed, cursed, and when Nicole's cup reached empty she went to change in her room. I walked into my room, glanced in my closet, looked down at my t shirt, went back out to the kitchen, and poured another drink. I was drunk and it was time to dance. Brandy (Nicole's girlfriend) came over just in time to give us a ride over to the Uptown, home of Hella Gay. Zanetta (the Ebony to my Ivory) was already there. We bumped, shook, jumped, and gyrated until last call at 1:45.
As the Hella Gay goers poured onto the pavement, the spicy smell of sausages turning on the fire grill cart, made it feel like a backyard barbecue. A boy I was dancing with earlier came over to me. My height, brown hair, pale skin, and a black A Line tank.
"Hey. What's your name?"
"Amy."
"Hey Amy. Patrick," he nodded.
I hoped he'd walk away. Didn't feel like making new friends- gay, straight, or otherwise. But I was drunk enough that not wanting to move outweighed anti-social tendencies.
"Hey. How's it goin?"
"Good," and then he paused, beginning a smirk that stayed on his face until after I turned away
"OK." I said looking towards my sober friend with keys to her car in hand.
"You always know how to make me feel like a girl."
"Ummm... OK."
"But you have the boobs."
Nicole and I were watching one of the worst movies ever made, if not The Worst. It's called Martian Child, and let me just say, John Cusack should just stop right now. The premise: he's a sci-fi writer who writes about Mars, and he adopts a foster kid who thinks he's from Mars. Maybe they were trying to recapture the magic of Bid Daddy, but they didn't. They didn't capture anything at all.
After about 20 minutes of that nonsense, it was clearly time to rally for Hella Gay. I zipped a purple hoodie over my cowboys t shirt, washed out, and worn since mom (Alyson) was a longhorn, and we crossed six lanes to get to the other side of Martin Luther King Way. We needed juice for the gin I had bought for Sam before the whole ulcer thing. We were weighing the pros and cons of Orange Juice and Lemonade, but we agreed on Grapefruit. It was almost florescent.
A tall, dark, and unhandsome man stepped too close as we were paying, as he said inappropriate things to Nicole, then to me, and then both of us at the same time. Because Nicole has made friends at the corner store, Bill, right in front of us on the register, quietly told this guy to "step away from his hotness." Not the best start, but it took a turn for the best as we returned to mix in the gin.
It felt so warm in our kitchen, and when I unzipped, I realized that I had put my cowboys t shirt on over my head Wednesday, paired with spandex, so I could be comfy for flying. It was now Saturday. Same shirt. The bra went off and on for sleeping, and underwear changed like Roy G Biv, but Yikes. Nicole poured with no regards for measurement, and I took a block of ice that used to be a store bought plastic bag full of ice cubes out to attempt to break it into its intended form.
Tashina (The Other Roommate) was in her room, only separated from the kitchen by a sheer white cloth, so I moved my project into the living room. Arms by my ears, I slammed down the bag against the arm of the futon. I stepped back into the kitchen and plopped ice into Nicole's drink, but the rest of the ice had only broken in two. Fuck it, I thought, and I started hacking away on the side of the refrigerator. Enough ice worked it's way out, and so did Tashina.
We drank, well Nicole and I did, laughed, cursed, and when Nicole's cup reached empty she went to change in her room. I walked into my room, glanced in my closet, looked down at my t shirt, went back out to the kitchen, and poured another drink. I was drunk and it was time to dance. Brandy (Nicole's girlfriend) came over just in time to give us a ride over to the Uptown, home of Hella Gay. Zanetta (the Ebony to my Ivory) was already there. We bumped, shook, jumped, and gyrated until last call at 1:45.
As the Hella Gay goers poured onto the pavement, the spicy smell of sausages turning on the fire grill cart, made it feel like a backyard barbecue. A boy I was dancing with earlier came over to me. My height, brown hair, pale skin, and a black A Line tank.
"Hey. What's your name?"
"Amy."
"Hey Amy. Patrick," he nodded.
I hoped he'd walk away. Didn't feel like making new friends- gay, straight, or otherwise. But I was drunk enough that not wanting to move outweighed anti-social tendencies.
"Hey. How's it goin?"
"Good," and then he paused, beginning a smirk that stayed on his face until after I turned away
"OK." I said looking towards my sober friend with keys to her car in hand.
"You always know how to make me feel like a girl."
"Ummm... OK."
"But you have the boobs."
Friday, April 16, 2010
four grandmas
You know when a group forces you unwillingly to participate in a round of icebreakers (and sometimes you might secretly enjoy it, but you'll still roll your eyes)? Have you ever faced a question that goes something like "What's something that people wouldn't expect by looking at you?"
I freeze every time. Every time. And I default to "I got hit in the face with a golf club." Every time.
Well, next time... I'll be ready. One can only hope that my next career will lead me to awkward intro questions and ice breakers, so I can use this one on them.
I have four grandmas.
I'm sure some folks might read that, and think "that's not fair," because they might only have one or none at all, but we all know in our hearts, this one isn't about fair. It's the rule of Moms.
Let's backup a minute:
In my last post it said "mom (Alyson)" and that could have been because I wanted everyone to know that my mom's name is Alyson, which is true. However it also serves as a way to differentiate between my mom, Alyson, who ever so kindly squeezed me out 23 years ago, and my step mom, Pam, who ever so kindly has helped raise me for the last 19. It's tricky because I call them both "mom," because yes, I have got two moms.
If you're trying to jump ahead, and you're excellent at Math you're wondering how two moms and a dad equal four grandmas, but let me just tell you who's who first.
Grandma Mandy comes as part of a set, along with Grandpa Marty. My dad's parents who couldn't be any more lovely or tiny. When I was little I called her "Maima," she gave me a peter pan haircut that looked like a golden beanie with tiny curls popping out unexpectedly, and she would eat half a grapefruit for breakfast. I got to put sugar on my half.
Savta (Hebrew for grandma) Bobby is Pam's mom. She is a strong woman with a lot going on: water color classes, bridge games, trips to the museum, and more. I remember being at The Lake House growing up, and climbing into her bed so we could play with troll dolls. And put make up on them. Drag queen troll dolls... maybe we were onto something.
Ruth is Alyson's mom, and she (then with Grandpa Herb) would take me to Pizza Hut. One time Sue, my babysitter, gave my grandparent's directions to Pizza Hut, but at the big intersection we went the wrong way. Even in second grade I knew it was the wrong way. Sue jokes still to this day that she wasn't sure if she would ever see me again.
And last, but in no way least, there is The New Grandma, Lenore. As it turns out, mom (Alyson) was adopted. But she found her birth mother just about 2 years ago. She is the quintessential Florida-dwelling Jewish Grandmother, and she's fabulous. Seriously. She has leopard print glasses.
So when I refer to these glorious people, you'll already know about my four grandmas.
I freeze every time. Every time. And I default to "I got hit in the face with a golf club." Every time.
Well, next time... I'll be ready. One can only hope that my next career will lead me to awkward intro questions and ice breakers, so I can use this one on them.
I have four grandmas.
I'm sure some folks might read that, and think "that's not fair," because they might only have one or none at all, but we all know in our hearts, this one isn't about fair. It's the rule of Moms.
Let's backup a minute:
In my last post it said "mom (Alyson)" and that could have been because I wanted everyone to know that my mom's name is Alyson, which is true. However it also serves as a way to differentiate between my mom, Alyson, who ever so kindly squeezed me out 23 years ago, and my step mom, Pam, who ever so kindly has helped raise me for the last 19. It's tricky because I call them both "mom," because yes, I have got two moms.
If you're trying to jump ahead, and you're excellent at Math you're wondering how two moms and a dad equal four grandmas, but let me just tell you who's who first.
Grandma Mandy comes as part of a set, along with Grandpa Marty. My dad's parents who couldn't be any more lovely or tiny. When I was little I called her "Maima," she gave me a peter pan haircut that looked like a golden beanie with tiny curls popping out unexpectedly, and she would eat half a grapefruit for breakfast. I got to put sugar on my half.
Savta (Hebrew for grandma) Bobby is Pam's mom. She is a strong woman with a lot going on: water color classes, bridge games, trips to the museum, and more. I remember being at The Lake House growing up, and climbing into her bed so we could play with troll dolls. And put make up on them. Drag queen troll dolls... maybe we were onto something.
Ruth is Alyson's mom, and she (then with Grandpa Herb) would take me to Pizza Hut. One time Sue, my babysitter, gave my grandparent's directions to Pizza Hut, but at the big intersection we went the wrong way. Even in second grade I knew it was the wrong way. Sue jokes still to this day that she wasn't sure if she would ever see me again.
And last, but in no way least, there is The New Grandma, Lenore. As it turns out, mom (Alyson) was adopted. But she found her birth mother just about 2 years ago. She is the quintessential Florida-dwelling Jewish Grandmother, and she's fabulous. Seriously. She has leopard print glasses.
So when I refer to these glorious people, you'll already know about my four grandmas.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
the beginning
Last year, my very close and very personal friend, Lisa D. tore her ACL. While she was recovering and stuck in bed for days, my mom (Alyson) and I brought her tons of delicious baked goods from a lovely bakery called Flour. But that's not what this story is about, I mention it because when she had all of this time to lounge in her bed with a crazy ass machine attached to her knee, she started a blog. Since she's a registered dietitian, it made sense that it was all about food. And since I'm not registered for anything and currently unemployed, mine will be about whatever I feel like.
For example I have tons of material just from today: the madness that is Berkeley Bowl, Nicole (one of my roommates) making hummus not with a few cloves of garlic, but putting three entire garlic bulbs in a batch, or when I broiled asparagus until smoke came out of the oven. And this is just about food. There's also a lovely and loud conversation I had with my mom (Alyson), and when Sam (The Boy) called mid-way though me writing this to suggest that I start a blog.
I'll start slow. Don't want to scare anyone off just yet, but this is just the beginning.
For example I have tons of material just from today: the madness that is Berkeley Bowl, Nicole (one of my roommates) making hummus not with a few cloves of garlic, but putting three entire garlic bulbs in a batch, or when I broiled asparagus until smoke came out of the oven. And this is just about food. There's also a lovely and loud conversation I had with my mom (Alyson), and when Sam (The Boy) called mid-way though me writing this to suggest that I start a blog.
I'll start slow. Don't want to scare anyone off just yet, but this is just the beginning.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
