Gypsy

I'm currently homeless, jobless, and without a car - and it's kind of awesome. 

I moved out of my beloved house in charming Little Italy last week and am staying temporarily with (very generous) friends in Harbor East until I exit the country this Saturday. This morning, I went to the MVA with my pal Jessica and signed over the title to her and turned in the tags for my (also beloved) Mazda 3. That car was (is) so awesome, and it's going to a very good new life with Jessica who, I know, will love and care for her as much as I did. 

The Gentleman got in last night, and we managed to catch some of the Superbowl (what the hell was that) before totally passing out from sheer exhaustion.

And then, suddenly, everything that I needed to do is done. All of the balls are no longer in my court,  but in the courts of those holding my international paperwork and earthly belongings and all I have to do for the rest of the week is tie up a few loose ends, present my Capstone project for my certification, graduate with said certification, and say a lot of tearful goodbyes.

There's nothing like moving to another country to bring you closer to people you love. Every lunch, brunch, dinner, drink, walk, and workout is painted with "only x left" or "one last," and it's also a time of recollection. "Remember when we..." and "Remember that time..." All of these conversations bring to a close the life you have been living and remind you that, whatever ish went down, all of it was mostly good and fun and will be missed.

And, suddenly, after a year and a half of long distance, The Gentleman - who is no longer my boyfriend, but - I hate this word but - my fiance is here, and there's no pending goodbye, no terrible public airport moment or tearful car ride home alone after a drop off. When we leave Baltimore on Saturday, we leave together, and we head to our new home in the desert. It will take some getting used to to have his handsomeness around me all of the time. Also, I fear a coup between him and the cats. There will be battles. But we'll figure it out.

Excitingly, there are invitations for book clubs, weekends in Dubai, workout classes, brunches, and dinners already in what will be my new home. Over the last year and a half, we've cultivated the seeds of what I hope will become good friends out there and a social life that will prove as fun and fulfilling as the one I had in Baltimore, albeit in a completely different setting. 

But, for now, it's wrapping up the few loose ends that exist here, attending some lovely gatherings full of people we know and love who are coming out to wish us well on our adventure, and making sure that the cats feel loved and appreciated in the midst of the craziness. 

And it's kind of nice to be a gypsy. But only for a week. I'll be ready to go home by the end of it.

The Grossness Continues

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I digress.

First, this happened. You should prolly get caught up on that first.

Are you with me now? Ok, good. So, yesterday, I was thinking to myself - "ya know, I've been popping these prescription-strength Ibuprofens every 6 hours for the past 5 days...maybe I should back off a little and just see how things go."

Horrible, horrible, HORRIBLE idea.

I'm taking the equivalent of 12 Ibuprofen a day. I guess that's kind of a lot. And - for once - I decided to think respectfully of my liver and innards. A little break from constant medication would be nice.

So, I'd like you to close your eyes for a moment. No wait, don't - because then you won't be able to fall down the rabbit hole fairy tale of pain I'm about to take you through.

Imagine that you take one of those gorgeous $40 Williams-Sonoma cheese graters. The really shiny kind. Let's say you shrink it down, real small, and have a tiny helper (an elf, if you will) carry it inside of your mouth and proceed to vigorously grate the roof of your mouth for minutes on end. 

Let's start there.

Then, let's say that this elf then goes down and repeats the procedure to the gum line just below your lower front teeth. 

Still with me? Do you need some Ibuprofen? YOU CAN'T HAVE ANY OF MINE.

Now, let's say that the elf recruits his or her much-larger buddy - say a giant of sorts - to come and punch you square in the face. 

Adding to this funness, let's say that the stitches on the roof of your mouth have now carved an irritated swath across your tongue. Kind of like a gentler Williams-Sonoma cheese grater. 

Basically - my entire mouth and jaw felt like one massive, oozing canker sore. 

It took almost an hour for the Ibuprofen I frantically took to take effect. In between crying, "I'm not ready for this!" and holding ice water in my mouth trying to dilute the pain, I questioned my ability to carry on with life.

I am only being slightly dramatic here.

No, but seriously - this shit is Pain. Ful. I don't think I realized the extent of it, because I've got more Ibuprofen in my system than Miley Cyrus has...well, just about anything short of nutrition. Plus I'm back to trying "solid" foods (beans, tiny bits of pita bread, sauteed spinach, and eggs - if you count those) and trying to get back on track with half-marathon training, so all of these things are really sort of pushing my system to the limit. 

I have an appointment to assess healing tomorrow. I can only hope that it comes with another prescription for 800mg Ibuprofen because I'm running dangerously low. And I just can't cope with the cheese-grated mouth.

Even if it is a really nice cheese grater from Williams-Sonoma.

Not A Pie Chart

I've been out of commission lately thanks to a lovely procedure I had last week which was not, in fact, a pie chart.

"You're getting what?"

"A gum graft."

"Gum graph? Like a pie chart?"

Not quite.

My dentist (whose assistant is emotionally and physically abusive but whom I see anyway because I'm too lazy to find a new one)  has been after me for awhile to go and see this specialist (periodontist? Maybe?) because my gums on my lower jaw are receding thanks to years of orthodontia, aggressive tooth brushing, and good old-fashioned Western European genetics that sensitively erode anything that comes into contact with acidic things (one of my favorite food groups: lemons, pickles, tomatoes, booze). I finally shelved my dental anxiety and went in for a consultation. She was neither emotionally nor physically abusive so I trusted her instantly even as she explained to me what a gum graft is.

For those who are squeamish, this is about to get real nasty.

Basically, they numb up your mouth (which is THE WORST - isn't there anyway they can make those Novocaine shots less terrifying?) and then shove a tiny metal spoon down in between your teeth and gums in the graft area to create space. Jiggle that thing around until your gums are nice and destroyed. Then, they shred little tiny pieces of gum out of the roof of your mouth, transplant them to the graft area, and pack them into the pockets of gum they just created with the tiny metal spoon thing. Lash the whole package of gum and grafted gum material in with yards and yards of stitches, lash up the roof of your mouth with yards and yards of stitches, and send you on your way.

I mean, Saw couldn't come up with this shit.

She then explained that this procedure doesn't require anesthesia. But that if I have qualms about it, I can opt for an Ativan prescription and make arrangements for someone to drive me to/from the appointment.

Yes, please.

So, my buddy Jessica kindly agreed to drive me to/from the procedure, and really, I think she got the better end of the deal because she got to experience me on copious amounts of Ativan. 

I woke up the morning of the surgery and ate breakfast (doctor's orders, which made me happy because I hate being hungry and she insisted that I eat prior to the procedure) and then popped two Ativan. I immediately went back to sleep until Jessica came to pick me up. I don't remember much from the drive there, and I only vaguely remember handing my paperwork to the assistant and getting settled into the chair. Epic fail on Jessica's part - she let me take my phone back into the room with me where I proceeded to Instagram myself looking drugged out of my mind. Behold:

I have a feeling those pictures will be back to haunt me someday.

Anyhoodle, the procedure itself actually wasn't bad at all. The Novocaine was the worst part (HONESTLY with all of the medical advances we have, WHY HASN'T SOMEONE LOOKED INTO THE PHYSICAL AND EMOTIONAL TURMOIL CAUSED BY NOVOCAINE INJECTIONS?!?!?!) and then I mostly just tuned out. I was allowed to bring headphones and so I started out trying to listen to This American Life before quickly realizing that I lacked the mental capacity to follow it and switched over to music. 

The procedure was projected onto a large screen TV in front of me so that the specialist could get a magnified view of what she was doing, and I found myself watching it. Normally, the site of something like that would send me doubled over into my bed for days questioning my own existence but, thanks to the Ativan, I instead found it mesmerizing. It was like watching Planet Earth, if Planet Earth was your mouth and someone was excavating and relocating portions of it. 

The graft site - it's covered with a putty-like bandage so you can't even see it. This is a couple of days after the surgery and the swelling has gone down significantly.

Stitches on the roof of my mouth with putty-like bandage over them so you can't see the whole thing, just the ends of the stitches poking out. I can't stop touching them with my tongue. It's kind of maddening.

I don't remember leaving the clinic. I vaguely remember them finishing up and taking off my bib and glasses and telling me that I could go, and I was very confused about this. I was certain we weren't finished yet, but they insisted that everything was done and that Jessica was allowed to take me home. 

Jessica did not, however, take me home. She took me to CVS to fill another prescription. I have barely a glimpse of recollection of being in CVS but apparently we had a very long, in-depth conversation about nail polish and I was extremely judgy and opinionated about people who elaborately paint their nails and post that shit on Pinterest. Which I would never, apparently in my Ativan-state, do. Cue two days later when I was bored from lying around recovering and elaborately painted my nails and posted that shit on Instagram. 

I also apparently informed Jessica that I am not allowed to run for 48 hours post-surgery and asked her, very seriously, "please do not let me go for a run." As if.

Once I got home, I immediately took a very long nap. I had some soup, watched Breaking Bad, Skyped with my boyfriend (I'm sure we had a very meaningful conversation), and napped some more. Jessica came over in the evening and we had an eventful time on the couch with her studying and me "watching tv" (sleeping in an upright position). I went to bed around 9:30 and slept until about 7:30 the next morning, and then went into work. 

Pain-wise, I felt nothing that first day. The Novocaine and high doses of prescription-strength Ibuprofen did the trick. In fact, nothing really started to hurt until the afternoon of the second day. And then, it mostly just ached like a bruise. 

I did go to work (and had back-to-back meetings, naturally) and my face was a little swollen. Mostly I just felt tired and my jaw ached as though I'd had my braces tightened. More prescription-strength Ibuprofen to the rescue.

Day after the surgery - selfie at work.

That ice pack and my face were intimate for about 48 hours post-surgery. 

Two days after surgery - swelling completely gone. Yes, I take selfies at work.

I'm now four days post-surgery and my biggest problem now is eating. I can't eat anything with seeds or that might stick in the stitches, and I have to take teeny tiny bites of things. I can only eat on one side of my mouth and I look like a freak because I kind of tilt my head to keep the food away from the stitches. I went to an Orioles game last night and had what I'm sure was a disgusting procedure of eating a hot dog (the meat part only) by picking tiny chips of meat and packing them into the side of my mouth.

Mostly, it's soup and smoothies. My mouth feels tender and I'm still on antibiotics and taking the pain meds, although much less frequently. The stitches will come out in a couple of weeks and hopefully reveal a lovely new healthy gum line which I will probably proceed to destroy because I can't stay away from acidic foods. But here's hoping it takes another 31 years to do. 

All in all, the procedure was really not bad and much, much less painful than I'd anticipated. 

But definitely ask for the Ativan. And have a trustworthy friend drive you, who will later be able to fill you in on all of the fun things you said and did while drugged up.

A Most Excellent Dinner

First off, you guys all need to go and check out my Book Club girl Legs's blog here. For years, we have all been entertained by Legs's emails which veer so far off-subject that you can't help but read, intrigued and amused. YOU SHOULD START A BLOG, I think we all said. Or we would have, if we could stop laughing. Either way, she did, and it's awesome. 

And now onto the good stuff:

My friend, The Kid, made a pretty awesome dinner last night.

It was a bit of a surreal experience, because The Kid is now currently living in the house owned by his older brother, my bestest Wingman Lee who decided to get married to (the awesome) Hot Curry and move off to the (not quite so awesome? Jury's still out?) city of Salt Lake a year and a half ago. Also now residing in this house, where I spent many a reckless evening drinking vodka and complaining about my life, is my own dear brother. He and The Kid have actually made a lovely home in Lee's absence, and it was quite clean despite what you'd expect from two boys.

I say surreal, because it's always odd to walk into someone's house when they no longer live there, and see all the similarities and differences. The couch is in the same position, but it's not the same couch. The enlarged framed Boardwalk Monopoly card is still on the wall, but now it's opposite an epic picture of a crashing wave that The Kid "found in the shed out back." It's the same house, but it's different.

Anyway, before I get too sentimental, let me go back to the food. The Kid is a freaking fantastic cook, and I'd heard rumors of this fact from my brother who was amazed that cooking involved more than "heating things up." But my pal Emily and I had yet to witness this for ourselves, and so The Kid invited us over last night for one of his delicious meals. And hot damn, did he deliver. 

The Kid made us chicken parmesan. Seems pretty simple, right? I guess, but SOMEHOW IT TASTED MAGICAL. I have no idea how this happened. I was drinking wine the whole time, however, and babbling on about politics so I may have  missed some steps. 

Step one: pour wine. Into plastic glasses. Because we're classy.

The first step to being an excellent cook - get some tattoos. Then de-fat chicken breasts. Mohawk optional but preferred.

Step two: arrange radishes prettily next to panko bread crumbs, prepare dipping procedure. Make sure wine is handy.

Throw that shit in a pan, and brown it for the amount of time it takes Emily to find a parking space, come in, and pour herself a glass of wine. That's a metric measurement.

Stick them in the oven with some magic sauce and some mozzarella cheese on top and bake for the amount of time it takes for all three of us to catch up on gossip and make big plans for the future and drink more wine. Again - metric measurement.

Pull that 'ish out of the oven, cut in  half to test. The Kid says that the proper time to cook chick en and bacon is "until you think it needs just one more minute - that means it's done." Totes brill.

The Kid made us basil panna cotta with strawberries for dessert (NBD, RIGHT?!). Shown here with classy wine glass to prove that The Kid only purchases multi-use materials.

Long story short, it was an incredible dinner, and I had some incredible chicken parm leftovers for lunch today. You know something is good when you can microwave the hell out of it in your crappy work microwave, and it's still so delicious that you  have to stop answering emails at your desk to sit and enjoy the zen moment of cheese, breaded chicken, and marinara. Awesome.

In other news - The Gentleman arrives next week, and we are taking off for his hometown of Albuquerque, New Mexico, and from there on to Cancun for 6 days where I can be found lying on the beach reading Ann Patchett and drinking tropical things. Buh-bye.

Also - The Gentleman's family procured us tickets to go to the rodeo in NM. I. Cannot. Wait. Pictures to follow.

Heavy Seas and Restaurant Week

Let's take a quick break from Prague and Berlin (don't worry - we'll be back with more on the bars, museums, and clubs) to discuss the delightful little Saturday I had last weekend.

One of my girl pals is on one of those New-to-Baltimore List Serv thingies (even though she moved back here six months ago) and happened upon a chance to tour the Heavy Seas brewery just outside of Baltimore City. Heavy Seas makes deliciousness like its flagship IPA Loose Cannon and the delicious new Siren Noir (a chocolate stout aged in bourbon barrels). Even so, I never pass up an opportunity to see where one of my favorite things (beer, wine, chocolate, what have you) is made.

$5 gets you in the door and 5 "free taste" chips, each good for about 1/4 of a pint of beer from the sampler bar. Like many tastings I've been to, that 1/4 pint swiftly turned into 1/2 pint tastes, and there seemed to be chips materializing out of thin air, so I'm pretty sure we had more than five tastes. We might have had twelve. But who's counting?!

Beer? No beer here.

Much like my embarrassing recycling pile every Thursday morning.

Bottle conveyer belt thingy with mesh = technical term.

If I made beer, I would be too.

No one goes thirsty on the tour.

We're helping the local economy by drinking beer!

This is where the beer comes down the chute and into the...bigger chute.
And stuff.

Good for 14 free beer samples.

You earned every one, Heavy Seas, EVERY ONE!

Loose Cannon and Siren Noir

SHINY TANKS!

Following our beer tour, my gal pal and I headed back to the city to meet a bunch of my friends from high school for Restaurant Week, another favorite Baltimore activity.

Restaurant Week is held twice a year (in August and January) and local restaurants have special prix fixe menus with two courses for lunch ($15.13) and three for dinner ($30.13). Generally, the idea is to encourage traffic to visit higher-end restaurants to sample the best of the best, but the list of participating venues grows every year. Depending on the restaurant, it's only occasionally a great deal money-wise, but the pairings tend to be excellently chosen, and if going with a crowd it's a great opportunity to share and get a broad tasting of the menu. This particular night, we went to Grille 700, which is inside the Baltimore Marriott Waterfront. 

Here's my menu for the evening:

Buffalo Sweet Breads, Local Bleu Cheese Spread, Pickled Carrots, Micro Celery 

I had never eaten sweet breads before, but I am always down for trying new animal parts. (For the most part. I might draw the line at, say, haggis...but having not yet been presented with the opportunity, I can't say for sure.) A misnomer about sweetbreads is that it's brains - it's not. It's the thymus gland (and can also be the pancreas if it's called "heart" or "belly" sweetbreads) and comes from a calf. The consistency is kind of like a tougher tofu, and the taste is incredibly rich as you'd expect any organ meat to be. I also happen to LOVE buffalo sauce and bleu cheese, so you probably could have coated a pig's ear in that combination and I would have gladly eaten it. But, truth be told, I actually really liked the sweetbreads and would absolutely try it again with a different kind of preparation to see if it's thymus gland I enjoyed or just something vaguely meaty and smothered in buffalo sauce. 

House Made Duck Ravioli, Hominy, Smoked Duck Broth

For my main course, I did the duck ravioli. It was good, but incredibly rich. Duck itself is a deliciously fatty meat, and although the ravioli was fairly light and not overdone on pasta, the whole meal was kind of heavy. Especially after the sweetbreads. In retrospect, the two did not pair particularly well together. But this was nonetheless quite good, the broth was rich and sugary-smoky, and the hominy was roasted beautifully. Hominy is sort of like giant kernels of corn, and provided a nice sweet balance to the richness of the ravioli. By itself, this dish was a meal and a half, though. I probably would have done better starting off with something lighter.

And dessert didn't help:

Smores Tart, Graham Crackers, Dark Chocolate Ganache, Creamy Caramel, Marshmallows

Oh. My. God. I love s'mores. I LOVE them. They combine all of my favorite dessert elements: graham cracker, marshmallow, and chocolate. You don't even have to mess with this recipe too much to get me all excited.

Let's take another look though, shall we?

 Yes, they've added MORE AWESOME STUFF like chocolate ganache and caramel to the inside of it. And it's all encased in some kind of crunchy, delicious graham cracker cookie crust thingy. Swoon.

And once the beer tasting and the three course dinner were all over, I went home and went to bed. At 9pm. On a Saturday night. And had delicious, delicious dreams.

And this is why I run half marathons. So I can eat like this.

A Brief Break From The Middle East To Talk About Wine

 So, let us take a brief break from Tales from the Middle East to take a gander at the weekend I had last week. I mean, two weeks ago. Oops. Time flies.


For The Gentleman's birthday this year, it was decided that we needed to go on a wine tour of Maryland, and that we would need a bus to take everyone. It transpired that someone had a friend of a friend who knew of someone who did wine tours of Maryland with buses. It was quite fortuitous, really. Except that we wound up with a party van. Which was fine, because the group  of 11 of us were still allowed to drink mimosas on board. Which is all we really wanted to do anyway. I mean, you know, in between all the delicious wine tasting.

We went through this before the first wine stop. Which was approximately twenty minutes outside the city. It was Saturday morning, and we were thirsty.

Elk Run winery in Mt. Airy was the first stop.

Someone commented that there's something incredibly depressing about vineyards in winter. True story.

Blank Ankle Vineyard, Mt. Airy. Definitely my favorite of the three. You can enjoy Black Ankle at such fine establishments in Baltimore as Flemings, or Bin 604. Or you can just make the trip yourself out to Mt. Airy.

Black Ankle

I'm so artsy.

Black Ankle

Black Ankle

Black Ankle

Black Ankle

We went on a very informative tour where we learned that this is the snrrffgaabjke that makes the jfyuhuhf. Or something. (IT WAS THE SECOND STOP AND WE KILLED FOUR MORE BOTTLE OF CHAMPAGNE MAKING MIMOSAS AFTER THE LAST STOP.)

And THIS is a....I'm not even going to try.

EZ Bake Oven?

The different vats were identified with Post-Its. It was so ridiculously tempting not to switch all the Post Its around. Also - please check out my awesome texting gloves that "Santa" (aka Mom+Dad) gave me for Christmas. The thumb and forefinger have some kind of NASA technology that allow you to utilize a touch screen whilst keeping your hands toasty warm. AWESOME, I KNOW! Seriously, I love these gloves.

What's a girl gotta do to get a drink around here?

A snarffblatt.

Shadow fail.

The tasting building is entirely eco-friendly and stuffed with hay. To prove they aren't lying, they included a Truth Window in the design. HONESTY.

Black Ankle is SO ecofriendly, even the bar is made out of hay and materials from the farm.

A prize in every glass!

Black Ankle

My recommendation? The Crumbling Rock. Holy wow.

Cheers!

The last stop on the tour was Detour Winery, which specializes in fruit and  ice wines. Say what you will - they were freaking delicious. We blew through bottles of pear, blueberry, and raspberry wine the first week we got back.

Um, correct.

For Snap - a foot pic. I miss you.

Happy Birthday, The Gentleman!