Hello Friends,
I will be using another site for my blogs now: jimalyn.blogspot.com. Apparently this tumblr one requires a very advanced (well to me at least) command on html and I have no natural talent in this department. If you have gmail, please follow my blogs by following the directions on the right-handed column on the new site.
Much love :)
BABYBERRY
I have finally gotten off my high horse and came to grips with reality. In other words, I have blackberried myself. And in the process, voluntarily consented to becoming an addict. When the lovely man at the AT&T store handed over the Bold, I felt the gates of heaven open. I swear I saw a beam of light shine directly on it, while everything else around me faded into nothingness. It’s like that scene in Transformers 2, where Shia Labooblit picked up that weird spearhead thing and a flash of light pierced through his pupil and shook his core. I felt that as the screen lit up for the very first time. Libertango blasts from celestial cloudspeakers as the world rejoices in my official debut into thumb typing addiction. I reach out my hand and I hear someone say, “here child, thy sweet poison.”
I cling on to the blackberry, its sleek form instantly conforms perfectly into my grasp. I no longer pay attention to the world around me. The glazed screen staring back at me has become the screen unto which I see the world. Within the first blissful hour I have already ignored stoplights, forgotten to stop and small talk with acquaintances, and altogether thrown all manners of social etiquette into the trash. Forget friends, as long as my blackberry loves me.
I am told that it is customary to name one’s blackberry. This came to no surprise since we tend to name things that we feel tremendous affection for, such as pets, jewelry, genitalia…(what?). Friends vouched for the cliche “crackberry” but anyone who knows me knows that I am far from ordinary. So I went with the second-most cliche: baby. In an attempt to put a clever spin on the name, I merged “blackberry” with “baby” and came up with “blackbaby.” A little racist? Although I find it completely endearing (and accurate since the Bold is, well, black) one can never be too careful. With all the anger surrounding fellow Americans in this financial clime plus the fact that I do reside in DC, I would hate to find myself screaming “WHERE IS MY BLACKBABY DAMMIT” in Southeast DC at any point in time. Those could very well be my last words, and I don’t know if that is more depressing or the fact that I died because of my intense infatuation with something neither of, or relating to, food, men, or art.
So I gave up on naming my blackberry. Until my dear friend Shiori helped me along and said…”why not babyberry instead?” And that is how genius is done, friends.
There was a brief moment last week when my whole world faded to black for two endless minutes. I was in a shuttle back from Dupont Circle, and felt that familiar twitch in my thumbs. You know, that uncontrollable twitch that occurs when your hands have been out of contact with its babyberry. I quickly reach into my bag to retrieve the drug, but it fails to be found. Horse shit. Where is my blackbaby? my babyberry? WHERE IS MY CRACK? I break into cold sweat, my fingers frantically swim through an ocean of lip glosses, crumpled up receipts, and nameless crap. Nothing. Scenes flash by, as I think about all the things I have lost. Numbers, bbm chats, pictures, my soul. I panic, and my ears start to plug as I spiral into a dark abyss of anonymity. I take a deep breath, and notice that my baby was safe and sound in my other hand.
I guess I need two.
I may be crunching on bland celery, but if I fix my eyes on the Food Network, that stringy stick of celery can transform into chicken liver pate in an instant. Ritz crackers that I have been shoving down my throat could morph into gruyere crisps. That nasty 3-in-1 coffee could suddenly taste like freshly brewed espresso with a side of Laduree macaroons.
I am astounded at how food has become a spectator sport that can grip my attention even more than the Fashion Channel. What shocks me is that I am so transfixed by the process of creating food that actually tasting it becomes irrelevant. Mixing bananas with bacon in dessert. Cooking sweet potatoes in duck fat. Counterbalancing acidity with rich full flavors. The creativity and innovation demanded out of these chefs in shows like Chopped and Iron Chef is so taxing that food should justifiably be considered an art form, one where the creative process is more fulfilling than the end product. It is like a dance, where the choreography and the clever twists and turns are more revealing than the grand finale.
Considering the mastery involved in creating what we casually term “food,” I get severely offended by people who see food as merely a chapter in the survival manual, where the only instruction is to “eat something because if you don’t you will die.” These are the people who resign to eating microwave mac n cheese every night instead of discovering a new spice. These are the people who look at sushi and think ew, raw fish. The people who would not venture near a sweet sesame and red bean dessert because wait, isn’t red bean a vegetable and hence…salty? These are the people who are perfectly content noshing on their mashed potatoes, where the only complexity they can retrieve from their food is salt and butter.
Of course there is always that trite excuse about not having the time or the money to explore foods. These are the people who choose to make a run to Safeway and buzz straight to Aisle 2: Frozen Foods rather than take a trip to the farmers market on Saturday. These are the people who invite their Church friends after Sunday Service to “grab a bite” at Carls Jr. rather than to the local seafood shack just across the street. It is a choice, and the excuses are just embellishments to a truth that is difficult to digest: their resignation to explore foods is simply a symptom of their resignation to explore life’s more interesting offerings. Their fear of daring dishes is just a reflection of their inhibitions toward adventure. Their haughty “I am really picky about what I eat” is just a nasty euphemism for “I don’t know much about the world and I intend to keep in that way.”
I cannot be friends with these people. It’s not a matter of refusal, but a sheer inability to connect with them. Choosing to close oneself off from a gastronomic adventure is literally an act of disregarding complete cultures and civilizations. In fact, choosing to “politely abstain” from even trying a dish simply because it does not look like a whopper is perhaps the most personal assault upon a person. You just insulted the entire family. It’s like “your momma’s so fat” except it’s not just the momma; it’s also the uncle, the woman your uncle left your aunt for, and the nocturnal couple upstairs.
So please stop being ethnocentrist in your regard for food; push yourself to experience something else. Sure you’ve tried salty. But there is an entire spectrum of salts, and within each a gradient of nuances yet to be noticed. And if you still don’t have the time (which I doubt) or the money (again, excuses) then at least watch the Food Network to know what is out there, and more importantly, what your puny little mind is holding you back from. And never talk to me.
via jakandjil.com
this is what a bride should look like. Who would have thought that a simple veil that drapes so far in the front could look so chic?
Givenchy Fall/Winter 09
Torn from my moleskine. New York. These pages are dedicated to a dear friend and fellow traveler, Maher <3 I hope you find inspiration in these for your book of adventures!
young broke and fabulous. get it.
Blessing and me in subway, on the way to Gansevoort Hotel. We got kinda rowdy and pissed some people off…a few actually got off the subway before their stop because Taz almost sat on one. And then opted to use the safety bar as a pole. We got a few evil eyes, no lie.
They just wish they were young and fabulous like us. and they are probably broke too cuz of the economy so I don’t blame them for ridiculing our youth and energy. They just want a piece of it. I guess at this point all they can do is fake it with botox.
Shiori<3
in new york with sherbear. It’s amazing how close we are and how telepathic we are, even without being around much anymore. She’s absolutely stunning and as sweet as always. I have seen her through so much, and when I look at her now, she is just so happy. There is that warm glow about her, and it’s so contagious. I’ve been told that I have had particularly good luck in finding amazing friends. I agree.
ugh so many stupid things to do….comcast, buy swiffer/trash can/utensils/plates, get a stool, get a bookshelf, assemble bed (will take 5 hours or something like that)….
On a brighter note, I will be going back to New York this week :)
in 3 years, this is how we’ll be, susan ho.
how sick is this?!?!?!?!?!
Went trap shooting today; nothing like hitting a target and feeling the recoil in your shoulders to take your mind off unpleasant things. I love how i’m wearing a vintage t-shirt with a picture of a very scared boy on it lol…i guess he’s got the best view in the house~
Everyone must try this, there’s nothing like it.
Sky-diving’s next, stay tuned
