Sausage Making (And Other Italian Things To Do On A Saturday Afternoon)

 
Upon returning to my grandparents' house after my cousin's bridal shower a few weeks ago, I discovered that my grandfather was not in his armchair watching the Yankees or People's Court as I expected. Instead, he was in the second kitchen making sausage from scratch.

Note my mix of fascination and fear.

There are a couple of things I should probably explain about that statement.

Second Kitchen: All Italians have a second kitchen. It's a given. Just like quick tempers, last names with more vowels than necessary, a penchant for talking with our hands, and Catholicism. This literally means that there is an entire spare kitchen in the basement--kind of like the main kitchen's understudy--usually filled with appliances collected after various relatives' kitchen remodeling. Why do Italians have a second kitchen? I'm not totally positive, but here are my best guesses.
     1. Italians take a great deal of pride in their homes, and a second kitchen ensures that the main kitchen will always look spotless in case neighbors stop by.
     2. Marinara and olive oil are essential ingredients in the Italian diet. Both are extremely messy and splattery and stain-y during the cooking process.
     3. Four burners are simply not enough. If Italians have four guests, they must make enough food for at least 25 starving men. Minimum.

Making Sausage From Scratch: I don't eat sausage, so I'm probably the worst person to describe this process, but here goes. To make sausage, you need pork butts from Canada. Why pork butts? I don't know. What's wrong with American pork butts? I don't know. What I do know is that you bring your butt or butts to the second kitchen and chop away, removing the fat. Mix in various spices, and then put the mixture into the grinder, which clamps onto the 1970s kitchen table that is a preparation surface only. No chairs surround it. After attaching a length of empty intestines to the grinder's spigot, turn the handle, mincing the meat and forcing it into the intestine. Eat immediately or freeze. But if you still want to eat sausage after reading this description, I'm impressed.

So of course when I saw the ridiculousness/wonderfulness/irony of this moment, I had to capture it. Enjoy!

Movin’ on Up: The Quest for the Perfect NYC Apartment (Part 2)

1/2/07  6 Men in black hoodies on the stairwell

And so begins a Word document I created—cleverly titled Apartment.doc—to keep a record of any and all problems I encountered with the fifth floor walkup apartment I lived in for seven years.

The cryptic note refers to the time I returned from a Christmas visit upstate with two jumbo suitcases. As was my habit, I dragged both suitcases into the foyer so I would have one door locked behind me. I left one suitcase on the entry level and hauled the other suitcase up the 97 steps to my apartment. Then, I would make a second trip with the other suitcase. This time, I was greeted at the top of the stairs by six men in black hoodies, who had seemingly entered through the unlocked roof door. They were just sitting and waiting for something, and they made no move when I appeared with my suitcase. Still delirious from the eight-hour train trip, I barely acknowledged them. But when I locked my first suitcase inside the apartment and stepped out into the hallway on the return trip for my second, I thought I should probably say something.

“Do you live in the building?” I foolishly asked six giant men who obviously didn’t live in the building.

“We live next door,” the spokesperson of the group said.

“Oh.” I paused. “Well, I really don’t think you should be here if you don’t live here,” I said. (Who on earth did I think I was?)

“We’re waiting for someone,” the spokeshoodie said. “We’ll be leaving when he gets here.”

“Oh,” I cleverly said again. “Okay.” And with that, I headed downstairs for my second suitcase.

By the time I got there, it finally sunk in that while these men may have been on the up-and-up, they might also be there for some sort of sinister purpose. And I knew without a doubt that I simply could not walk past them one more time. It was way too terrifying.

There I was, in my building foyer, sitting on a suitcase without a coat or a cell phone or a friend. So I did what any girl would do: I went into the Thai restaurant downstairs and used their phone to call 911.

I sat on my suitcase to wait for an officer to stop by, but instead of one officer, three police cars pulled up to the curb. I thought they couldn’t possibly be for me, but they were. You’d think there must be someone getting robbed or maimed somewhere else in the city, but I guess it was a slow crime day. They asked for brief details and headed upstairs. I must say that it was kind of exciting to see six officers run up the stairs on my behalf, but alas, they came up empty. The hoodies hopped onto a neighboring roof and raced downstairs through a different building.

And that, my friends, was the end of my adventure and the start of my documentation about apartment issues. In the five years that I kept that document, I had some pretty interesting entries. Here are a few completely undoctored entries that you might enjoy:

7/30/07            Asked Charles once again about the rent.  He called DeMilt who called and screamed at me.  Didn’t let me get a word in edgewise.  Said he sent the notice 6 times, and we chose to ignore it.  He said: “Who do you think you are, some hotshot Philadelphia lawyer?”

7/31/07            Went to sign lease in scary basement unlabeled office. 

8/18/07            Got an eviction notice postcard.

11/13/07          Absolutely NO water at all at 2am.  Too tired to call 311.  Called in the morning, but they wouldn’t take the complaint since the water was restored.  Called Frank, but he said that the plumber was fixing something and forgot to put up signs since it was so late at night.

3/2/08              FREEZING WATER yet AGAIN.  Also, two leaks in the apartment.  One in Jackie’s closet, one in the hall closet.  Both are pretty bad.  Left messages for Ron and Charles by 8:30 am.

4/4/08              Roof leaking yet again.  Called Charles.  He promised new roof would be put in next week.  Seemed surprised that water was still cold.  Said that the boiler was “on its way” even though Frank told me the boiler was sitting in the basement.  Very confused. 

5/1/11              water is often lukewarm for the last week. only had one hot shower.

5/2/12              NO WATER AT ALL. hasn’t been heat for days

In summary…I’M SO GLAD I MOVED!!!!

Hobo/Neighbor Relations

 

I’m going to apologize to my mother straight off for using the word “hobo.” I feel as though it is probably offensive in some way, even though synonyms like “bum,” “beggar,” and “tramp” seem even worse, while “homeless person,” “vagabond,” and “panhandler” are just a mouthful. So even though I know we’re all God’s creatures and there but for the grace of God go I, I’m going to stick with “hobo.” Mostly because it makes me giggle.

There’s a fella—let’s call him Hobo Joe—who sits on my block every day. He’s tall, not poorly dressed, not smelly, and not overly thin. He is just like you and I in every way. Except that instead of going to work, he seems content to sit on random stoops with a coffee cup of change in his hand. I had always been curious about Hobo Joe, and then one day I saw a neighbor chatting with him. So I decided to make him my not-too-close friend.

From that day on, I started to say hello to Hobo Joe whenever I passed. At first, he seemed wary of me, assuming I was one of the many who were giving him a smile instead of change (which I was), but now he nods and gives me a lovely grin (with all teeth intact) whenever I say hello on my way back from morning yoga. I like to think of him as my urban doorman. In my incredibly expensive-slash-annoyingly rundown walkup building, the only thing standing between my apartment and the street is a broken lock, a second semi-broken lock, and 97 steps. So I like to think that if there were any problems, good ol’ Hobo Joe would be there to rescue me, much like you’d expect your toy poodle to stop a burglar single-handedly. 

I have all these fantasies that Hobo Joe isn’t actually a hobo at all. Instead he’s one of those Long Island millionaires who brings home thousands of dollars a day in his tattered coffee cup. And he may be just that. But sadly, Hobo Joe let me down. One night, I saw him sitting on a random stoop, as usual, and I stared at him, waiting to catch his eye. Then I realized something was wrong. Joe seemed distracted. When he turned to face me, I realized that he wasn’t looking at me, but through me, with bloodshot eyes. He was definitely on something. What, I don’t know, since the world of drugs is as confusing to me as the world of politics. But something. From then on, I realized that Morning Hobo Joe and I were friends, but Evening Hobo Joe would never be my urban doorman. Or my not-too-close friend.

The realization is really deflating, sort of like when you learn the real story behind the tooth fairy. You know the truth, but you’d rather believe the fairy tale.

Hot DOG! Sahlen's Invades Manhattan

Imagine my surprise when my Niagara Falls-born cousin and I walked up to a seemingly random vendor at the Ninth Avenue Food Festival...who was selling SAHLEN'S HOT DOGS!!!!

Well, ladies and gentlemen, I was shocked, I tell you. SHOCKED.

In case you are unfamiliar, I should tell you that Sahlen's hot dogs are:

1. The most delicious hot dogs in the history of the universe (and this is coming from a true hot dog connoisseur).

2. The official hot dog of the Buffalo Bills.

3. An upstate NY summer staple.

What makes Sahlen's hot dogs so delicious, you may ask? I'll tell you: they have a casing that tastes unbelievably spectacular when charred ever so gently on the grill.

And why did a random food stand sell them? The owner (let's call him "Red") lived in Buffalo! There he is at the grill in a sporty gingham shirt. Red said, "There's nothing like this around Manhattan, so I wanted to bring a little taste of Buffalo to town." Well, thank you for that, Red!

Here are some fascinating facts I learned from the Sahlen's website:

* The hot dogs are made from “Old Fashioned” smokehouse ham and turkey breast.

* They are available in 15 northeastern states.

* The company sponsors a professional race car team and a sports park that is home to the Western NY Flash women's soccer team.

* Sahlen’s has been producing premium quality meat products since 1869. (Apparently post-Civil War Americans liked to BBQ while rebuilding the country.)

* Every year, the average American consumes 60 hot dogs! (Not sure I buy this one, Mr. Joseph Sahlen!)

Not only was my perfectly grilled Sahlen's hot dog itself a delight, but Red came up with all sorts of fascinating hot dog combos. Forget the mustard and ketchup--get a BLT dog or a Journey Dog (any way you want it, that's the way you need it). I ended up eating a Baked Potato Dog, which was a hot dog in a giant chewy bun (I choose to believe it was a Wegmans bun) topped with sour cream, cheddar cheese, bacon, potato sticks, and chives. It was a masterpiece.

Sahlen's, and Red, I salute you both.

Worth a Thousand Words

If you haven't seen them already, check out the AMAZING photos of old New York that were recently released: Click Here.

View From the Top

As I was flying home for Easter (Thank you, JetBlue and your magnificent Fare Sales that save me from the annoyances and inflated prices of Megabus!), it occurred to me just how much space there is upstate. I mean, it's not just space, it's S.....P.....A.....C.....E..... It's magnificent. Check it out:

You can see a patchwork quilt of fields and the meandering Erie Canal with houses few and far between. It's beautiful. It's stunning. It's God's country.

On the way back to the city, I took a look at the view of Queens:

It's dirty-looking. It's grey. It's claustrophobic. When you look down from above, you think, "How can all these people live on top of their neighbors like that? How can they breathe?" And believe it or not, this is what I'd call the more spacious area of Queens--at least you can still see treetops and such. The city would look even more congested.

It's almost shocking to compare these pictures side-by-side. Of course, when you do, you notice that the sun is gloriously shining on one location but not the other. Coincidence? I think not.  :)

(Incidentally, I'm not sure I was supposed to be using my iPhone to take pictures while in flight. Please don't report me to the authorities.)

Don't Sleep in the Subway, Darlin': A Guide to NYC Subway Etiquette

                  
                                           (www.JordanMatter.com)

Like Liz Lemon on 30 Rock, I follow the rules of being a human being, and I expect every New York City dweller to do the same. But, alas, that is often not the case. And nowhere is it more evident that people are not human than on the subway.

Just as there is a set list of unspoken rules of etiquette for the sidewalk, there is a list of unspoken rules of etiquette for the subway. Tourists should be informed, and residents can always use a refresher. Since I often boil with rage when people don’t follow the rules, I’ve decided to list them here. I’m also considering printing them on flyers and hiring girls in black jackets, red tights, and character shoes to distribute them in Times Square while doing awkward dance moves and saying things like, “Whoopeeee!” and, “Hotcha!” Oh, wait—there are already people doing that for Chicago. I’m gonna need a different marketing plan.

• Do not block subway entrances. I understand that you may be unsure of where you’re going, but your uncertainty shouldn’t become my problem. Nor the problem of the ten people bottlenecked behind me. Move to the side.
• Purchasing a subway card can be confusing. I would much rather expedite the process by pressing the buttons for you than wait an extra eight minutes while you hem and haw. I promise not to steal your money and/or credit card in the process.
• If you do not have your Metrocard out and ready, you are not prepared to enter the turnstile. Thus, do not stand in front of it while rifling through your purse/backpack/pocket/wallet. You’re gumming up the works.
• There is a science to swiping your Metrocard. Not too fast, not too slow. I’ll give you five tries to make it happen. If it doesn’t work by the fifth time, let the disgruntled people waiting behind you (meaning, me) swipe through before trying again. No one likes a repeat swiper.
• When heading down the stairs or escalator, stay to the RIGHT. That’s your RIGHT. I don’t care what side of the road they drive on in England. You’re in America now, baby! And I’m talking to you, confused-yet-adorable Mexican family that I didn’t have the heart to push my way through because you looked thrilled to be in NYC and made me late to my doctor’s appointment. You should stay to the right so that faster traffic (e.g.: people on their way to doctor’s appointments) can pass you on the left.
• When your train arrives, do not stand right smack in front of the train entrance. You make a better door than a window. Or, more accurately, you make a better door than a direct path to the exit.
• As Liz Lemon noted, let people OUT of the subway before getting ON. Come on, people. It’s Subway 101. Doesn’t it stand to reason that there won’t be room for you to get on the train until the current passengers exit? Or maybe that’s just me. And Logic.
• Want to eat smelly food? Don’t get on the train. I’m sure there are better places to eat your homemade tuna fish sandwiches and old plastic soup containers full of milk at 8am than the subway. Those of us who haven’t had breakfast (other than a few post-midnight rum and Cokes) would rather not inhale a combination of fish and dairy in the morning.
• There are reasons the manufacturers of mp3 players/cell phones/Kindles/iPads, etc. have created earphones. And I think about those reasons every time you are playing with or talking into something that is assaulting my eardrums with screaming/music/beeping/etc.
• Billy, don’t be a hero. I like giving to the needy. But not on the subway. Sure, I feel sad for the poor woman who lost her job three months ago and has been relying on the kindness of strangers, and the man who has been living on the streets because the shelters are full, and the down-on-his-luck fella with the hacking cough that just needs a few more dollars for cold medicine (or something with alcohol in it, more likely). Call me a jaded New Yorker, but the third time I’ve heard the same speech by the same guy who is bellyaching about his bellyache but is wearing brand-new kicks, I get a tad skeptical.
• There are several exceptions to my Don’t-Give-Money-in-the-Subway Rule. They all fall under the category of Things That Amuse Me, and they are as follows: mariachi bands in full costume, a capella doo wop groups, the old man who plays “The Chattanooga Choo-Choo” on his trumpet accompanied by a portable speaker he wears around his neck, and the dude who somehow wheels an upright piano to the uptown A/C/E track of the West 4^th stop. 
• Be aware of your body at all times.
• Do not take up two seats with your person or your bags.
• Do not let your hand rest on mine while holding the same pole.
• Do not sneeze into your hand and then hold the pole with the same hand.
• Do not use a crowded car as an excuse to grope/goose/breathe on me.
• Do not hold on to the overhead pole if you are pitting. No one wants to see that.
• You are not Gumby. You have stomach muscles. Use them to keep yourself upright even if the ride is bumpy.
• Do not read over my shoulder. Scratch that. I read over other people's shoulders all the time. Read over people's shoulders in a non-obtrusive manner.
• Should you decide to nap on the ride, nap in your own seat. Do not lean, nod, or slump on me or in my area. Sleepy Asians, I hope you’re awake to read this! From sleepyasian.com: “I'm not saying that no one else falls asleep on the subway...but if there is a person of Asian descent on the train, there is a 75% chance that they will be sleeping (this includes me). There is an unexplained phenomenon going on, keep an eye out and you will witness it.”
• If you would like to check the subway map that happens to be on the wall above my seat, a polite, “Excuse me,” would be nice before you lean over my head and your camera smacks me in the face.
• There are more oddities on the subway than there at the Coney Island Circus Sideshow. If you see one, such as this Old Man Brushing Beard with Fork, don't stare. Calmly watch out of the corner of your eye while you mentally compose an amusing Facebook status about the event to share with your 813 closest friends as soon as you are above ground.

This may seem overwhelming to subway novices, but the basic rule of thumb is as follows: DON'T BE AN INCONSIDERATE RIDER! Please, I beg of you, follow the rules of being a human being. Though I suppose that being human means occasionally making mistakes and not following rules. So actually, I beg of you to forget the rules of being human and strive for an inhuman degree of perfection. I'm sure your fellow subway riders will appreciate it. And so will I.