Whoa-ohhhhhh-ohhhhh, I'm On Fire

Fire happens quickly. Yes, indeedy.

Burning things is a bit slower pursuit. Something you sort of work your way up to. Turn your back for a minute to blah-de-blah with your roommate, and those chocolate chip cookies, browning on that new dollar store cookie sheet, are toast. Walk away to grab the phone and that bubbling saucepan of refried beans is now charred and smokin'. Unfortunate, to be sure, but easily tended to with some steel wool and a little annoyance to fuel you along.

But fire, well, fire is a bit more instantaneous. And more surprising. And therefore more demanding of your immediate and undivided attention, whether or not you've had your morning coffee. And, of course, all of this is particularly true when it's something attached to your person that's on fire.

Well, now I am sure you're wondering what, exactly, happened. What or whom burst into flame? How big were the flames? Gas or electric? Did you do the Fire Dance? Destroy anything priceless or irreplaceable? Are you disfigured? Will your roommates disfigure you when they see that you have burned down the kitchen? Oh, yes, I can hear the questions...

Ok, then, let's begin. Gas stove, flame set to high. Front burner. Tea kettle on, boiling water for coffee. (Let's be clear about that. Coffee. Not tea. Tea is for wussies.) Me, wearing long cloth scarf with dangly bits, leaning over near-to-boiling tea kettle, boiling water for coffee. Not tea. Me again, poking at banana cake in pan on back burner, which is off, just behind near-to-boiling tea kettle boiling water for coffee. Not tea. Mmm. Banana cake. Sniff, sniff? What's that? Not tea. Not coffee. Uhh, not banana cake. Scarf! Scarfscarfscarf!

Fire! Me! Scarf! My scarf! On fire! Commence Fire Dance.

The Fire Dance, should you not be familiar with it, is a wild and flailing sort of whole-body gyration that includes pinwheeling arms, gaping mouth, wide and disbelieving saucer-eyes and a sort of polka-esque shuffle-stomp intended to put out whatever giddily burning, bright orange flames may be present. It's a quick dance, usually over in about ten seconds or less.
Oh, and it's a second cousin to The DishTowel
HolyShitTheSaucepanFullOfChickenGreaseWentUpLikeARomanCandle Rapid Fire Arm Extensions that I'm sure you've seen your Mother do.

So here I am, with a charred scarf and a lightly toasted wool sweater. (Special Note: toasted wool smells like what you might imagine toasted dog to smell like. Which is, of course, stanky. Really bad stanky.) I'm OK. I can still move fast. I can still do The Fire Dance. The kitchen's intact. Yes, the flames were very big. Bigger than I exected. And now it's time to throw the Dangerous Banana Cake (which, by the way, was moldy) into the trash and sit down with my cup of coffee. Not tea. Because you know, I just don't have quite enough adrenaline flowing through me today.

Remember, kids. Fire happens quickly. Yes, indeedy.

Snip, Snip, Sniffle, Sniffle

The scissors weren't sharp. Not even a little bit. But I didn't care. I did my beauty shop best to cut a straight line through a hefty hank of my wet hair, shhhhkggghk, and felt an odd sense of satisfaction at seeing brownblondered strands fall into the sink. A few more hacks and I moved to the opposite side, emboldened by a glass of red wine, now half empty and perched rather precariously on the sink's edge. In my head? Pat Benetar's Love is a Battlefield (whoa-oh-whoa-oh-whoa-oh-whoaaaa....)and a heady, (or was it the wine?) palpable need for change. NOW.

I surveyed the scene. Bathroom in Berkeley. Housemates gone. My 14-year-old first, only, and much-beloved car, whacked this afternoon by a landscaping truck, now languishing in a bodyshop. Me, raccoon-eyed from crying and slightly tipsy, staring into the mirror and asking, "How much is enough?" That question seemed far too open-ended to ponder, so I decided to even up my lopsided 'do, hoping to restore some sense of equilibrium.

What drives women to take up the scissors when things get desperate? What fuels bang mutilation, slasher-style re-coiffing? Ask the gal at work with the 80s style asymetrical bob and she might answer, a) my dog died, b) my S.O. dumped me, c) my car got totaled by a crazed landscaping truck, d) I got fired, or, e) some combination thereof -- and I'm trying to regain control.

Aha! Bingo! I'm convinced that giving ourselves a shearing, however slight (yes, it still counts, even if you use those tiny little manicure scissors) represents the desire to return power to ourselves, to restore order, to wield the sword, as it were. Sound counter-intuitive? Yeah, well, then you're probably a guy. We girls know that sometimes all you need is a little snip-snip-sniffle-sniffle and then you're ready to get back in the game. Unless, of course, you managed to finish the bottle of vino in the process. Then you're probably gonna have to call in a pro, and pony up $80 and an hour in the chair before you can comfortably exit the house again. So don't get too carried away.

Any of you women out there with a life, hair, and scissors story to tell? I'm thinking of compiling our trying-times-cum-new-image tales. I've taken to hanging out at Nomad Cafe on Shattuck and 65th. Stop by and say hello. I'll be the one with the crooked bangs.

I Love You But I'm Intolerant: Tales of a Lactose-Free Relationship

It figures. I forsake all in the name of love and then he tells me. I'm standing there in the kitchen, looking at him beseechingly, my eyes round saucers filled to the brim with tears. Round saucers that are now leaking. I worked so hard. For so long. Such effort, such vision -- wasted!

Him: 'I can't. Oh man, I'm sorry, but I just can't. No. Noooo. It'll never work, babe. I've tried before, and it's just no good. Really. I wouldn't lie to you. Not now. Not ever. And not about something this serious.'

Me: 'Please! Can't you just try? Just a little? For me? A tiny bit? It would mean so much. And it might be OK. How can you know for certain? You have to keep trying!'

He holds out his hand in a school crossing guard stopyourf'ingvehiclenow! gesture and says resolutely, "No. Absolutely not. I cannot, I will not, eat your sundriedtomatofreshherbsfromthegardenmadewithmorelovethanamanlikemedeserves goat cheese frittata. You know what cheeeeeese (said with great disdain) does to my gut.'

I set the frittata down with a bang. The little cheese wedges on the hotpad fabric mock me from beneath the heavy cast iron pan. Emotions course through me like waves of....milk. How. Is. It. Possible. Howisitpossible that a foodie like me, a girl with more cookbooks than shoes, a girl whose idea of a hot date is to peruse the Dean & Deluca catalogue over a glass of wine, a girl who gets wistful over Montrachet and downright delirious over a ripe triple cream, a girl who daydreams of making yogurt and slathers Plus Gras butter with arteries-be-damned abandon over thick slices of homemade bread on Sunday mornings, how is it that a cheesy girl like me has paired up with a somewhat indignant (ok, I know, that's mean, but I'm *hurt*) lactose intolerant bloke? Madness, I tell you. Love may be blind, but it shouldn't have to be dairy free.

'What is my fate?' I wordlessly wonder as I poke at the frittata with a fork. The goat cheese is ever so slightly golden and puffed, and a waft of thyme and rosemary send me swooning. I glance sideways, catching sight of him leaning against the counter on one hip, sipping apple juice. I return my gaze to the frittata, insert my fork, take a bite, and it's...heaven. A half dozen ingredients transformed in less than 20 minutes into something worthy of gods. But not lovers.

'Honey, what about that vegan almond cheese I like? Do you think you can make it with that?'

With that, the floodgates open. I cry for myself. And for all the fromage we'll never know.

Slacker Yogurt

Ah, making yogurt. The idea has a certain wheat-between-the-teeth je ne sais quoi to it. An act of love and labor that folks chained to their computers for 10 or more hours a day have been known to fantasize about... Well, I did, at least. I admit it. Sheesh. So I figured a little reseach was in order. How hard could it be? Some milk, some starter, a little mixy-mixy, some heat -- and voila! Yogurt! Right? Right?

A quick search on the Web turned up far more scientific hoo-ha than I was interested in. After assembling enough information to write a microbiology primer, I began to wear down. Sterilized canning jars with tight fitting lids and candy thermometers, foamy scalded milk (oof, think of the pot scrubbing) and constant vigilance over curd-forming temperatures achieved in hot water filled coolers or carefully monitored ovens (yes, Dad, it sounds like math to me), lactobacillus, streptococcus (hey, is that last one correct?) and other dangerous sounding microorganisms capable of multiplying ad infinitum behind your back... argh. Noooo. If there's anything I abhor, it's, errr - it's a pain in the ass.

When I saw the Amazon.com link to the sassy little Salton yogurt maker, I clicked it, albeit sheepishly, and chop-chop. $13.79 for a little pot-n-lid-consistent-temperature thingy that would make a quart of 'gurt. Hey, now that's more like it! But, gee, I wanted to do it the pioneer way, and my conscience got the better of me even as I read the rave reviews from yogurt makers from Michigan to California.

Then, out of the haze, the following recipe appeared, instantly piqueing my slacker interest and conjuring visions of mellow, sweet yogurt made from organic milk and daintily topped with errr, wild blueberries gathered by flower children and ahhhm, honey from free range bees. Yeah. (C'mon, I live in Berkeley, and about 300 yards from Berkeley Bowl at that.)

So without further ado, I present to you this recipe, from a fellow self-confessed lazy arse from San Francisco:

"Making yogurt basically involves mixing milk with a "starter" (usually plain, unpasteurized yogurt) and keeping it at a temperature where the "good" bacteria will multiply and turn the rest of the milk into yogurt. Everything needs to be really clean so you don't introduce "bad" bacteria into the mix. Other methods I had heard about involved scalding the milk and sterilizing the containers and everything else -- sounded like a pain. But I found a method that works really well for lazy people like me, with no scalding and no sterilization, and no special equipment: Get a quart-size carton of milk and some yogurt, both at room temperature. Open the milk carton, pour some out to make room in the carton, and add 1/2 c. of plain yogurt with live cultures (like Straus Creamery or Dannon plain yogurt). Close up the carton again, clip shut, and shake it gently to mix up the milk and yogurt. As for the milk you poured out (you saved it right?), that's going to be your starter for the next batch, so add a couple teaspoons of yogurt to that, give it a good stir, and cover tightly. Get an old (but clean!) bath towel and wrap both in it. Place on a cookie sheet and place in 110 degree F oven. "Bake" at 110 degrees overnight - around 12 hours - remove from oven and refrigerate. Perfect European-style yogurt! (For the thicker American style, add powdered milk along with your yogurt "starter.") Best of all, there's no need to pre-heat/scald the milk (not necessary if you use pasteurized milk) and no cleaning (since you make the yogurt right in the paper milk carton straight from the store). Any size milk carton will work -- just adjust the amount of starter accordingly. "

Now *that*, kids, is EXACTLY my style. I will report back soon on the efficacy and truthfulness of the above Slacker Yogurt recipe. Let the fermentation begin....