florida citrus part 2

The tangerine tart turned out beautifully. Here's a picture for your vicarious enjoyment.


I made Dorie Greenspan's Sweet Tart Dough which I found over here at Cafe Johnsonia (I left out her lemon zest addition since I was making a citrus tart, although for a different tart, that sounds tasty). For the filling, I adapted this orange custard recipe from Epicurious. I of course used tangerine juice instead of orange, and I skipped the Grand Marnier and instead added half a teaspoon of vanilla. I topped the tart with sectioned tangerines, because then it's healthy, right? Seriously though, the fresh citrus was a lovely contrast to the buttery crust, and the overall effect was mellow creamy, and perfectly sweet.

By the way, this crust is to die for. This is definitely my standard tart crust from now on.

florida citrus

it's here! our box of florida citrus arrived yesterday, filled with perfectly sweet-tart, juicy honey tangerines. thank you so much babi and tatko! it was like opening a box of sunshine. i think i will make a tart out of some of them this weekend, assuming they don't get gobbled up by then.

alex's blog

is just fantastic.

a riddle

what do sarah palin, toronto, and hair plugs have in common?

apparently, this email:
















i am mystified.

the upholstery project...now on flickr

I've finally uploaded a set to flickr documenting (sort of) the upholstery project. I noticed when going through the pictures that it looks like I eat bon bons behind the scenes whilst barking orders to Sean the Furniture Boy, but that's really not how it went down, I promise. What happened is that the demolition process is somewhat over-represented because we needed pictures of how the furniture goes back together for reference, and then I slacked on photographing the assembly. This project was decidedly more my baby (my long-past-due baby) than Sean's. And the photos are even longer in coming, of course. But now you get a glimpse into the fun times that were our first month in Chicago. Enjoy!

Köstritzer Schwarzbier: A favorite of Dandies and Fops since 1543!

As you might expect, I first purchased this beer for the intriguing image on the box. As luck would have it, it's also fantastic beer. I wasn't sure initially if my impression was clouded by my sheer delight in the cover art, but several repeat purchases later I am convinced that this is my new favorite beer.

Schwarzbier is a lager made with a dark-roasted malt, as you might have guessed. I confess I don't have a lot of experience with schwarzbiers, but I think I should probably try a few more since it's conceptually right up my alley. The Köstritzer has a delicate, frothy head, a light body, and tastes of coffee and burnt sugars. So it's all the crisp effervescence of a lager with the sweet, roasty maltiness you normally expect in a porter or a stout.

But going back to the artwork: I am captivated with the image. If I had described the box as having a picture of someone holding the beer, reclining, and rubbing their leg suggestively, you would have immediately assumed that person was female. This reclining, passive gaze is almost exclusively associated with the depiction of women in the history of art, and in beer advertising in particular. The Art Theory 101 student inside me finds this Köstritzer image remarkably unusual. I could be wrong of course, but I just can't seem to think of other examples of this kind of male objectification, in 18th century period dress, no less. He is of course covered in some kind of blanket or coat, but again there's the notable exception of where he's decided to show us his breeches. If you you have any expertise on this subject, I am dying of curiosity and I'd appreciate your insights.

On a sillier note, the part of me that is easily brainwashed by nonsensical TV commercials has noticed that our dapper gentleman appears to be wearing a snuggie. Because sometimes you're cold, but wearing a blanket would make it difficult to drink your Köstritzer.

A Lovely Summer Morning

Today I had a pretty unforgettable experience. I'm currently a sign artist at a Trader Joe's here in Scottsdale, and this morning I was working on a sign on the front door. So I was outside painting, when a Palo Verde Beetle stumbled across the door jamb. I was pretty startled by a large bug walking across my path (and I'd say justifiably so), but it ambled on past me, and I got back to work. About fifteen minutes later I felt a tickle at my knee, so I looked down, but didn't see anything, and figured I was imagining things, still jumpy from seeing the beetle. Then about thirty seconds later, I felt a decidedly less imaginary tickle on my upper thigh, so i reflexively brushed it off, which may well have been the most horrific part of the experience, because that's when I realized there was not a bug on my pants, but in my pants. I don't think I'll forget the sensation of running my hand over that fabric-covered lumpy thing. It combines the startling experience of something unexpected in place of the familiar (in this case my smooth, jeans-covered leg) with the gut-level horror of not being able to physically separate yourself from the object of your fear. I started screaming and jumping up and down and wiggling to get it to drop down out of my pants. But it didn't fall out, and that realization brought my flip-out to a new level. I almost took off my pants right there in front of the store, but instead I grabbed the bug through the pants, ran to the bathroom, and with one hand still tightly clutching the jeans-wrapped bug, removed my pants (which necessitated first taking off my shoes) and flung them away from me. The Palo Verde Beetle started to climb out of the folds of the pants, flailing around his big little arms and antennae, til I picked up the pants and shook him out. I unfortunately killed the beetle by crushing it in my fist while running for the bathroom, which besides being gross I also feel bad about, because Palo Verde Beetles are actually harmless. But I doubt I'll ever reach a point where I'm able to calmly remove a large insect from inside my pants.