Costumes Rule

Getting candy and the excuse to party is as fun as anything else, but I really relish Halloween because it's an excuse to put on a costume. In a way, it's a national day of theatrics, the chance to really submerge yourself in another persona, study comportment, style, voice, and see how close you can come to merging with someone else's social image. At least if you're hardcore like me.

Then suddenly it's one day before Halloween and I have nothing to wear, no budget, and no ideas.

TRAGEDY. Not comedy.

So I solicit the advise of a co-worker and a middle-schooler. Result:

Zayn Malik. Member of polarizing boy band One Direction.

Who cares that I couldn't recognize a One Direction song on the radio, let alone tell you which band member is which. It costs no money, and I'll get to walk around in public dressed as a man without anyone giving me odd looks? Let's do it.

To be honest, this costume was really just a result of my hair and my love of dressing in drag.

Add a dash of borrowed house-mate wardrobe and voila!

I even learned his trademark facial expression.

It was a success and recognized by many tween girls.

One of which proceeded to show me 5 different 1D music videos, pointing out where Zayn was singing at all times.

But who am I to judge? I had the Backstreet Boys. And they were awesome.

Vermonter Weekend

What I will now look like more often than not:

What's more: we had company this weekend, and if I had worn anything other than this I would've been out of place.

I did hear the governor speak this weekend, and
he did very nicely asked that the out-of-staters stay.

Vermonter-wear: multiple layers to accommodate the sudden changes in weather, one of which must be plaid flannel, combined with utility pants, all of which must be two sizes too big, topped off with dirt-crusted boots and optional hat/gloves (gloves forgone in this instance)

ASSIMILATION, IT WILL HAPPEN TO YOU, TOO.

I've even worn sweatpants to the grocery store. Granted, all my other pants were in the wash. Still.

Activities on a Vermonter weekend with company include eating way too much, having a bonfire, hiking, and skeet shooting.

I'm surprised that my shoulder escaped unbruised. My ego, however, did not. I did not hit a single target. I will need a lot of practice with that shotgun before being considered adequate.

Oh well. I still looked cool doing it.

Hair Cuts at Home

I have had the same hair stylist for twelve years.

I have wanted a real undercut for at least the past three.

I had plenty of chances when I was in Minnesota to take the plunge and shave the sides of my head, relaxed and safe in the hands of the woman who knew my hair best. Did I do it? No.

Yet now that my stylist is gone along with so many other things I was familiar with in my native land, I sat down at the kitchen table on a Tuesday night and let a man I've known for only a month and a half take a buzz cutter to my head.

Am I crazy? Maybe a little. But I have several friends that swear by home hair cuts.

Here's how it went down:

I started the night with my hair looking like this. A little grown out, but still acceptable. Certainly not long enough to be a bother, and not even particularly "feminine," which I hate my hair being.

And then the buzzer ignited. Or at least it felt like it ignited because this wasn't a salon and you didn't block off the lines first and oh YOU'RE COMING RIGHT AT ME WITH THAT THING.

But I had been assured repeatedly that my housemate was good at cutting hair; he cut the rest of the family's hair all the time.

So deep breath.

You picked this.

Gotta do it now.

We did check all of the angles in the end. We worked slow. Lots of communication, like any good stylist should have with their client.

And damn if the result isn't awesome.

So instead of paying a salon stylist I had no trust in 25 bucks to cut my hair, I just let someone I (admittedly) also had no trust in cut it for free.

Right decision.

Or as my housemate-stylist would say, "Score!"

Now I can look just like several of my favorite musicians. Two hardcore Twin Cities rappers, and one trashy Europop boy band.

Not that I can be as photogenic as Astronautalis is.

But I can look pretty damn similar to Sims.

Now if only marginal resemblance translated into coincidental talent.

On the bright side: now I look just like Jedward, mommy! Just like I've always wanted!

Apple Season

As you may have guessed, this post should have been up a couple of weeks ago when the distinct chill that comes with winter and snow wasn't creeping into the air, but I was busy and didn't have time to get the pictures then. And what's a blog without pictures, anyway?

So here's the story of picking apples in Vermont, in pictures.

After going from organic farming to desk work so suddenly, it was fantastic to be out in a field harvesting again. My housemates and I picked three bushels of drops, which are the apples that have become ripe and fallen off the tree by themselves. Normally, these would be discarded as waste, but they're beautiful! Look at them!

The best part? We only paid fifteen dollars for the whole lot. Fresh! Local! Organic! Only fifteen dollars!

We spent the next couple of weeks chopping, peeling, freezing, saucing, jellying and canning them all.

The best part again? We get to enjoy them all winter.

Gentrification

Oh, yes. Apparently it is happening to me. My very good friend has verified it.

These little monsters are the reason.

You have seen more pictures of me in my unflattering work out clothes than should be allowed.

Something about motherly instincts!

Something about social pressure to live life with a white picket fence!

Something about how kids and a husband aren't things a woman needs to be fulfilled!

But no. Just something about two adorable little boys who worm their way into your soft spot with their sweetness.

Such as when Atticus, age 2, stumbles half asleep to you first thing in the morning and wants a hug.

Or when Harry, age 5, says he'll sit and keep you company while you do your important work, even though he's finished his.

Or when they both drag you into the giant guest bed and snuggle in for the night, teddy bears and all, and say they don't want to sleep in their own beds.

Sigh.

Perhaps it was inevitable that I'd think children and a family would be nice.

Half the town seems to be working on finding me a husband as we speak.

(And while that's certainly an exaggeration) I am now the kind of person who answers inquiries of, "What's up?" with, "Nothing much. Just working," and spends weekends happily babysitting kids and dogs, cooking, and being a general domestic.

Will I be sucked into Vermont? Stay tuned to find out. I certainly am.

The Thinnest of Doughs

Anyone who knows me know that what I do with my free time is cook, cook, cook.

My most recent adventure in cooking was to make one of my favorite pastries: burek.

It's essentially phyllo dough (or yufka) filled with cheese or meat, although you can fill it however you like.

I first had this deliciousness in Serbia. The night was late, and my compatriots and I had consumed one too many Jelen (the ubiquitous Serbian beer), so we went wandering through the neighborhood at 2:00 am looking for the one thing that brings joy to all who are intoxicated: greasy, fatty food. We found a bakery that was literally no more than a window in the front of a building where an amused local advised that we try the burek because, "You haven't been in Belgrade until you've had burek!"

Whether he was right about that or just wanted to entertain himself with some drunk Americans, who knows? But did he have it right! Hot out of the oven, cheesy, buttery, flaky. The best of drunk foods.

Now don't get the wrong idea. I was not drunk and I did not drunkenly say, "You kno wha woul be da besttttt? Burek!"

That might have made a much better story.

But burek is a comfort food for me, and a challenge to make. So I jumped in. my own yufka and everything.

Surprisingly, the hardest part was not making or stretching the yufka. Let the dough rest long enough and stretching the gluten strands until the dough is paper thin is perhaps a bit tricky, but very doable even for a beginner.

Look at my hand right through that dough!

 The hard part was filling and shaping the rolls!

Knowing how much filling can be put in without putting too much weight on the dough and having it tear a lot longer to learn than just one batch. The same with how to maneuver such fragile dough into perfect rounds.

I tried two fillings. One 'salty' with ricotta and goat cheese, and the small swirls I made look sort of cute. I tried to make the 'sweet' filling with cream cheese and maple syrup into one giant burek, which didn't work out at all. It ended up too tall and not spread out in the pan, so I cut them into wedges. But you can't win them all on the first try.

But difficulty with presentation or no, the results were tasty. The salty rounds tasted quite like what I remember. The sweet wedges tasted sort of like french toast with maple syrup. Not quite "traditional," but still delicious.

Now to work on my filling and rolling technique so that I can make one the size of an entire pan and really impress people.