Bobblehead Dramas!

I adore "The Office." And I'm unspeakably lucky to live with two friends who share my sometimes unhealthy amount of love. We might get a bit too into the show--from quoting the episodes at random to turning to the DVDs for solace, joy, and entertainment, it's a sad day that doesn't have any of the show. Now, we're upping the ante around the apartment with some new "Office" delights.

The new, limited edition bobbleheads are bringing a lot of fun and attitude to our desks. That delight has started spilling over, however.

Maybe we're a bit obsessive. Maybe we just need more fun amidst long nights of lots of work... Either way, they've come to the rescue on several occasions. Here are some of the antics they've been getting into behind our backs... Or for our delight.

Milk Bar: Yummy, Celery Aside

When I can taste the celery undertone, I'm not happy with my softserve ice cream. This was one of the few risks, though, for which I can't applaud the Momofuku geniuses.

Granted, I have a pretty well-honed and sensitive palate, but I don't think the problem I had at Milk Bar was my fault. Stuffing flavored softserve seemed a bizarre--but intriguing--idea. So, I used my single sample when ordering and tried a few bites of the daring treat.

Celery does not belong in ice cream. I picked out a few of the other flavors--all authentic to the "stuffing" idea, I concede--and none made me happy. They don't belong in ice cream. Not in my book.

I recently caved and tried Milk Bar, the Momofuku dessert haven. This minimalist hotspot offers some deliciously daring and inventive dishes, like the signature "Cereal Milk" softserve that tastes like the milk left in the bowl when you finish eating Frosted Flakes. It's odd. It takes a few bites. But it's strangely likable. The new caramel apple flavor joins fruit cobbler and stuffing as seasonal additions to the softserve roster and, in my book, tops the current line up of frozen yumminess. Toppings from the ordinary--candy corn--to the inventive--caramelized cornbread crumbs--can up the ante on the sensibly small but rich portions.

The cakes, cookies, and pies continue the tradition of odd combinations that often really work. I was devestated to see that the Dulce de Leche cake has been retired for the winter, but the banana cake with hazelnut crunch and gianduja fudge taking its place made me rather happy--and had similar effects on the friends I had make sure I couldn't eat the massive piece alone. Other highlights that tempt and taunt me from behind the glass include the Candy Bar Pie--caramel, peanut butter nougat, and pretzels in a chocolate crust and under a blanket of smooth chocolate. The "cornflake chocolate chip marshmallow cookie" and the special daily breads also top my list of to-try items.

Milk Bar, you're getting a rebuke for the celery. But you make up for it with your culinary risks that soar. Right into my mouth. I don't always like the results, but I really respect when restaurants take risks, and I love being here to give them a shot.

The World Trade Center--Exploring the Site, and Myself

Ever since Sept.11, 2001, American flags have everywhere. We find them on cars, suit lapels, and innumerable ouvenirs that tourists buy when they visit New York City. But the flag seldom rarely affects me. I consider it an overused and sometimes exploited icon. Growing up in D.C., it was a cheap patriotic symbol exploited by politicians and lobbyists. Then I went on a tour of Ground Zero. And I have to say, I now see the flag has the potential to mean more to me.

On Oct. 28, 2009, I took the World Trade Center Tribute Center’s audio tour of the World Trade Center site. I went with 14 other students in my NYU journalism class. During our visit, I surveyed the ruins. There's no more debris. It's a huge constructive site filled cranes and workers in hard hats. At the same time, I was listening through my headset to the stories of survivors, officials, and the loved ones of some of the thousands lost piped into my ears.

After experiencing the fear and uncertainty of living in DC on Sept. 11, I often find myself resenting the invocation of that tragic day while I now live in New York. In classes, when a professor mentions the unique experiences of that day, they focus solely on New York, asking if anyone was in the city and what that was like. I feel a sense of almost as though my experience and the experience of my fellow DC residents is undermined and belittled in those conversations. A plane crashed there, too, I say to myself. And if passengers had not revolted and thwarted the plans of hijackers resulting in the Pennsylvania crash of Flight 93, there would have been more. Indeed, I remember the panic of attending school at a national religious landmark, the uncertain fear of what would be next. Because we all felt as though there was going to be a “next” and we knew it would be in the city where we lived—it would be in the Nation’s Capital.

I was not looking forward to it. With my perhaps unique perspective about discussing those events in Manhattan and with the fatigue many of my classmates feel for such discussion, I was not enthused. I was even less disposed to feel much.

On a red bridge overpass, looking down upon the massive pit where the towers once stood, the emptiness did not faze me. The size of the gaping construction site was notable, but not really memorable. It was the flag I spied on a forklift, flapping in the damp breeze and drizzle, standing out against the cool glass of the new tower that brought a chill over me. Flags adorned each crane, each forklift, each bulldozer, and the sight, on this grim day, over a spot of such suffering and bravery, made me gasp.

Traipsing through the marble halls of the World Financial Center, walking past Ann Taylor stores and various eateries along with the complex’s daily workers seemed wrong. The worlds of the past and the present merged as I spied men pacing and talking on BlackBerries while fighting my emotions at hearing Kate, a fireman’s widow, explain, “September 12th remains the worst day in my mind—on September 11th, I still had hope.”

These elements of the experience seemed to violate the sanctity of this living memorial of an audio tour. But it also seemed to fit in a strange, perhaps unintended way. From the form to the content of the tour, one message is abundantly clear: life goes on. It is never about forgetting. It is impossible to forget the voice of Lee Ielpi recounting the story of carrying his son Jonathan’s body out of the debris with fellow firefighters. I can't block out the emotion of volunteer docent Tracy Gazzani when she recalls the last morning she saw her son Terry, 24, an employee at Cantor Fitzgerald, whose remains have yet to be found.

“We are so blessed to live here,” reflected one neighborhood resident in the audio program. “We have experienced the most beautiful part of America.”

The flags here are not rested for the rain. They do not stay in on days like this. They keep upright, weathering the rain and wind. They go on.

I don’t recall ever crying on Sept. 11. After my parents arrived and ended the waiting game of being picked up from the school on lock-down, we went home and watched the news. Unable to take it for long, I baked cookies. I couldn’t tell you what kind if you put a gun to my head, but I know that I took to my kitchen and turned on the oven. I got choked up. I got scared. I rued the uncertainty. But I never cried.

Walking away from my two hours touring the site, listening to painfully real experiences, and speaking with Tracy, I understood what this mother meant, after she shared stories about her only child tragically torn away. “It gets different,” she said. “It doesn’t get better, it gets different.” Trekking through the Financial District in the cold, wind, and rain, I entered the subway weighing the morning’s events, turning Tracy’s words over in my mind. As soon as I arrived at the subway platform, I saw a homeless man asleep against the wall, clutching a backpack with a small American flag patch, and I silently shed tears as I waited for the train.

The Death of the Sniper: DC's Quest for Closure?

I support the death penalty.

Much to my profoundly liberal father’s chagrin, that’s one of the few places I diverge from the general party line.

I remember writing my first position paper on the issue in Mr. Sahr’s American Government class in eighth grade. That same year and that same school were the setting for my own experiences with John Allen Muhammad, the DC Sniper, pronounced dead from lethal injection at 9:11 p.m. today.

On a perhaps fittingly red background, stark white words pronounce “CNN Justice” when I open an article on one of my most beloved news websites. Having lived through the public panic and paranoia that surrounded the sniper shootings in DC, the story calls to me, following me to my CNN-watching at the gym and through my news browsing in the depths of my BlackBerry.

In October 2002, the DC area was seized by panic and uncertainty. Individuals of different races, ages, and classes were being shot from afar, no pattern in people or place, no idea who was behind the scope of the rifle ending lives around the Beltway. Some schools closed. My school was far too demanding to willingly give us time off for the indeterminate shooting spree. We adapted.

The ability to adapt is one of the lessons with which I walked away from National Cathedral School, both in my school and professional life as well as my personal one. With a sniper on the loose, we adapted, but we kept going to class. We went to sports practices, but we were not allowed to walk there, we were bussed. We could not walk across the street to lunch every day—being totally exposed repeatedly was potentially inviting tragedy. We ate lunch in one of the gyms that was attached—through a complex network of hallways and varyingly sized sets of stairs—to the lower and middle school buildings. I remember eating the packaged lunches, brought over from the cafeteria every day, in the dim lighting of our oldest gym, and wondering how long it would last. I remember the sense of nervousness when getting out of the car each morning and rushing up the brick stairs and through the courtyard to get into school, subconsciously hunching away from the sunny open air.

I support the death penalty as the ultimate consequence for some of the ultimate crimes in our society. One of the other reasons I support the death penalty is the sense of closure and justice many victims and their families cite as a result of capital punishment.

Seven years after that fateful October in the metropolitan DC area, John Allen Muhammad’s execution fails to give me a sense of closure. I certainly moved on long ago. But I don’t think I will ever forget the experience. I’m not sure if those feelings and that mental and physical place will ever fully close for me.

I will still tell anecdotes about shuttle buses to sports and shuffling along circuitous hallway routes to eat lunch on the floor of the gym. But I moved on long ago. I can only hope that this latest development will help those even more intimately touched by the tragic shootings move on too.

Red Sea Fish: A Play That Drowned

On assignment for work, I went to review a show shipped straight from England as part of an annual special engagement, Brits Off Broadway. I've been reviewing a number of shows over the last month or so and finally getting a "plus one" for this show was an exciting development--until the guilt set in quickly at signing my friend up for two hours seeing this show in a truly claustrophobic theater. One of the hardest things to do is write a good review that doesn't sound dumb. Fortunately, they saved me that concern. Harsh reviews can also be quite hard to write, though, when there's little to point to as being "good" about a show. Not to mention, reliving the pain is pretty rough.

Here's my attempt to be fair, also available in its published form online.


Matt Wilkinson's new play is a complex exploration of family relationships and the imagination of the human mind, and it's been shipped here straight from Brighton. The show's British cast has kept the original staging intact, and the script paints a realistic portrait of a complex father-son relationship punctuated by moments of insight. Ultimately, though, "Red Sea Fish" fails to tell a coherent, meaningful story.

The play takes place in the apartment of Ray and his devoted caretaker and son, Terry, on the south coast of England. Over the course of 48 hours, the pair's relationship and their perceptions of reality and the power of imagination fundamentally change, thanks to the introduction of a third party. As Ray suffers from a rare skin condition, father and son live largely confined to their home. Thus, when Terry invites Karen, a young runaway and the object of his budding affections, into the apartment, she provokes both men and brings out long-buried truths about their respective notions of past, present, and future.

Tim Blissett shows skill and versatility in his portrayal of Ray, an aging invalid who largely lives in the world of his own stories, content to be sealed off from the world below his apartment. His routines and mannerisms come across clearly, painting the picture of a realistic and endearing character. Matt Houghton's Terry feels genuinely connected to his father, sealed in the role of a dutiful son locked away to see to his father's needs.

Janna Fox's emotions as Karen, however, are as absent as her distractingly missing eyebrows. In fact, both were so lacking that numerous audible comments were whispered among the small audience, drawing a few laughs that had nothing to do with the attempts at dark humor in the script. At times Karen's lack of depth appears to imply either a hint of mental illness or perhaps an aloof response to the confusing conditions within the apartment. Neither seems to be the intention, however, so the role—which poses the plot's turning point and is responsible for the script's evolutionary drive—falls utterly flat. What's more, in the small theater, the actors' sincere attempts to make the show work are evident in compensatory overacting, with Fox and Houghton visibly struggling to convey emotion and depth.

While Wilkinson's work aims high and attempts to address interesting ideas, its execution fails to thrive like fish in the titular sea; rather, it feels as if we're watching laborious attempts to keep from drowning.

Glamor-shot Cookie Sandwiches

As the weather gets colder, I often find one of my favorite low-key nights is staying in with friends, watching The Office or a movie, and doing some cooking. So, as I cook up some favorites both old and new, thought I'd post the results, tips, and tricks along with the food reviews, political musings, and entertainment stories.

These particular cookies came to mind immediately when I started thinking about night-in treats. Here are cookies worth making just for the chance at replicating the gorgeousness of these temptresses. But they're also delicious. And--an even bigger perk for many--really baking-cheater friendly!

Inspired by a recipe for Rocky Road Sandwich Cookies I perpetually drooled over while working with the web team at Every Day with Rachael Ray, I knew a girls night dinner at my apartment was the perfect venue to try them. Given the busy weeknight and my hungry friends, however, I knew I needed to get both dinner and the anticipated dessert ready as soon as possible. The results were so pretty, I became a smidge obsessed with the photos I took for the magazine's blog. Well, in all honesty, I repeatedly exclaimed things like, "it's like a fucking glamor-shot!" But these photogenic goodies aren't just picture-perfect.

I take a lot of pride in the things I cook, and I love to spend time in the kitchen, but I'm not above a few shortcuts sometimes. Let's face it: we don't all have time, and it can be fun to cheat the system while not sacrificing taste in the least. So, I picked up the dry chocolate chip cookie mix at my grocery store, snagged a bag of slivered almonds, and got that nostalgic jar of gooey, sugary goodness known as Marshmallow Fluff.



Simply add about half a cup of the slivered almonds--or chopped walnuts, if you prefer--to the cookie dough after preparing by the bag instructions. If the dough seems too tough, try adding two tablespoons more liquid. Also, if you prefer a cakier cookie, with results more like a whoopie pie, add another egg instead. Once baked, you just sandwich two cookies together with the marshmallow fluff. This recipe is also great for informal gatherings like my girls night because you can let everyone sandwich their own--and sneak extra fluff into each cookie sandwich!

If my friend's goofy cookie enthusiasm here is anything to go by, I'm sure these cookies will be a hit every time!

The Competitions We Can Actually Win

Convicts. Minors. People like me.

What do these individuals have in common? They are citizens of the United States who do not get full voting rights.

It is a fallacy that everyone in America has an equal vote. Growing up in DC, I was painfully aware of this fact with every election year. I do not get a real vote or real representation as a registered voter in the District of Columbia. I follow politics, relishing in electoral races with the zeal of a sports fan—too many of whom now appear to take more interest in the World Series than the competitions in which they can participate: the battles in our democracy. To me, the loud cheers and expressions of sorrow among baseball fans discussing the Yankees and the Phillies holds no interest. If anything, it really interrupts my ability to do things like my homework in an apartment of people who care. But on an election day like today, this rabid interest and the accompanying abysmal voter activity among those around me is appalling.

In DC, our license plates read “Taxation Without Representation”—plates with which Bill Clinton actually updated presidential vehicles, and which George Bush had removed. In school, I learned how lucky I was to have a vote as both women and Irish Catholics had been disenfranchised in this country. In my house, I was taught that voting was a moral responsibility with the power to voice my opinion of what was right and what would and should happen to my rights and my environment.

In each of my classes at NYU, the majority of students are from the tri-state area. These regions are the battlegrounds of critical elections for matters from gay rights to the authority of term limits to implications of presidential political capital. So, as a reporter and a child of DC, I informally polled my classes. My classmates are smart, engaged, and educated, I thought. It can’t be as bad as the poor showing I have seen walking into my building, which holds a polling station in the basement each election.

Not a single one told me they had voted or planned to do so in this election.

After the second class, I was confused. I was also indignant. But I wasn’t satisfied.

So, in a matter wholly questionable as a social scientist, I decided to consider a different sample. The Flatiron District at lunchtime seemed perfect. Individuals in the area often also work nearby, the polls will be easy to get to, and scoping out the polling booths will be easier as clearly people are getting there to vote. Yet logging on to the Community Board 5 website, the main page only told me about Yankees pep rally details from last week and bus route changes. I could not find information on voting. Once I did, the results were equally disparaging as the lack of publicity. In an hour on the street in front of the polling station, I counted a total of fifteen voters entering the building.

In DC, we do not have notable sports franchises—we have elections. Growing up in a politically active family, I followed elections with an enthusiasm that has yet to fully wear off. Eagerly poring over news and early polling data—back in the day when such figures were allowed—and relishing in the competition while anxiously rooting for my candidate, election days retain a tangible magic for me, a palpable, crackling air of power and possibility.

Sometimes, I am jaded. Sometimes, I am completely unphased by the political games and figured around which I grew up. But I am still susceptible to the excitement and anticipation of elections.

To me, that first Tuesday in November is my thrill in the democratic system.

Not to vote, I was taught, is morally reprehensible. I carry that belief with me still—and on this first Tuesday in November, it seems one of the hardest things about currently living in New York.

NYU Tragedy and the Politics of the Unknown

As a student at NYU, suicide is not a foreign occurrence. Some joke about the “Bobst Diving Team,” while others simply cannot discuss dorm windows without explaining that the school restricts access to air because officials fear students will all kill themselves.

I have never experienced the tragedy of knowing a student who committed suicide at NYU. I can only hope, from the depths of my heart, that I will never have to face that news. I am, however, a member of the University’s community, and I believe that the school as a whole feels each loss in various ways.

As a reporter, tackling death is one of the greatest hardships one can face, and covering suicide is even more difficult for the questions one must ask because the list of victims is not only the name echoed throughout your article, but each subject you interview. During my freshman year, I had to face this reality when contributing an article to an investigative series on the NYU Wellness Exchange, the mainstay of mental health services on campus. In 2007, the school community witnessed multiple suicides and at one point I was tasked with investigating whether students had reached out for help. I had to call and email Allan Oakley Hunter’s father in the wake of his son taking his own life.

I do not remember the content of my various contact with Mr. Hunter. What stands out most in my memory is sitting at my desk in an under-populated newsroom during my afternoon staff shift, rocking in an old rolling chair, and hating myself for the questions I had not even asked yet. My editor gave me a phone number and other contact information, and I dawdled and ultimately just idled in that chair, unsure how to do my job and, moreover, how to handle what doing my job meant.

I hate when people write about losses to which they are unconnected—it feels fake, self-gratifying, and self-important. I have no intention of writing such a piece. I cannot presume to know what the friends, family, or acquaintances of Andrew Williamson-Noble feel. According to Facebook, this latest student to end his life on campus lived in my residence hall. He wears a suit nicely in his profile picture. Yet while his features seem plausibly familiar in the abstract, I know little about him on a personal, immediate level.

Over the last two and a half years I have received emails from New York University president John Sexton regarding four suicides on campus. What I had failed to truly recognize until today’s notice, entitled “The Death of an NYU Student,” was the sense of panic and despair that results not from the news, but from the withholding of substantive information. I know the Wellness Center’s phone number—it’s emblazoned on innumerable items the school has thrust upon me at events since my orientation before school even started, they send me emails, and it is on campus phones all over downtown Manhattan. What I want—what I need desperately—to know in the wake of news of another student death is a name.

In the Bible, God grants Adam the power to name all the creatures of the Earth, giving him power over all other inhabitants of Eden. A name is power. In the wake of tragedy, a name makes the difference between an abstract sense of sorrow and the abject devastation of personal loss. In the hours between receiving confirmed news of a suicide at Bobst library this morning and the release of a name this afternoon, the anxiety and torment of not knowing which group you will fall into is terrible and, I think, wrong.

Upon hearing the news, I mentally ran through people I know well, scanning mental images of recent interactions for signs of depression or desperation. I ran through when I had seen them last, what I had heard of them most recently, trying to piece together the possibilities while incorporating what little I knew of the timeline. Without a name, you exist in a state of emotional freefall, able to sense that hollowness in the pit of your stomach that you feel on a rollercoaster, when you are out of control and have no idea what will happen next. But I like roller coasters. I have dragged friends and family members on roller coasters. This sensation and this painful, anxious uncertainty should not be imposed on others.

We should get a name.