The GFG

Can we just take a moment of silence for the George Foreman Grill?

Can we just appreciate that the GFG (as I refer to it on a regular basis) revolutionized our view on cooking (I’m speaking to my fellow Generation Yers), only to be abandoned by us ten years later? By “revolutionized” I mean that for about three years in the first decade of the new millennium I actually thought I could cook because I owned not one, but two GFG!

How many of us received this gem on our way to college? Red, blue, white, black- George Foreman said no to grill-color boundaries. We can make them pink! Pink, I say!

I remember fondly Monday hamburgers with my neighbors in college where everyone brought over their GFG to create a very smoky kitchen and fatless hamburger every week.  Which brings me to my next very crucial point, which is that the GFG could really only make three things: grilled chicken, hamburgers, and grilled cheese sandwiches. You know what else can do this? A skillet.

But that didn’t stop us. Somehow the GFG was better. I mean, why we needed fatless grilled chicken is beyond me. I don’t know that grilled chicken needs to lose any fat. Hamburgers: a no-brainer, but I maintain to this day that the actual preparation of a hamburger takes place long before it touches heat, and the only seasonings that could be found in my house was salt and pepper… and some very questionable cumin which probably came with my apartment. My hamburgers were always lacking in the taste department, since they had no fat AND no seasoning. No one ever wanted any of the hamburgers made on my GFG.

The grilled cheese had me fooled for about 18 months until I finally saw someone make it in a skillet. That was the end of my love affair with George.  

The breaking point probably wasn’t the grilled-cheese revelation. The cleanup was also rather cumbersome. Here is an appliance with an electric cord that by all logic should stay away from water. However, cleaning this contraption became laughable. You could try to clean it on the counter with a sponge, but you had to wait for it to cool completely (some of us bent this rule) and you could not reuse this sponge (some of us broke this rule). So, you would get this thing soapy and brown (brown and soapy), and then, because of the SUPER!, AMAZING!, UNPARALLELED FAT DRAINER! (also known as gravity), your brown and soapy concoction would begin to sliiiiiidde down. So, you had to have cat-like reflexes to then lift this Grill to the sink where it would flap and spit back hot grease while you tried to wash it under the sink, keeping the cord free from water.

*I want to be clear: the GFG was not the contraption that made the turnovers/grilled cheese sandwiches/ waffles. That was some other contraption… although I did enjoy debating this with friends at brunch this weekend.*

George Foreman, who has five or six children all named George. George Foreman, who was given the chance to endorse the grill after Hulk Hogan turned it down (information provided to me this past Sunday over many Bloody Marys by my friend Sarah) and became a billionaire (with a B). So, kudos, George Foreman. You convinced both my parents and I that I would eat well in college (which I did) and become a decent cook with the help of your alleged “versatile” contraption (which I did not), and I feel confident that I am not alone in this boat.

Every time I pass by a garage sale and see a GFG being sold, it makes me a bit sad. The Grill did not get it’s proper place in history for all it accomplished, and that is tragic. I think George Foreman was famous for something else before the GFG, but there is no debating that my generation will always remember him as the man who toughened our chicken and gave the skillet a run for its money for about a decade. Bravo, George.

Thanks, Ryan Adams

“Hell, I still love you, New York.” – Ryan Adams

“Do you love New York?”

“Do you love New York more than Texas?”

“Are you ever coming back?”

First thing is first. New York and I have a strange, and perhaps lasting relationship. Unlike most lasting relationships I’ve had with people, my connection to NY wasn’t instantaneous. New York was always a place I liked visiting, but I think it bears mentioning that I love Texas. I was never the type of person who hated where they were from; in fact, I love where I am from and let me tell you why:

New York takes away your specialness.

Slow your roll, people. Let me make my point before I get hate messages about how wrong I am. My students always tell me that I can’t tell everyone that they are special, because if everyone is special, then no one is. In the City that Never Sleeps, everyone is special, and therefore no one is. It’s simple supply and demand. You have a higher degree? So do all your friends, and your waitress. Oh, you can play an instrument? My friend so-and-so can play three. You think it’s impressive that you can speak four languages? So can your cab driver.

My point is this: in this particular Petri dish, the competition is fierce. And I cannot figure out for the life of me how people manage to grow huge egos in this city. I trip eight times a day on the street which keeps me sufficiently humble. I have gotten lost above ground more times than I can count. I have gone the wrong way on the subway only to end up in Queens. Yes, these are the things that keep you human.

But the more important other side of this coin is that everyone is special. Everyone is interesting, funny, clever, intelligent, progressive, determined, seeking, tenacious, poetic, artistic, and hungry. The thing to remember is that if you made it this far, someone and some other place helped you get there.

You are special because of where you come from.

Someone put you in piano lessons. Someone bought you a drum set. Someone told you that you were clever enough to make it in comedy, let you buy fashion magazines so that you could one day make it to Parsons, gave you an A on a paper so that you could have the confidence to try your hand at being a writer, or put Legos under the tree so that you could build mini versions of the buildings you would one day derive from pure imagination.

Do I love New York more than Texas? It’s not a qualifying question. It’s not even a legitimate question. You may find yourself divided. But the thing I am figuring out is that you don’t have to be. I love both places because one raised me and one raised me up.

I don’t know if I’ll ever move back to Texas. I try not to speak in absolutes, because I am only absolutely sure that I am a horrible fortune teller. I live in a pretty small corner of the universe (contrary to most New Yorkers’ belief) and most of the day to day stuff that I worry about doesn’t matter that much. Most of the stuff that does always has. And whether you’re an hour ahead or an hour behind, that’s probably true for you, as well.

Teacher-y Things

Every former colleague always ask me, “What are the kids like where you teach?”

Well, they are:

Messy

Self-absorbed

Goofy

Hormonal

Stressed

Care takers

Thoughtful

Thoughtless

Hot

Cold

Steady

Temperamental

Self-conscious

Loving

Hard on each other

Hard on their teachers

Hard on the world

Hard because of the world

Oblivious to the rest of the world

Seeking the end of the world on December 21^st so that they don’t have to take my final.

Just kidding about that last one… (sort of). They’re kids. They are no different than any kid I have ever taught, babysat, been a summer camp counselor to, sat on a front porch and listened talk about their prom, heartbreak, or graduation with, or bandaged up on a playground.

I am not a parent, so I hope I don’t oversimplify this particular statement, but school shootings (and shit, I hate that it’s even a term we can pluralize) paralyze me. I never get used to tragedy, and I guess that’s a good thing, but I cannot divorce myself from doing what most parents do, which is think: That could have been my kid. Except I think about my students.

I have this pattern that I can’t seem to break. The first six weeks of school, I am the least favorite teacher on the block. A notoriously hard grader, a champion of the phrase “do it again and don’t hand it to me until you’re proud of it,” a big fan of apologies to someone’s face and looking them in the eye, and a proponent of manners (i.e., do not suck your teeth, roll your eyes, talk under your breath, walk away angry), I don’t always rock kids world at the beginning. But boy do I give it a good rattle.

Then the 7^th Week hits. Suddenly it’s starting to make sense. I don’t hit hard with the “I told you so,” (although I think it) but kids start writing well, they start reading harder articles, they learn my mannerisms… I learn their names. It’s a win-win situation. 

Here in Brooklyn, we’ve got some tough nuts to crack. At this time of year some of my students get pretty depressed because they aren’t looking forward to Christmas Break. School is their safe space; it’s really their whole world (and not-so-surprisingly these aren’t the best students) because it’s where they have limited pressure. I work with some pretty tough teachers. These peeps are no joke. They bring it. You have to. Kids will catch you slipping, and game over. We bust our tails to make school a tender place… and they never want to leave. Well, they do want to leave class, but if they could stay there and just hang out, they would… all night.

*knock knock (4:05 pm) walking out the door

Kid: Ms. Son, which train do you take?

Me: I take the G. I walk down Jay Street to get there.

Kid: That’s mad far, Ms. Son; we’ll show you a faster way.

And just like that, I collected seven misfits that walk me to the train every day after school. It’s a good mix of kids. I ask about the highs and lows of their day, how physics is going (always a hit), or weekend plans. We play “We’re selling hot dogs for lunch”, a game that my friends Robert and Tom came up with to pass time, where you impersonate someone using only the phrase “We’re selling hot dogs for lunch” to guess the impression.

When I lived in Texas, I had good relationships with kids. I feel like I was exactly where I needed to be for as long as I was needed. I’m a big believer in moving on when the time is right. Sometimes I think about leaving education, but then I think about the 7^th Week. Some people work several years, or even a whole career, and they never hit that turn where you go from being adversary to advocate.

I asked my students the other day before I introduced a new and very difficult concept, “I know this writing is tough, but I need to know something. Do you trust me? Do you trust that I have your best interest at heart? Do you believe that I come here every day to make you a better person? Do you believe that I will never ask you do challenge yourself if it won’t make you better?” Essentially proving that this (teaching) only works if they trust me. Let’s just be real about that.

Schools are supposed to be safe (well-built, sturdy, durable) buildings, but the classroom is a cultivated safe space. We work really hard to create a space where kids can escape a bad home life, a place where kids can connect with at least one adult on campus, and a place where they can be honest.

Working in a time and space where school shootings exist, and subsequently working in a school doesn’t scare me (well, no more than living in a city that was attacked eleven years ago). What scares me is that people might stop equating schools as a safe place, and that message does permanent damage. I can’t do anything about the guns. Or the crazies. Or people that get super political, from either side. I’m not really on a side (and I don’t say that because I am a big person. I say that because I honestly don’t have any answers).

What I do have are your kids for eight hours a day. When they’re with me, I try to keep the bad stuff out and shine light on the good stuff. Safety is a pretty relative term. I would hope that if you are a parent, you can think of at least one teacher with whom you’ve left your child that you consider a champion and an advocate. I don’t mean against bullets, because I cannot protect against bullets. What I can do is listen to your kid when they have questions about the world they are about to participate in full time and try to soften the edges.

I’m pretty satisfied with that.

Is That Bacon I Hear?

 We live across the street from a bikers’ club. I must confess that when I first moved to Brooklyn, I thought my parents had hired the cast of my life to illustrate their very insistent point that New Yorkers really play into type. For one thing, my apartment looks like the set of a sitcom, and of course there are the vigilantes that live across the street, which would make for a great use of guest star appearances, if you ask me.

The bikers that I have met have all been perfectly delightful to me during each of our interactions. They have opened doors, asked me how my job is, and shown me the inside of the club house… which means I’m practically on my way to becoming someone’s old lady.

I recently came to embrace and loathe this title after watching (skimming) through Sons of Anarchy lately, which then turned my fondness for the bikers to fear. I mean, how do I really know that they aren’t running drugs, smuggling guns, and smoking their enemies (SoA lingo)? But this fear is unfounded because these bikers are legendary in this neighborhood. I could tell you the urban legends that follow their fumes, but I’ll just say that I would rather live across the street from these guys than the 5-0s (That means cops for all of you inexperienced folk, but I actually learned that from The Fast and the Furious Five, a film that I was forced to watch, but that’s not the point. I lost my train of thought).

Oh, yes. The bikers. I wouldn’t want to cross them, but baked goods and friendly conversation usually soften them. One of them gave me his phone number “in case anybody messes wichoo.” (*Wichoo = me)

Most Fridays they can be found lined up outside across the street with blaring engines. My roommate said that they were especially loud the other night because all of their bikes were lined up… except she was looking for the slang terminology for “bike”, so I helped her out and explained that they call them “hogs”… so you can hear the hogs from almost a tenth of a mile away.

Last week the party was even larger. The size could have been a result from Halloween festivities or someone recently making parole, or both.

I guess what this boils down to is that I do not like not being invited to things, and quite frankly, I cannot believe that no one has so much has offered me a jacket, or at the very least, a patch. I mean, I have worn my leather jacket several times to show my fashion versatility. I remember all of their “names” (Goose and Bubba are taken, so I cannot have those names if and when I am ever initiated). I have several ideas that I would like to discuss for chapter mixers and a possible nomination for Social Chair (fingers crossed!).

Junior League is my second choice, but I’m going to hold out for this other club. They are close by, the chapter dues can’t be terribly high, and I can wear black to every event. I urge you to consider this option, especially if you’ve already gone the sorority route.

Amnesia...I think.

I think I have amnesia.

Pardon me; what I mean is that I am in a (technically) self-induced amnesia-like state due to a combination of over the counter cold medicines in the last 48 hours which have inhibited my ability to remember any food I have consumed, conversations I have had with humans, and television that I have watched.

I cannot remember exactly what I took while I was in the depths of my illness, but I can tell you that if there is a way to create a roofy-like substance from OtC cold medicines, I found it…but subsequently lost it because… I have amnesia.

Wednesday 21:00

I have tried reclaiming my steps from the time I started feeling ill (because I watch a lot of movies over the spread of disease [including zombie viral takeovers] ) and I think it all began on Wednesday when I could literally feel fever taking over my body during class…but by the time I got home, I had walked past my roommate at least six times before I noticed he was standing in front of me, and I just knew I was sick.

The thing about getting sick is that you usually try and talk yourself out of it. “I’m fine. If I drink orange juice, take some meds, and go to sleep early, I’ll be fine.” Wrong. That’s not how sick works.

Friday 14:30

I think I might have beaten this thing. I don’t really feel that bad, right? A few meds, some tea and water, and I’m right as rain.

You could say that people meander through the six stages of grief over a common cold, starting with denial and progressing to the bargaining stage. I myself stay in the bargaining stage longer than the average human… but regardless, you usually end up at acceptance once you are bed-ridden. Somewhere between Friday afternoon and Saturday morning, I managed to accept that I was in fact sick. I take cold medicine at school and suddenly I know what Jesse Spano felt like on caffeine pills…but although I am technically there in body, my mind is in a fog. I snap out of it when I realize there is a kid in front of me in the hallway who snaps at me (with his fingers, not a remark) like a cop doing a sobriety test. I just have to make it to the end of the day.

Saturday 04:00

I am sick. My eyes are glued together. I can feel every molecule in my body screaming at me to stay still, but I cannot, because I have a fever that is burning my body through the sheets. I sit up, but immediately feel like I have vertigo. Shirts hurt. Coughing hurts. Walking seems impossible… but crawling? I can get down (literally) with crawling. I start to crawl to my door and regain composure. I need water. The kitchen is only ten feet away. I have water. I make it back to my bed.

Note to self: Someone moved the kitchen and it is no longer ten feet away. I make a mental note to kill that person when I feel better. I pass out.

Saturday 10:00-Sunday 10:00

I am awake. My roommate gives me cold medicine.

Somewhere throughout this twenty four hour period I end up letting the cable guy inside to fix my cable, watch the entire season of “Newsroom” on HBO on demand, write delirious posts to people on Facebook, and make (what I can deduce from wrappers) about 14 cups of tea. I take more cold medicine.

If you and I communicated during this time period and I am still in your phone, bless you. Just bless you.

I am pretty sure I am over this thing now, but I wanted to leave you with a moral…

The moral of the story is: you will never remember the moral of the story to anything you discover, say, or watch when you are sick because you won’t even remember waking up that day. For all I know, I said and did some brilliant things 24 hours ago, but we’ll never know because I have amnesia.

* I’d like to thank the following companies/name brands for making this all possible: Advil Cold and Sinus, DayQuil, Mucinex, Vicks Vapor Rub, Advil PM, and Tylenol Cold/ Flu liquid syrup.