Music of the Subway

Everyone in New York ends up on the subway at some point, and most of us end up there at least twice a day.  It is definitely its own land with a distinct set of rules, people, smells and sounds that inhabit it and give it its color.  At first, everything is exciting, somethings are off-putting, but eventually you become desensitized to it all.

There are always performers in the subways.  Musicians, dancers, silver painted statue people, mini-Michael Jacksons, lady Michael Jacksons (just about every variety of Michael Jackson you can imagine) and for the most part they become a piece of the background noise.  But last Sunday I was at the Atlantic/Barclay stop in Brooklyn heading to a last stop in Target before leaving town for a bit, and I heard the strains of "How Great Thou, Art" coming from a soothing, and unique instrument, which at first I thought might be a theremin, but it was instead it was Maestro Moses Josiah and his musical saw.  He had an almost ethereal expression and unlike all the other people performing in the subway, he had the aura of someone giving a gift that you were welcome to take if you like as you moved through your day.  He was so earnest, and the music rather haunting, so that I had to pause a moment and just take it in.

He accepts donations, and sells cds, so if you are ever in New York and pass Mr. Josiah, take a moment and appreciate him.  He and his music have stayed with me long after hearing it.

A Night At the Whitney

Last night was a truly wonderful New York kind of night.  It was my last chance to hang out with Kirk for a while, and though I had mentioned having a quiet evening of packing and cleaning, when he mentioned the possibility of going to the Whitney (which is where he currently works, and is open late on Saturday nights) I jumped at it.

The opportunity to be on the terrace at sunset, looking down on New York city seemed like just what I needed.  We met up at the Barnes and Noble downtown, had dinner at the Hollywood Diner and walked over to the Whitney.  I was less excited about the thought of touring the Whitney than I might have been before I toured the Metropolitan Museum of Art.  Maybe I had "museum fatigue" if that's even a thing, but if so, the actual experience of The Whitney Museum of American Art has cured me.

It was founded in 1931 by Gertrude Vanderbilt Whitney, an exceedingly wealthy society lady and patron of the arts.  She had offered her collection of contemporary art to the Met, only to have it rejected, as they weren't interested in 20th century art.  So, she founded her own museum, which flourished under her guardianship, and continued to flourish after her death in 1942.  It was temporarily closed in 2014 until it reopened this year in its current home.  Like a lot of museums, the Whitney's building is as much a work of art as the pieces it displays, and the view from the terrace is literally breathtaking.

Stepping out onto the terrace, seven flights up, onto a jutting look out, was so unsteadying and exhilarating.  To look in one direction and see the harbor and the ships, to look at the Statue of Liberty, turn and look at The Empire State Building, The Chrysler Building...to be right in the center of these icons of New York... it was incredible.  You could turn left to right and see nothing but the city and its colored lights below, like jewels... the glamorous hotel next to us, with it's myriad of open hotel rooms that you could look right into as well as the ball room with its enormous chandelier...

It made me feel like a part of something miraculous and man made and distinctly American.  Sure I was a tiny little piece of it, but I was a piece, nonetheless.  I was hit with all of these cultural touchtones that make up the thoughts and feelings and dreams I have had about this city since I was a kid... snatches of music from Guys and Dolls, thoughts of ladies swathed in black furs heading into the theatre from the snow, Billie Holiday, taxicabs, Friends, the many disgusting little sweatbox convenience stores that sell sandwich meats and so therefore feel perfectly justified in calling themselves delis... all of it, the good and the bad mingled together to make this incredible picture of the city.  This city that I am now a part of.

After a while we stepped back inside, as the view became a little too disorienting, and it was time to return to the art.  

The collection is phenomenal, and while the museum is well known for its collection of Edward Hopper pieces, I have to say I found them to be some of the least exciting pieces in the collection, especially compared to the work of Thomas Hart Benton.  Benton is my favorite painter.  He'd been dismissed for awhile as sentimental Americana, but it's some of those very qualities that I love about his work.  He captures both the beauty and the weariness of people.  He captures the excitement and glamor of human diversions, but doesn't dismiss its seamier aspects.  

One of his greatest works was recently reconstructed at the Met, and it was by far my favorite exhibit there, when I visited last February.

At The Whitney, they have what is currently my favorite piece of art.  It's called Poker Night, and was inspired by Streetcar Named Desire.  It exemplifies what I love about Bennet's work.

There were some other wonderful works, most of them on the 2nd floor, which focused on the entertainments people use to make their lives seem a little lighter, and highlighted both the grimy and the gorgeous at once.  

The night continued with a walk on the High Line (part of a discontinued train line which is elevated above the city, and should not be missed on any trip to New York city) and finished with a piece of the Black Forest Cheesecake at Empire Diner , which is a beautiful art deco restaurant in Chelsea, founded by Chef Amanda Freitag.  

On the walk to the subway I snapped a couple pics that glimpse at some of the overlooked beauty that is everywhere in New York...

All in all, it was a great New York night, and it should more than hold me over while I'm upstate.

A Little Bit of Joy

Theres' a lot about New York that can seem somewhat squalid and "gritty".  There are the the rats, of course, the piles of garbage at night along the street, the blank stares of people wrecked by their mind numbing days, the smell of urine and gin that permeates the air at times... but if you are looking for it, even in some of the hotter, more tepid and grim places, like the subway at 2AM, there are these little pieces of art that give a little bit of hope and joy to the city.

It's this attention to detail, this history, this sense of timelessness that is just one of the reasons I love New York.

Roommate Wanted

Tomorrow morning I head out to Greene, New York for six weeks.  It doesn't feel like long at all, but when I realize that I've only been in New York for a month... It's been an exciting time to say the least.  Things come up, surprises arise, and as a person on the journey I'm learning to go along with the flow.  I mean, for the most part these circumstances have little to do with me, and so I do what I can when I can.

It is a strange feeling to be without a permanent home, and once I've resolved that situation I imagine it will go a long way to making me feel more secure, and less like a visitor here.

I have been checking out the various member sites, Facebook groups and Craigslistings to seek a solution to it, and a little while ago I had my first visitation for a possible place to live.  It was sited as...

1. Short term or long term
2. One Bedroom
3. $850
4. Pre-War building

Sign me up!!!

I would be sharing with a retired ballerina who is currently working in the wellness industry. I put aside my stereotypical and completely unfair preconceptions about ballerinas being high maintenance and somewhat, bat shit crazy, and called her up.  She was very kind.  Really open and forth right, with a deep voice and a strong voice to match her equally strong convictions that Brooklyn and Williamsburgh are terrible, the true working class have long since left the area and it takes hours to get anywhere from there.  She was an artist from the Warhol days, and she knew how it was.  There was something in her vocal presence and energy that sang of "Native New Yorker".  

We made an appointment for the next week to see the room, which would be all I would be renting as she was "doing the New York thing" of renting out her bedroom and using her living room as a bedroom. Hmmm.  

I got to the Bronx an hour before our appointment, and had plenty of time to look around.  It was situated right next to Yankee Stadium, which could be tricky during game time, and didn't seem as easy to get to as she had claimed.  Plus, the city was...grittier than I'd expected.  The building itself was gorgeous.  A relic of times gone by, gigantic, gated, and the lobby was cavernous and completely empty, which seemed strange to me.  

I gave the woman a call and let her know I was down stairs.  She was headed down to the basement to recycle some things, so she would see me in a bit. About five minutes later a tiny little woman in red and green square cut spectacles greeted me carrying two six foot tall empty boxes, which I immediately took from her.  She had salt and pepper hair in a pixie cut, and that's what she seemed like to me.  A no-nonsense, get 'er done, New York pixie in her early sixties.  She proceeded to lead me down to the basement and regale me with the history of the building, its amenities, and conveniences.  

She seemed to take in everything around her with a critical eye.  The garbage cans needed to be moved, etc.  "What are you doing??" she called to the guy at the end of the hall who was quite blatantly propping the door.  "Are you loading something in?  Cause I can't have that door propped.  I just had a strange person come up to my apartment door and knock saying he was with electricity!"  

Of course, like a clumsy Saint Bernard I bumped the overhead fluorescent light as I stacked the boxes in recycling.  There was a slight sizzle and a flash.  "I'm gonna have to call Phil about that.  Can you hear it??  Can you hear it sizzling?  Lemme call Phil."  

She apparently had the Superintendent on speed dial.  I was mortified, but neither did I want to burn down this stunning pre-war building on my first visit.  Phil came down and replaced the bulb, I took a quick peek at the laundry facilities, met one of the neighbors, a short squat opera singer, and we headed up to see the apartment.  I also picked up in the conversation between them that my pixie friend was the Vice Chair of the Board for the building, which is a co-op.

The apartment was sizable, the kitchen was clean, and it looked like something could be done to make it quite homey.  However, nothing had been done at the moment.  There was not a painting hung on any of the walls, no pictures, the furniture was sparse, though antique, and I was surprised to discover she had lived there more than two years.  There was a guy working construction in her apartment though, so maybe that was it?  He had assembled and installed a couple of IKEA bookshelves, and was currently working on the lighting in the kitchen.   We walked through her bedroom to the room that would be mine, and it gave me pause.  

I understand it's "the New York thing" but it seemed like it would be strange if she was asleep by ten PM and I was creeping through her bedroom late at night to get to my own, or if I had a friend over...just, very close for comfort.  The room itself was quite lovely, with a beautiful view of the park below, and lace curtains blowing in the wind.  It was a little feminine for my tastes, but could be worked with.  So possibly?  I knew I wasn't ready to make a commitment at that point, and she had to rush me out anyway, because she had a last minute Skype conference scheduled in her kitchen, so before I knew it I was out the door and shuffling into the rickety elevator back down to the ground floor.  

There were definitely possible issues.  But it was very cheap rent, and was available September 1st.  If I ended up booking the Greene gig (something that was still up in the air at that time) maybe??

But I had had some crazy roommate situations in the past in Los Angeles, and I wasn't eager to sign up for another.  As nice as this lady seemed, she was very assertive, and in everyone's business.  I couldn't imagine living a life in her apartment that would be in any way private.  

After I booked the gig in Greene (it feels so weird to say that word- "gig".  Any time I say it I feel like one of the Archies) I gave her a call.  The timing would certainly work, and it would be nice to have something secure when coming back.  I left her a message saying I was interested, would be back on the 6th of September, and was interested.  Maybe we could start it out for a couple of months, make sure it worked out.  

However, it is not to be.  She left me a message with a lot of her former friendliness drained away, saying, no, she needed the apartment rented as of the 1st.  The 6th would not work out, and she needed at least a year commitment (so much for "short term ok").  Since she was just getting a million calls on the rental, so it didn't look like it was going to work out, even though I seemed like a lovely person.  Click.  If course, as I'd mentioned in my message I was open and amenable to whatever would work for her, but apparently, she didn't want to converse about it.

Damn.  It's strange how much rejection can sting, even when it's an opportunity you aren't even sure you really want.  Maybe if I'd seemed a little more sold on it?  Maybe if I hadn't been 6 ft 3 to her 5'5 self, a seeming physical threat?  I guess we will never know.

In the meantime, I will have a [place to stay for the next six weeks and will do what I can to look for a new apartment, even if it is from three and a half hours away.

Stacey Kent At Birdland

There are some singers who excel at communicating story through song.  The inner life of the singer is awake in their eyes, each tiny gesture, they are empowered with the ability to move an audience through communicating this intangible feeling.  Their voices are also beautiful, but when it comes to technique, they tend to sacrifice perfect musicality for the emotion.  Then there are your Audra's, your Barbra Streisands-  those who sound beautiful, flawless tone, and yet... there's a studied quality, something a little removed.

I've always preferred the former to the latter.  Give me an actress with a gorgeous voice who rely puts her heart on the line.  It's that bravery, that emoting and sharing that really gets me.  Bernadette Peters, Patti Lupone, Sara Vaughn...

Stacey Kent is a rare singer who does both.  Her technique is flawless, and the interpretation as dictated by the notes and instructions in the sheet music, coupled with what the accompaniment is doing, really informs and feeds her performance.  She's always there in the moment of the music, and alive in the story that the song is telling.  Garland was much the same way, although she preserved her instrument less well, sacrificing her voice in order to give all she had.  Save nothing, at times seemed to be her motto.

Kent is not a belter.  She has a kittenish, caressing quality to her sound that resonates with another era, and this quality is perfectly illustrated in songs like Violets for My Furs, You're Looking At Me, and I've Got A Crush On You from her cd Dreamsville.  She is playful, open, and lyrical.  She is like a little Jazz Pixie, whole and healing through song.  I've felt this even through her recordings, and until last night had never had the chance to see her live.  Thank God for New York, because if your eyes and ears are open, your musical inspirations will be passing through at some point and you will get to take part in their brilliance.  And I do think Stacey Kent is brilliant.  

Last night as I watched her (from the front table at Birdland) I was just awash in her voice, in the skill of the musicians around her, and in their calm and confident presence.  I could have sat and listened for hours.  And it's strange, but after seeing her live... I'm not ready to go back to the recordings, as great as they are.  I just want to keep hold of that moment a little longer when artist and audience were in the same room, fed off of each other, making a unique moment.  Forgive the waxing rhapsodic, but it's wonderful when someone you know in a limited capacity exceeds your expectations when you experience the complete artist.

If you aren't familiar with Stacey, I have two CDs I recommend.  First, there is Dreamsville, which I mentioned prior, second is the Grammy nominated Breakfast On The Morning Tram which strays from the standards a bit to focus on collaborations with Kent's producer and saxophonist and composer Jim Tomlinson, and novelist and lyricist Kazu Ishiguro.  Each album is wonderful in its own right, and either or both are a perfect gateway to Kent's art.

Kent is playing at Birdland 8:30 and 11PM tonight (the 22nd) as well as Thursday and Friday, and there are still a few tickets available.  

Miranda

Since I was twelve I have been somewhat obsessed with mermaids.  Up until my freshman year in High School I held on to a stubborn belief that they could exist out in the world.  My logic was that no one could prove they don't exist, so...they just might.  This logic allowed me to hold on to my desperate hope that there was still magic in the world that rendered my sudden weight gain, self confidence and low grades in Algebra as truly insignificant.

I still believe there's magic in the world.  I just don't know if it takes the form of beautiful feminine creatures in the depths of the ocean.  But I'm still fascinated by them.  I love how much they own their sensuality and their desires.  How primal they are.  Sometimes they are innocent- like Madison in Splash, and sometimes they are simply unschooled in our societal "niceness" and manners like in Mr. Peabody and the Mermaid.  But always, they are mysterious, enchanting, and powerful, whether they know it or not.  That's certainly true of the mermaid at the center of this oddball little English gem Miranda.

Glynis Johns as Miranda

It stars Glynis Johns as Miranda, a mermaid who catches herself a Doctor on a fishing holiday and convinces him to take her home with him for a vacation.  Merriment ensues.  Glynis (best known for her work in Mary Poppins) is eccentric, guileless and winning.  She's always had an offbeat quality to her, and is at her best when the powers that be allow her to live in this land.  She's that somewhat rare breed, the beautiful character actress.  The director uses her skills to fullest in this story that sets Miranda loose in a world of extremely civilized men and women all doing the proper thing.  

Of course, being the late forties and on a limited budget, the special effects are somewhat simple compared to what is available today, but to me, it only adds to the charm of it.  Remember when special effects were meant to support the story, and not thought of as an element that could drive box office on its own?  One thing the film doesn't lack is sexual innuendo.  I'm assuming the English didn't have the strong censors that Hollywood had at the time, because there a lot of tongue in cheek sexual references sprinkled throughout the movie, which surprised me, knowing their reputation for being somewhat...repressed.

There are also a great number of character actors and actresses filling out the cast, including David Tomlinson, who would eventually play her husband in Mary Poppins, and Margaret Rutherford.  Margaret is best known for playing Miss Marple (whom Agatha Christie detested in the role) and she's wonderfully bulldoggish in the role of Miranda's "nurse".  

Margaret Rutherford

Also worth noting is Googie Withers as the Doctors wife.  Her reactions to Miranda are surprisingly nuanced for a comedy of this type, and very English.

Miranda is available on Netflix streaming, well worth a view, and was very successful in 1948.  It even spawned a sequel, Mad About Men (which is completely skippable).  There was also a statue commissioned near  Dartmouth Castle inspired by Miranda, and it has become a tourist attraction in its own right.

Miranda, Mermaid of Dartmouth, as sculpted by Elisabeth Hadley

3 Drinks and a Chanteuse

Thursday I headed over to 54 Below and caught Charles Busch's cabaret show That Boy/That Girl.  And, since the last time I'd gone out to the theatre with my dear friend Leslie I was nearly thirty minutes late to meet her, this time I gave myself plenty of time to get there.  We had a 6PM dinner reservation, and I arrived in plenty of time to saunter casually in, take a seat, order a vodka soda, and take in the setting.

It feels very posh and expensive, all red and gold, drapey and dim.   It's what a friend of mine used to call "chi-chi poo poo", which I've since made my own (and that's "ch" as in chic, not chick).

It won't surprise you to know there were a lot of queens in this place.    They started filing in and making jokes to the waiters, responding when asked "Can I get you anything tonight?"  "Yes, you can get me that hunk of a driver in delivery truck outside!" There was a lot of name dropping and dishing, and I of course loved it.  What I wouldn't have given for super human hearing.

Pretty soon Leslie arrived, we ordered, the lights dimmed, and out stepped Charles Busch.   I have to admit, I was a little apprehensive.  I had discovered Charles Busch when I was in my early twenties and I stumbled across a copy of his play The Lady In Question, a parody of 1940's classic war propaganda films.  It focused on a beautiful, but self centered violinist, who was not interested in politics and was traveling through Europe on a musical tour.  Charles had written the part for himself, and the photos in the book showed, not the clownish drag I had come to expect, but a glamorous leading lady.  That play opened up a whole new world of possibilities to me, because it said you could do drag, and in your own way, with your personal observations as a man who loves them, raise up the female stars and archetypes of that era for reexamination and praise.  

I'd played a couple of women myself at that point, and was always upset by or dismissive of the one's who played women in order to mock them, or to wear a kind of mask that allowed these performers to let loose their anger and rage with the safety of a female mask.  I wanted to step into these women's shoes for awhile and show the person within, not to mock, but to pay tribute, and to highlight the ridiculousness in ALL of us, as people.

Here was someone who seemed to be doing that, and doing it very well.

After that, I read and saw as much of his work as I could get my hands on, and watched a fascinating documentary entitled The Lady In Question Is Charles Busch, which follows his career, his art, and captures his essence as well as anything else I've seen.  Suffice it to say, he's kind of an artistic hero of mine, and heroes have been known to topple from their pedastles.  

I needn't have worried.  He is a charming raconteur, a delicate interpreter of music and lyrics, and he has a wonderful way of playing the drama behind a song, playing the opposite of the meaning that might have originally been intended to bring new depth.  He's not mawkish, or artificial, but true and authentic.  He's steeped in the femininity of this character, and his/her sensitivity.  I say "character: because, while Charles is himself on-stage, he is still performing himself. It's that fine line of practiced revealing, and very carefully structured intimacy that cabaret is.  As an artist he is a bit of a "magpie", taking the shiny bits of art and glamour and making new works of them, and living in them so fully that they actually become him, and he them.  And he has such a sharp, crisp humor delivered with dead pan technique. It doesn't feel l like an act, but it does feel like this soul found these old films at an early time of life, films that expressed the things already felt, but also further revealed himself to his own eyes, in a way that maybe nothing else had before or since.

 It's a very intimate show, a show in which you are let into the heart and soul of a person, bravely and adeptly.  Leslie, who was not as familiar as I was with his work, said that within moments of his arriving on stage she knew she was in good hands.  I couldn't have said it better.

There's one last chance to see That Boy/That Girl on July 23rd.  

D.A.R.E. to Sell Bongs

I remember D.A.R.E.  I don't know if you are of this age to remember this program, and the details are fuzzy to me, even now.  But it amounted to bringing police officers in to the schools to catch us before we were caught by the druggies and the dope peddlers.  And it worked on me, for sure.  I was a little Victorian.  No smoking!  No drinking!  That little feather that some girls were wearing in their hair???  Don't even think about it.  I was a very savvy fifth grader and I knew that the metal "clip" was really meant to hold drugs!!!!

So when I was in SOHO a couple of days and spotted these on the street...

Now this seems daring to me.  We know what these are for Mr. Vendor, man!!!!   These are not plant holders or decorative vases!!!

Summer's Eve...

It's a balmy summer evening in Brooklyn, just past eleven, and it seemed like a nice time to jot down some thoughts, so I washed the dishes, made myself a nightcap (oh yes I did) and put on summer music.  To me, summer music can be languid like the Flamingos doo-wop cover of I Only Have Eyes For You, or it could be anything by Astrud Gilberto, that music seems meant for summer, or even big band hits and toss in some Jeff Buckley.  Truth be told, I'm not sure what exactly defines summer music, but I know it when I hear it.

It's strange how malleable our emotions are, or does it speak to the power of music, that a certain song can come on and it makes me feel a very particular way?  I don't mean "that song that he and I listened to when we" fill in the blank.  I just mean the way certain songs can make you joyful or whimsical or melancholy.  Right now, I'm missing my friends... Mark, Meg, Julie... my folks, my little dog...and I know I'll see them again, but I sure do wish they could all be with me here now.  Of course, now I get to be with my friends Kirk and Heather, and Leslie, and Melissa and Kathleen, and I couldn't be more grateful.  Every decision has a trade off I suppose.  The trade I've made is so I can be close to opportunity and creativity, and the energy that this town has.

It's funny, but it doesn't feel at all like Los Angeles.  In LA I would hide what I did for a living.  I would never tell anyone that I was in a show or that I sang, or what have you.  And every time I heard someone talking about their new head shots my stomach would churn and Id become a caustically bitter bitch.  I guess, in LA, it was just so easy to say your were performer.  Anyone could get head shots and dream of fame and fortune or reality tv stardom.  But the theatre?  You ain't doing it for the money, that's for sure.  So if you are doing it, you must really love and be devoted to it.  At least that's the way it feels.  So when I hear someone talking about their auditions as I'm typing away on my computer at a coffee shop, or planning an indie music video, it feeds me.  Makes me feel a part of a community in a way that LA never did.

Another thing about New York.  I know an agent helps.  But it's not required that you have one to get into an auction.  I couldn't even get seen in LA.  Everything I got was because of who I knew, my friends who trusted me and knew that I would deliver something.  I was really grateful for those times, but of course it's nice to win a job from a stranger, and what they see right in front of them in the moment.

Tomorrow I'm seeing Charles Busch at 54 Below in his cabaret show That Boy/That Girl.  Admittedly, there was a moment when I thought I wouldn't go, as money is something I need to keep track of, but... Mr. Busch has written some amazing things in his lifetime.  Psycho Beach Party, Die Mommie Die!, Vampire Lesbians of Sodom, among others.  And his approach to drag is the kind I appreciate and understand.  Yes, it's about looking good, but there's something under the surface... he brings an intelligence to drag, a devotion to the great ladies, that really resonates, and he channels that spirit and glamour like no one else.  It's an incredible talent.  And when someone like that, someone I identify with and take inspiration from, is performing a cabaret show, it's a good moment to not only listen and enjoy, but to learn.  So I'll give you an update tomorrow or the next day for sure.

Somewhere That's Greene

No, the title doesn't refer to the recent Encores Revival of Little Shop that was by all accounts incredible.  Instead it refers to a town three and a half hours from the city.  They have an Equity theatre that is producing Jeff Daniels' comedy Escanaba in Da Moonlight about two brothers and their father on an annual deer hunting trip.  They are replacing a cast member, and conducted auditions to fill the role.

It was the first thing I submitted for in New York, through the Equity website, and I got an email from the Artistic director that I might be a match.  We set up an audition and I went to work.  I read the script, printed up the sides, made some notes, studied the Upper Peninsulan accent I would need to do the part (it shares some qualities with the Minnesotan accent, but is definitely distinct from it) and bright and early Sunday morning I did a couple readings from the sides.  I felt it was a really strong reading, but you never know.

Well last night I was told I'd booked the role, and as of this morning it's official!!  I'll be playing Reuben Soady, the elder son of the Soady family.  He's ever landed a buck, and if he doesn't do it this year, he will go down in the records as being the oldest one in family history to have never landed one.  It's a comedy very immersed in the UP culture, full of references to Pasties, home brew, drinking and hunting, and aliens.  Yep.

I leave on July 27th for six weeks in Greene.  I'll be living at the theatre with the rest of the cast, though I'll have a private room, access to a company car, and will have a day off each week.  It should be pretty exciting, and I should have plenty of time for other creative projects, so hopefully it will be conducive to writing.  Of course, as a human, I am completely against deer hunting, so it will be interesting to play a character that is so immersed in it, but we will see how it goes.  It's a story, after all.

I'll definitely send updates about how the show is progressing.  Right now Im just grateful to have found paying work so quickly that is in my chosen field, and affirms that there are good opportunities out here for actors and artists.  And Greene's high temps are typically in the seventies and eighties, so it will provide welcome relief from the heat.  Halleluj!!!

I Is Chef!

I've always had the vague feeling, not that I usually act on it quickly, that a place you live doesn't feel like home until you've broken in the kitchen by making a full out meal.  I'm not talking boxed soup, but some delicious recipe (it's best if it's one you've never tried).  Cooking in this kitchen was a joy, and a bit of an adventure, as the stove is compact, and I'm not very familiar with what utensils and spices are available, so in some cases I had to make do.  I found a really delicious chicken recipe I'd been dying to try (found it on Pinterest, that's right) and I was really pleased with the results.

(Picture for illustrative purposes only.  This is not my actual result)

The recipe originated from the Jewhungry blog, and the alterations I made were few.  I am not kosher so I went ahead and used butter an sour cream, although I'm sure it's delicious with the dairy substitutions, they weren't available within easy walking distance from my apartment.  I also used some rice noodles from the fridge (which I'll replace before my friends come home because I am a good person) as I didn't have a saucepan and tight fitting lid avail.  

All in all, it was truly "dish delish", made me feel like a grown up, and acclimated me to the kitchen with little trauma as it is a dish that's easy to prepare.  So  hooray for cooking!