Roomies Part II: The Chronicles of Sitting Ducks*

First of all, due to a sequence of events, this is an update to the roomie post. I thought it would be appropriate for me to have my stab before P gets to it ;). (Ya hay que esperar la edicion espanola :o))

BAM BAM!

As if there was any other more unpleasant way to be disturbed during a weekend away than by receiving a call from the management. Given the fact that the nature of the call was left in a message so vague that I decided that the return call could wait, unless of course our apartment had gone up in flames, but then I would expect a call every hour on the hour. The fews days following "the call" we played phone tag. I am a black-belt master in that game, no matter what the situation.

After dodging calls for a couple of days I finally decided to have P make the call and see what the hell was going on. Another leaky ceiling, parking space quibble... who knows after all the adventures we've had thus far. Alas, no. This incident was going take the cake of all incidents.

Apparently sometime during broad daylight on Saturday, Albonguilla had the bright idea of going around the building shooting a BB gun. No big deal. Only that it is broad daylight and to top it off there are kids playing around outside. Granted, she is not completed out of whack, we do have very loud and often times quite obnoxious ducks around the area. (These, by the way, are the most ugly ducklings I have ever laid eyes upon -- red warts and all). It is still unconfirmed what exactly she was doing. I will give her props if she was trying to cap a few of these ducks and save all us from the early morning squawking wake up calls. However, there are times and places for everything. This apartment is not the place, nor was the time right. More than the following reason, someone in her mental (and maturity) state should not be allowed to handle a gun of any sort, not even a squirt gun.

Thank our lucky stars that we were out of town, because I would not have wanted to deal with disgruntled neighbors or a crazy BB gun madwoman going around the apartment block. Apparently the management received a handful of complaints on Saturday, hence the call to us. It was confirmed and decided upon that we are not, under any circumstance, to renew her contract. (No problem, thank god!) nor was she going to be offered to move into the vacant apartment opening up next month. We have since learned that the management is not as blood-sucking, money grunges as we thought they were; in fact, it seems that are genuinely concerned about the welfare of their tenants. Best stated, their tenants and ducks.

I do have to comment on the fact that in my opinion is sick to torture such innocent animals. There is no way that these ducks can move or run faster than a human walks. I don't think they are even capable of flying away. The are literally sitting ducks, same as the one you shoot at when you go to the county fair. Only the satisfaction of shooting one of these things down does not come with tokens or a prized stuffed animal for the sig other. Nope, instead it just frightens the neighbors and gives their children nightmares. Yes, without a doubt these ducks are ugly. Uglier though than these ducks is the one who tries to be a hero and kill them off. If we could eliminate everything that bothered us, well, let's just say we'd be slowly diminishing the human race. *same roomie as the first post; this again was written a while back and I am now sharing my trauma with the public :)

Roomie or No Roomie*

There comes a time in every "adult-minded" person's life, when living in the basement of your parent's home no longer has the same sex appeal as it did when you were younger. Granted the free meals, laundry service and very limited responsibilities has its charm, there comes a point when one has to venture out on his or her own - to face the great outdoors of corporate america and independence.

It is at this precise moment when one must seriously consider his financial situation and make a decision based on location, amenities and affordability. Often times this decision forces one to consider having a roommate. There are multiple ways one may stumble upon a roommate. There are three specific ways:
1) You room with a friend / acquaintance
2) You live with a significant other
3) You decide to live with a complete stranger

1) FRIENDFor some the decision is easy, as you may already have a group of friends who are embarking on the same situation. This is the easy way out - you live with a friend. Of course, it is not to say that living with a friend versus a complete stranger is more advantageous, but at least you know what you may be getting yourself into. You've at least cut through some of the bullshit of knowing who the other person is. You will either come to like the person more by living with them or slowly begin to realize all the little crazy things you never knew about them that drive you absolutely nuts.

2) SIGNIFICANT OTHERYou live with a significant other. Dependent on the stage of the relationship this can be a real trip. You don't ever have to worry about being disturbed or interrupted, but on the other hand, you can become very limited to your fair share of personal time and space. For many couples the "move-in" can be the make or break of a relationship.

3) STRANGER You choose a complete stranger to you. Much like posting a personal ad you take a chance. Someone likes what you are offering, you like how they come across. Mind you, first impressions tell you a great lot about someone, but they are just that -- first impressions. Sometimes a complete stranger is the best way to go about living with someone. You have absolutely nothing to sacrifice, as the person is not your friend or significant other. If a friendship comes of the live-in situation, great and if not, it's not like you ever had to expect it.

This blog is designed to cover to good, bad and ugly about roommates. We've all had our moments and it's time to share. *This post is remembering an OLD roommate, several years ago.

Cafe con CRAZZZZY*

Everyone needs someone in their life who is just *slightly* crazier than they are. Judging from my own life experiences thus far, statistically speaking, 90% of the time this person will be Italian.

Enter Crazy Italian Roomie*. CIR has packed up 70 lbs. of her life and shoved it into a 4x4 suitcase, flown across the Atlantic, and joined us here in the land of Uncle Sam--where freedom reigns and no one really gives a shit about soccer. So why exactly did she make the move? Was she seeking a freedom from her 7th consecutive year of "studying abroad" in Vienna that could only be found in our great nation? Perhaps looking to escape the suffocating clutches of a country where languishing throughout the entirity of your 20's is socially acceptable? Guess again, friends: She moved here to live with her 40 year- old balding boyfriend who, when all was said and done, wasn't cute, rich, or interesting...and he didn't treat her all that great to boot. Um, and did I mention he is totally balding and old...? Because he is. Ew.

When things turned sour with Baldy, CIR decided to put everything back into that suitcase of hers and take it a couple of blocks over to Casa de Jessica (Which was totally fine- I needed the rent money). During the honeymoon stages of living in Roommatesville with CIR, we had some good times. The majority of them involving dangerous amounts of Chianti and singing Italian karaoke (I'm kind of awesome at "Que Sera, Sera"... And by "kind of", I mean that I'm freaking amazing!!). She was also the perfect wing-woman for me when we went out, as she added a bit of foreign flavor to otherwise ho-hum Midwest bars, but she still had "CRAZY LADY" written all over her, so no guy dared to get too close. Therefore, she would attract the prey with her "Vvvattt ess uur naame??" pick up line (the accent works every time!), and I then I would move in with my endearing charms and all around fabulousness. *sigh* Those were simpler times. Happy times. Everyone just seems more interesting when they have a foreigner with them, I guess...

Sadly, no amount of Kinder Buenos (they are my favorite and her parents mail them to her) or pasta dinners (she is a good cook, i'll give her that) can make up for the day I came home from work and walked into the kitchen to find one of the stove burners on. We have a gas stove, by the by. That means there were actually FLAMES involved, mmmk? Flames actually coming out of my stove. And just so we are all clear here, I'll spell it out: Bitch left the motherf*cking GAS STOVE ON!!! Uh, WHO DOES THAT?!? WHo forgets to TURN THE FLAME OFF??

CIR forgets to turn the flame off. She also forgets to turn the oven off (twice). And she doesn't think it's all that necessary to ever do her dishes, take out the trash, or purchase communal TP. I don't know why, but buying toilet paper seriously pisses me off. Well, wait, I DO know why. BECAUSE I PROBABLY COULD HAVE PURCHASED A SMALL ISLAND WITH ALL THE MONEY I"VE SUNK INTO TP THIS PAST YEAR. At the very least I should have bought some stock in Charmin, that is for sure.

And since I've started with the cleaning thing, I'll enlighten you about this little mini coffee thingy she has. Every morning, CIR wakes up and makes a coffee for herself using this gadget that i'm not even sure is legal in the U.S. to be honest, as i've never even seen anything like it in stores before. BUT I can tell you that it involves coffee grounds and boiling the coffee on the stove (which, as I mentioned above, she isn't so stellar at operating). And every morning, the coffee boils over onto the stove, leaving this skanky little pool of black coffee. Then CIR takes it off the stove (once it has boiled over for a minute or two) and dumps the grounds into the sink, dropping some on the floor on her way over. Never mind the fact there is a garbage roughly 3 inches from the stove. So, to re-cap: Coffee pool on stove; grounds on floor, in sink. And that is where they remain, for all of eternity.

Or at least until I get sick of living in filth and clean them up. Seriously, the last time i checked (i just did), it's wasn't my responsibility to clean up after this chick. But alas. Here we are.

Have I mentioned that I hate coffee? Because I do now.




*names have been changed, obvsly. Also, this an old story I wrote!

Family Dinners: Dessert and Pigs included

I have both fond and not so fond memories of family dinners. Don't we all?

As a preface, dinner at home were never boring. I quickly learned this at a young age when asked to eat over at friends' houses. Considering none of my friends had 4 younger siblings - the entertainment value for dinner at their houses was par for the course. On a given night at the Barcelona ranch you could hit 18 straight eagles.

Of this I will not complain. We always ate healthy, well balanced meals. We said Grace before each meal. We talked. Yes, we had actual human conversation at the table. (And now that we are all adults, we actually have discussions from time to time - that is, when we are all now in town to eat together). The best part of the meal was once you finished your plate you got dessert. It is because of this ritual that every evening now after cleaning my plate I long for something more- something sweet. Perhaps the occasional diet would actually be successful if this hadn't turned out to be sure a personal vice - that damn ice cream - it gets me every time.

On the sweet note of dessert lies one of the worst parts of dinner. When we were younger (and by younger, I refer to myself and two brothers) if you misbehaved not only did you get the "sting" and "tongue rolled between the teeth," but you also got something far more painful - No Treat Week. This was like the electric chair of punishments at the B. House.

Mom is an artist, even if she would never admit it. No Treat Weeks meant she would cleverly and very artfully create a mini-calendar of the week in which you would have no treats. That puppy got slapped on the fridge to remind you no sugar would touch your lips that week, and also so that the person who actually got you in trouble could rub it in your face all week. Although the mockery and the fridge art were not the worst of the punishment. The worst was knowing that you finished your plate and deserved to be rewarded in ounces of ice cream. Instead - you had to sit at the table and watch everyone else thoroughly enjoying their dessert. This is naturally when the bastard that got you in trouble would ham it up. "MMM this ice cream is so good - so rich- so creamy. It's a shame you hit me over the head with a baseball bat and you can't enjoy it... MMM." I have memories of being reduced to tears by this torture. To my parents credit, this punishment was genius. I don't remember having No Treat Weeks that often and when I did I regretted not getting away with the crime and just getting spanked.

Another very fond memory I have of the family dinner was the 'Pig Award.' This little 'game' was either invented for one of two reason (1) A younger sibling brought one of the farm animals - the pig - from her toy farm to the table on random dinner or (2) the rents were sick of our piggish behavior at the table. (Piggish behavior could, but was not limited to the following behavior: chewing with one's mouth open, wiping dirty face on sleeve, burping, putting elbows on the table, using fork like a shovel, eating with one's hands...etc.). Essentially the "Pig Award" was given out each dinner after everyone had eaten at least half of their meal. The award was given to the person with the most piggish manners. No lies - this was almost always one of my brothers. Almost always. At first the award was an insult. No one wanted the pig placed in front of his/her place. After a couple of weeks or so though it was no longer an insult, it became the "Pig Award Competition." Who could eat the most repulsively and get the award. We fought for that fat piece of plastic. The Pig Award was quickly retired by my parents and I am pretty sure there were No Treat Weeks issued to all under the age of 12. (That was all of us.)

Really when it comes down to it - dinner was always a good time. We all always ate together. We waited until Dad came home from work. The table would already be set and we'd eat. If we were in sports and Dad coached - (which was each of us at one point) then we waited then too. I think it for all these family dinners that I think all of my siblings and I actually like each other. We all also have a great appreciation for food. Amazing was some family QT can do to one's life.

On that note - I need some ice cream. I cleaned my plate Mommy, I promise.

Eat the Meat.

Most people are blessed with learning table manners early in life. Phrases such as: “Please pass the bread” or “May I have some more, spaghetti, please?” are considered courtesy phrases for most families, however, they are not at the Lauer table. You do not ask, you take. You do not wait, you act. Ideally as soon and swiftly as possible. Not that there wasn’t ever enough food to go around, but for some reason that threat always hung over your head. It’s a lot like riding the Chinatown bus from Boston – New York; there will always be a seat for you, but since there is a crowd swarming the door, you swarm too, just because maybe there won’t be a seat this one time. Or worse, you will get stuck sitting by the guy who is taking back 3 bags of (mostly) dead poultry. Ew.

But I digress.

Let me just state for the record I was born disgusted by meat. No joke. I eat it now, and ground meat and chicken on the bone still makes me a little queasy, but one of my earliest table memories is escaping the table with a napkin full of hamburger stuffed in my pocket so I could flush it down the toilet. Otherwise, I would face the penalty of sitting at the table in front of that damn hamburger “until I finished it”. Meat just disgusted me from the get go, and I have no idea why. Another fave method of disposing of meat was requesting to wear a bib at dinner, and slipping the meat into the pockets of it. I seriously must have been 3 years old, and I would like to think my parents were on to me. But who knows. At any rate, I can tell you that when you ask for a bib at the age of 7, the parents start to get suspicious.

Not eating meat in Wisconsin is simply unacceptable. End of story. So, despite my rejection of it every time it was served at the dinner table, it kept showing up on my plate. It makes so much sense to me as to why this happened when I think about it now as an adult: growing up more or less on the poverty line in rural Wisconsin meant that meat was in fact the most accessible and therefore affordable food. People hunt, and not only for themselves. People will hunt for their neighbors, too. And it isn’t for sport; it’s to get them through the winter. As in, they don’t have the money to purchase food sometimes, so they rely on the freezer of meat. It seems unbelievable, but every time I go home I am reminded that it in fact exists. This is a rather sensitive issue for me, and it is basically the main reason I want to punch those smug podium vegetarians/vegans in the face. Clearly I don’t care if someone chooses to not eat meat, I myself have just told you I couldn’t eat it before I could even comprehend issues such as “animal rights” or “standing up against mass production of foods” or “momentary food fads”. “Smug” and “Podium” are the key words in my distaste.

Again, I digress.

When I was still young and impressionable, whenever I would pick at the edge of gristle surrounding my meat, my dad would patiently remind me that that slimy white stuff actually “tasted like candy”. Um, really Dad? Candy? Because I’ve never seen candy that has looked like this before….

If you want to know the strangest thing about this whole meat debacle, it’s that I always asked for McDonald’s. I don’t even know how old I was before I ate at McDonald’s, or any other fast food place. They just weren’t around where we lived. However, my grandparents lived in the great metropolis of St. Paul, and every time we drove there, the 2 hours road trip included at least a 15 minute opening statement made my the kids (Me, Liz, Sarah, Nick…the early days, still…only 4 of us) on why we should -- no, why we NEED, to stop at McDonald’s. I imagine it was like how most kids beg to go to DisneyWorld. We just wanted to visit Micky D’s, for Christ sake. And every time, my Dad would say “but I can smell grandma’s cooking from here!” That was meant as a reassurance that food was on its way, but we didn’t take it as such (for obvious reasons….see last blog about jello…).

Anyway, I think it’s funny I craved a burger from Mc D’s, but would go to extreme lengths to not eat meat at home (I once barfed up a venison steak at the table). Now, of course, it’s all so clear to me: it wasn’t even craving meat, per say, but more the idea of that tiny burger. Once we finally got to go to McDonald’s I was probably like 11 years old, and every time after that when my Dad made burgers on the grill at home, I would request mine “McDonald’s style”: flat as fuck, and with all the flavor burnt out of them. As he is a bit of a meat connoisseur of German heritage who likes to make and smoke his own sausages and jerky, I can only look back on those days and say: Sorry about that, Dad….

Well, I’m off topic again.

The point about family meals is this: You take what you can get. And God help you if you ask for anything more.

Welcome to Today.

Yeah, so we've taken a short sabbatical (yeah, yeah... a couple of years....) to get our acts together. By "getting our acts" together, I mean we grew up. We traveled, we started paying more bills, we bought properties, we settled down.

We will be bantering back and forth about topics we both hold dear to our hearts. We are focusing on two of the things we love most in the world: food and talk. Though if there is one thing we know how to do, it is deviate from the topic. Sorry in advance.

We hope this blog will be a space for story-telling, but we want to primary focus on food, recipes, and our culinary - and other - (mis)adventures. After all, what can't food be connected to?? Even stories of our first kisses call to memory the smell of cheese curds and flavored Chapstick. GROSS, amiright??? We hope you'll be patient with us, and stick around for the ride!