Crested Butte

After counting up a few weeks ago, I realized that I had a few more vacation days left over than I thought, and that they'd expire by May 29th! When I mentioned this to Ed, he suggested that I tag along for part of the ski trip he was taking to Crested Butte, Colorado, with his family and some friends. I was more than happy to oblige, having only gotten in a few days of skiing for the whole year in Utah in January.

Crested Butte is beautiful. The town is tiny, quaint, and charming, and the skiing is great. At least, I think it could be great. The cover was a little thin, and because it was so warm during the day, the snow would melt, then refreeze overnight, resulting in very icy morning runs until the sun softened everything up again. Still, the snow was good in the afternoons and I very much liked the layout. Ed said that when he was younger, Crested Butte was his "happiest place on Earth," and I could definitely see it in his face as he pointed out the sights.

I arrived on a Thursday evening in time to have dinner with Ed, then meet his brother, his brother's fiancee, and his mother for karaoke at a local restaurant. There, I realized I'd become quite spoiled by my talented friends in New York. The singers were terrible (at least by my standards). After about an hour, we headed back to the ski-in, ski-out condo Ed's mother had rented. (This is luxury at its utmost. There is nothing quite like just walking out the front door and finding yourself at the bottom of a chair lift.)

Cross country skiing

This was a trip of many firsts for me. To begin with, I'd never been skiing in Colorado, though many of my friends in high school seemed to be from Telluride and talked a lot about how great it was. The first skiing I did was on Friday morning, when I went on my first cross country skiing adventure. Ed and I rented skis and went off to explore some trails. We estimate that we put in about 5 miles, and I was sore for days afterward. It felt strange wearing such light skis and moving so differently from the way I do when I ski downhill. Still, I sort of got the hang of it (sort of) by the end of our mini-trip, and I loved seeing the countryside from quiet, pristine trails. 

On the peak!

 I also had my first sort-of back country ski experience when Ed talked me into climbing to the highest peak on the mountain so that we could ski off the top of it. We took the lift up as high as it would go, then balanced our skis on our shoulders and started climbing. The hike turned out to be quite a bit longer than I was expecting, and my skis felt awkward and heavy. The air was thin, and my boots were really tricky to climb in, particularly over the rocks that were poking up through the snow in large patches. We made it, however, and shared the tiny peak area with 5 other climbers who had brought up beer to celebrate. It was quite pretty up there, but I was too tired to notice. The ski down, however, was easy, and Ed felt so guilty about downplaying the hike (unintentionally, of course) that he treated me to a very nice lunch at the bottom of the mountain. None of this, of course, was necessary, but I didn't protest.

At the concert

It was also my first time watching Guster and Big Head Todd (bands, for those of you who aren't in the loop). Ed bought us tickets for a mini-concert series played on Saturday and Sunday from a stage at the base of the mountain. We wanted to see the Barenaked Ladies on Saturday, but the Vanderbilt basketball game turned out to be too much of a nail-biter to leave and so we missed the show. Sunday, though, we saw the last two bands. The weather was absurdly bad. It is a testament to the toughness of Crested Butte-ians that Ed and I were not the only ones there. We bobbed around in time to the music and squinted to see the bands through the driving snow. Though it wasn't bright out, sunglasses (Ed's brilliant idea) were indispensable, as they kept the flakes out of my eyes. We bought two coffees spiked with Jameson from a tent, but they got cold faster than we could finish them. I thought the music was great, but eventually, my feet were too freezing to stay any longer, so we headed back to the condo, where I had a long, hot bath.

Crested Butte was a great place to wrap up the ski season. I hope to visit it again, perhaps when there is more snow on the mountain and less on the musicians.

Breakfast of Champions

I realize that breakfast on the go is not a uniquely New York thing, but it has never been as important to me before as it is now that I live here. I frequently find myself dashing to work at the last minute, from home or from the gym, with little time to sit down to a bowl of homemade, steaming oatmeal first. And I'm a big believer in breakfast. Of course, I can buy oatmeal (or anything else I might want) to go from any number of restaurants on the way to work, but that can get expensive after a while, and I'd much rather put my breakfast money towards a fabulous new pair of boots. Plus, I'm part of an ever-dwindling portion of this country that knows her way around a kitchen, so I feel a bit guilty copping out.

All of this adds up to reason I was elated to come across the following idea (sort of) in a blog a stumbled across:

What are they? The blog called them "egg boats." The originator of this idea cut a V shape down the length of a thick baguette, poured in an egg mixture, baked it, then sliced it. I thought this was a great idea, but I tweaked it slightly so that mine would be a bit more portable. (Hard to tell from the picture, but each of the tasty little hand-helds above is about 3.5"x3.5".) I was infinitely pleased the the results: these babies were easy to whip up, totally portable, and delicious. Mine were not unhealthy, but they could be made a bit leaner if I were a masochist.

Wanna jump on this gravy train? I thought so. Here's what you do:

1) Purchase rolls, preferably fairly sturdy ones. I got ciabatta rolls from Trader Joe's.
2) Preheat the oven to 375.
3) Put together filling.
For mine, I sauteed peppers, onions, a little garlic, and some shredded carrots. Then I beat three eggs together with some milk, salt, and pepper. I also sliced some cheese, then set all this aside. Those watching their intake of fun could do just egg whites and no cheese. I guess.
4) Prepare the rolls by cutting a portion out of the top.
Since mine were square, I sliced most of the way down with a knife inside of each edge, then pulled out the section. I then went back into the cavity and pulled out a bit more bread around the edges and along the bottom to make room for the egg mixture, being careful to leave at least a centimeter of bread behind so that the egg wouldn't seep out.
5) Dump in the filling.
I spooned a layer of veggies into each roll, then poured on the egg mixture, and topped with the cheese.
6) Bake on a cookie sheet for about 20 minutes.
This step took longer than I anticipated - maybe because scrambled eggs cook in about 5 minutes - but it was easy to tell when they were done because the clear egg white turned opaque and started to brown slightly on top.
7) Store the ones you don't eat on the spot for later use.
I put them into a tupperware container and heated one for 15 seconds each morning this week.
8) Bask in your success.

I don't think I've ever posted a recipe, but these were too easy and awesome to keep to myself. Happy breakfasting!

An Outstanding Vintage

Have I mentioned that my friends are, seriously, incredibly talented? I have written before about my friend Jeremy. He's an actor who currently pays his bills by recording the narration for commercials - you can hear him pushing products like Keurig coffee makers, Trojan condoms, Beyblades toy tops, DSW shoes, and Comcast cable (if you subscribe to Comcast in Vermont).

In this commercial, Jeremy gets extreme, providing the voice of a 14-year-old in a skate park who plays with a spinning, fighting top which has nothing to do with skateboarding and is not favored by anyone over the age of 8.

On the side, however, Jeremy is one hell of a script writer. I wrote about a reading of his film script that I attended about two years ago. Jeremy is very sarcastic and self-deprecating, and to hear him tell it he's not much good at all. So it came as quite a surprise to me that his dialogue is often razor sharp and his plot lines form a believable layer atop a depth of symbolism and meaning. He studied theater and has worked in it for years. He knows his stuff.  I was pleased, therefore, to hear that he had arranged a staging of his one-act play, "An Outstanding Vintage." Alas, apparently I was not pleased enough to get the time right, and I showed up at the theater half an hour after the curtain went up (which, as this was a one-act, meant I missed the whole thing). Happily for Jeremy and for me, however, his script was selected to be part of Paul Michael's One Act Festival this year (called, pretentiously, The Network), so I got to see it on Saturday.

My friend Michael met me at the theater, where we ponied up $18 each and were allowed inside a small, stark theater. We sat on cushioned folding chairs and watched four one-acts, each of which lasted about 20 minutes. Jeremy's play was up first. It takes place in the dressing room of a budding Broadway starlet who has just finished the first week of her first major show. Jeremy plays her ex-boyfriend who surprises her by coming to see the show and visiting her afterwards, and over wine they relive both the high points and the demise of their relationship. It was both witty and poignant, and I was quite impressed. Watch a preview below:

My second-favorite play was called "Sybil's Last Show." In it,  Sybil, an aging magician's assistant, and her son work through the aftermath of a supposed mistake in which Sybil hands the magician, her husband and the boy's father, a real saw instead of the trick one, and he cuts off his finger. It was hysterical but had some moving moments as well. One of the two other plays was great, and the other was atrocious. Mike and I thoroughly enjoyed ourselves. After the show, Mike and I voted for the two plays we liked best, chatted with Jeremy for a bit, then headed off for a cup of coffee and a bitch session about the one horrendous play we saw.

Jeremy is up against 43 other plays. (Well, 42 really, because the one was so horrible that I don't think it can realistically be viewed as competition.) Odds for him are not great, given the numbers, but being selected for this festival was an honor, and I hope, for everyone's sake, that he'll continue to write and perform scripts for us all to enjoy.

Remembering Robert Johnson

My friend Jenny, whom I know from a job in Boston ages ago, and her husband Kumanan moved to New York in mid-February, and already they're some of my favorite people to hang out with. Kumanan grew up in New Zealand.  As a music afficiando, he is almost unable to contain his excitement about living in New York where great, live music featuring incredibly talented (and sometimes famous) performers occurs every night of the week. (Apparently this was not the case in New Zealand. Apparently there are a lot of sheep there.) It sounds as though he and Jenny have attended almost more concerts in their 3 weeks here than I have! Kumanan and Jenny invited us to go to a tribute to Robert Johnson, a famous blues musician, at the Apollo, and so last night Ed and I joined them for a quick dinner then headed uptown.

I had never heard of Robert Johnson (though it turns out I knew a lot of his music) and simply bought tickets without checking out the agenda. Programs were not provided, and so it was a huge surprise when famous musicians/groups kept coming onto the stage, which they shared with little-known blues musicians from around the country, to play Johnson's music in honor of what would have been his 100th birthday. Among the performers:

The Roots

Elvis Costello

The unsinkable Bettye LaVette

Keb' Mo'

Macy Gray

Living Colour

Taj Mahal

Chuck D.

Sarah Dash

Todd Rungren

Also featured were Otis Taylor and a particularly lively Cuban-style band called the Pedrito Martinez Group who somehow managed to do a cover of a blues track with a piano, bongo drums, and a cowbell. I think The Roots (who knew that tuba players could be hip?) and Elvis Costello were my favorites, though I loved watching Bettye LaVette, someone I'd never even heard of before she took the stage. This pint-sized septuagenarian crooned, gyrated, and boogied her way through three songs and was absolutely fantastic. She told us she hadn't been on the stage at the Apollo since 1964. Living Colour was unexpectedly awesome. If you haven't heard them, know that one reviewer's categorization of their style as "soul meets screamo" is pretty much on point.  Macy Gray sang beautifully but was clearly wasted off her rocker. Ed murmured to me that she looked like she could go over at any second, and I replied that if I had substance abuse problems similar to hers, I would not wear 4-inch stiletto heels. It was something of a relief to watch her walk off the stage intact at the end of each of her numbers.  Many of the performers were backed by a blues band made up of the legendary Keb' Mo' and musicians with  names like Sugar Blue, James Blood Ulmer, and Willie Winks.

Tickets for this thing were pretty pricey, and so Ed and I sat all the way to the left and nearly in the very back of the theater. To my right were about 6 very drunk white people in their 40's and 50's who kept climbing over me to refresh their cocktails. They whistled, hooted, clapped, and danced their way through the show. Such enthusiasm was nice to see, but seemed out of place in a theater with rows of red velvet seats. Ah well, no one spilled on me, and I learned a lot about the fabulously talented Robert Johnson, as well as some other musicians whose work I look forward to exploring further. 

Mecca: The Armory

My friend Isang, who ran hurdles at Columbia when she was a student there, now coaches hurdles for a high school girls' track team. The indoor season just ended, and her school's final meet was an invitational at the Armory way up in Harlem near Columbia's medical school. Having never been, I decided to go watch the team, and it was a great experience!

The building was easy to spot from the street; it was huge, and had a line of flags with winged shoes on them along the side.  Once inside, I took a wide, patriotically painted stairwell up to the fourth floor, noting that each step was covered in material that reminded me of the surface of an all-weather track. Plaques bearing records set at the Armory for all kinds of events in all kinds of age groups lined the walls.

I was taken aback when I arrived on the track level. The facility was absolutely gorgeous. The smell of the place instantly transported me to high school again (in a good way). There is nothing quite like the smell of an all-weather track, and it was particularly concentrated in this enclosed space. All in a rush I felt the same excitement, nerves, and exhaustion that track meets always instilled in me back when I used to run them.

The stadium seating surrounding the track was occupied by a smattering of parents and spectating teammates. All in all, the place was pretty deserted. This made sense at the end of the meet when all the teams assembled for the awards ceremony.  The largest team had about 25 girls on it, while the smallest had no more than 12.

The meet itself wasn't particularly exciting. At least, it wouldn't have been for the average person. I am one of the oddballs who loves track meets, however, and so I really loved watching the girls compete and trying to figure out how indoor track differed from outdoor track. I learned that an indoor track is typically only 200 meters long, half the distance of a standard outdoor track. The turns are banked which makes turning on such a tight radius much easier if one is doing one of the faster events.  The schedule is different, and even the events are different sometimes; for example, there is only one hurdles event, the 55 meter hurdles, because you can't place hurdles on a track that is banked. (Isang had to explain this to me, which  made me feel a bit thick.) Due to the shorter track, the poor girls who ran the 3200 had to go around 16 times! One of them lost count and kept going after her 16th lap and had to be stopped by her coach. I got to watch a blazing fast girl destroy the competition in that race, and Isang later told me that she's going to the state meet. It's no wonder.

I really look forward to revisiting this track again during the next indoor season. I'd love to see a professional or college-level meet there, when the stands are full of fans and the competition is stiff. It must be thrilling to feel all that energy bouncing off the walls and ceiling! I'd also like to visit the attached track and field hall of fame. I'm glad I crossed the Armory off my list, though - it's been there since my first weeks in New York.