Drink, 03

I’d like to say something like “I started drinking cocktails because I liked a boy who was into them.” It’s such a classic reason to do anything. But, unfortunately, I’m not a part of that tradition. I started drinking them because people around me were drinking them. I’d walk over to LW’s house and she would be so accommodating and interested in sharing her love of cocktails with her visitors, it seemed wrong to say no. She did research and experimented just so she could make me a facsimile of a fizz. How do you say no to that?

The first time I specifically went to a cocktail bar, I realized how great it was. When you go to a cocktail bar with cocktail enthusiasts, or just good friends, each drink gets passed around so everyone can try it. Comments are made, individual judgments shared, and you learn something more just by hearing how other people experience it. It’s quite like going to a movie, all things considered.

I never seek out cocktails on my own, aside from the hot toddy in the winter to help rock me to sleep.

Drink has easily become my favorite place to get drinks. This is largely in part because I don’t like drinking.

I have a hard time drinking anything that isn’t water or milkshakes. Soymilk has a purpose when being consumed with baked things (even sandwiches!) to keep my mouth wet and make chewing easier, but it is very rare that I get a glass of something and drink it. I never drink it quickly unless I grit my teeth and force myself to do so. Over the course of a night, I can consume one beer. A whole meal to finish a glass of juice. My tea, unless it’s in an actual teacup, is cold by the time I drink the last dredges that hang around the bottom of the glass with the bits of tea leaves that escaped bags and filters.

I do, however, like the taste of alcohol.

In general, I like tastes. I like exploring tastes. I also like textures. That’s something really fun about alcohol–they all have different textures. Nice alcohols have interesting tastes that change as they hit different parts of your mouth. The experience on the soft palate is different than that on the tip of your tongue.

Because I don’t like actually drinking things that aren’t water, cocktails are a great thing. They allow me to explore taste and texture. They taste better, or at least more interesting, than a glass of juice and they’re not so big I have trouble finishing one.

The thing is, I don’t really know a single thing about cocktails. Sure I’ve paged through various lists and books of drinks, but I don’t actually know what most of the stuff in them are. I learned the basic college rule of “alcohol + soda/juice = acceptable.” My dad taught me how to make a white russian, a midori melonball, and a tequila sunrise. I learned that I could mix any sweet alcohol with a milk like substance and people enjoyed it. That’s most of what I know.

I also know what a tequila furnace is.

I know a few things about what gin is, and about what vodka is. I know the process behind rum and some general ideas about the magic that makes whiskey (barrels have something to do with it!), but I have no clue what Chartreuse is.

At least, I didn’t until I went to Drink.

The first time you go to Drink, it’s worth going all out. Someone I know ordered “a glass of sunshine.” I asked for something that “is like how Vermont smells in the summer.” (I got a gin mule with ridiculous amounts of mint that were not muddled and instead just left to steep for several minutes.) This is fun and a little amusing.

After two other trips, which left me floundering once whimsy lost its charm, I learned from LW how to properly go to Drink.

(Note, this is just one method that I particularly like. There is no wrong way to go to Drink, other than being a jerk or an ugly hipster.)

Before you get there, do a little research or at least spend some time thinking about what you want. Pick an alcohol or flavor profile you want to explore. When I saw LW doing this, she was exploring tequilas. Equally, you could say you wanted to explore smoky drinks or herbal drinks or drinks you can make with fresh blackberries. You can say “Hey! I bought this bottle of Chartreuse, what do I do with it?” Explain this to the bartender. If it’s not too busy, they might send another bartender your way who will serve as a better guide on your journey. Talk to them about what you want, they’ll ask you questions. They’ll ask you how you feel about spicy drinks, how you feel about different flavors and textures and intensity levels.

This is all part of the fun.

Going to Drink is like going and getting a really great haircut or being pampered. You don’t need to think too much about it. You don’t need to direct every step. You just need to relax and let someone else, at least for a while, take control with the basic directions you’ve given them. Besides, they know what questions to ask to figure out where you want to go.

I’ve never had a drink there I didn’t like.

Something a lot of people say when talking about Drink is that it’s expensive. At twelve-dollars a pop, it’s actually not a lot when you compare it to other cocktail bars. It is, in fact, on the low end. Getting a Pimm’s cup from Drink is more expensive than getting one from a bar–getting a gin mule there cost more than getting one from the bar down the street–but the one at Drink came with knowledge about the history and construction of my drink. It came with excitement and exploration. It also tasted a lot better than the ones at the bar down the street.


I heard this story second hand. A friend of a friend was using Facebook when someone tagged them in a photo. They weren’t in this photo, but their parents were. Their parents had died while they were a teenager. They didn’t really ever get to know their parents, but this photo showed them when they had been young, when their love had been new.

A few weeks after I heard that story, someone posted a photo of Doc and me. Some of my extended family only communicate, only know each other, through facebook. Facebook has given me a family.

Every time they do something I don’t like, every time I think about it too much, I think I should quit. Whenever I think about saying good bye to it, I remember this story, and my own experiences, and then I stop going through the process of removing myself from Facebook.

Fly, 02

Many people have been linking to things about Mrs. Shoshana Hebshi’s experience on Frontier Airlines Flight 623. I think awareness of what has happened, is happening, on planes is good. But, it’s not enough.

I wrote the following letter and e-mailed and mailed it to the TSA and Frontier Airlines. I implore you to write your own letter to these people.

You can reach the TSA:

Phone: 1-877-EEO-4-TSA (1-877-336-4872).

E-mail: TSA.Civilrights@dhs.gov.


Jennifer K. Carmichael, Director
Transportation Security Administration
Office of Civil Rights and Liberties (TSA -6)
601 12th Street
Arlington, VA 20598-6006

Frontier Airlines has a contact page with a webform.

You can also

Call: 800-432-1359 (“other options” then “complaints and compliments”)


Attn: Customer Relations
Frontier Airlines, Inc.
7001 Tower Road
Denver, CO 80249-7312

My letter.

Jennifer K. Carmichael, Frontier Airlines,

I’m not going to talk about laws, policies, or practices right now. I’m not going to talk about rights, safety, or balance. I’m not going to talk about my political opinions. I am going to talk about manners.

When I walk into someone on the street, I apologize. When I spill a drink, I apologize. When I fight with my roommates, we apologize. We don’t act like children, refusing to say anything or letting bitter, meaningless words escape. We explain, and we mean it.

Frontier said it wasn’t going to apologize to Flight 623 passenger Shoshana Hebshi, or the two men who sat in her row, because, they said, safety is the most important thing. Apologies are not about whether anyone thinks what happened is justifiable: apologies are about recognizing that you were wrong. Frontier, and the security officials, was wrong and this resulted in three people being inconvenienced and humiliated.

When you inconvenience and humiliate someone, you should apologize. You might think what you did had reasons, and they might be good, understandable reasons, but you still apologize. When you make a mistake, you thank the person you put out, especially someone as understanding, polite, and polished as Shoshana Hebshi has proven herself to be, for their time. Then you apologize.
The least they could do is apologize to people they wrongly accused of being terrorists.

Director Carmichael, I also think you should apologize to the three people on Frontier Airlines Flight 623. I think you should apologize to everyone who has felt uncomfortable, unsafe, or discriminated against in their experiences with the new security measures, but it is imperative that you apologize to Shoshana Hebshi and the two men that were sitting next to her. Tell them you’re sorry.

However, I do understand that you may not be entirely comfortable, or familiar, with offering apologies. I believe DeBrett’s does a good job clearly stating the things I learned when I was a child. If you read over these guidelines, and follow them, even the hardest apology will be a breeze. If you’re not sure how to word it, I will happily help you.

A sincere apology should always be offered when your actions have had a negative impact on other people. Even if you do not fully understand why someone is so upset, respect their feelings, and accept that your actions are the root of the problem. Don’t pass the buck, or use your apology as a way of blaming someone else. Take full responsibility for your actions.


An apology will be much more persuasive if you acknowledge the fault: “I’m sorry I was so late” is more specific than a simple “I’m sorry”, and actually recognises the other person’s grievance. Never temper your apologies with accusations or insinuations: it will negate its impact. If you have committed a real faux-pas consider sending a handwritten note – but only after you have offered a verbal apology, otherwise it will look like cowardice.

Faithfully yours,

Dinner, 01

For dinner last night I made, well, I made “what can I do with that’s in the fridge?”

I’d requested some leafy greens, for my own obsession with raw ones. Kale was acquired, and since I don’t really enjoy raw kale, I cooked it up.

The kale was from market basked. Who knows where it came from.

A good way to cook things like kale or collards if you’re feeling lazy is to put some broth in a pan and toss the greens in. We have knorr vegetarian vegetable bullion available.

The bullion contains the following ingredients:

Salt, Partially Hydrogenated Soybean and Cottonseed Oils, Monosodium Glutamate, Yeast Extract, Dehydrated Vegetables (Onion, Cabbage, Carrots, Parsley, Garlic), Sugar, Corn Starch, Spices, Caramel and Turmeric for Color, Disodium Inosinate, Citric Acid.

Knorr is owned by Unilever. Unilever is huge. They say they’re into sustainability. I’m not sure where it’s made or where its ingredients come from.

I e-mailed Unilever about the bullion, so we’ll see. I think I need to do more research before I can talk about what’s in these, even in a general sense.

There was brown rice. I forget the brand name. No one is home to check.

I also made a sort of salsa, containing corn, tomatoes, basil, and garlic from our CSA. World PEAS is located in Lowell, MA. World PEAS is a member of the Northeast Organic Farming Association and describes their farming practices as “naturally grown.” They have some association with Tufts.

I’m going to miss out CSA in the winter.

There was also some jalapeno from our garden.

I heated some peanut oil up.

The peanut oil is Hollywood Peanut Oil.

It contains: Peanut oil, dl-beta-tocopheryl acetate and dl-beta-tocopheryl

This means “peanut oil and vitamin E.”

Hollywood is part of the Hain Celestial Group, which includes a bunch of other companies like Celestial Seasonings, Arrowhead Mills, WestSoy, Walnut Acres, Rice Dream, Avalon, Alba, and JASON (to name a few).

I cooked the garlic, jalapeno, and basil for a bit in the oil while I cut up the tomatoes and cut the corn off the cob.

These were added together and mixed.

We had some tortillas that were used to eat it, but I used a bowl and spoon.


When people ask me where R lives, I truthfully answer “Cambridge.” This, however, is not the clearest answer I could give. If they’ve met him, they pause, slightly confused, and then nod and say “Oh! Okay.”

You see, in the Boston area there is a place called Cambridge.

There also happens to be another place most people call Cambridge and I call “the Other Cambridge.” This little bit of ambiguity either results in me clarifying that I, in fact, mean the Other Cambridge, or being grateful I don’t have to talk about my long distance relationship.

I don’t really enjoy talking about my long distance relationship and people keep asking me about it. This is natural and healthy behavior, of course, and it’s something I do. But, sometimes, I don’t enjoy dwelling on the nature of what that all means or how it happens to change our interactions–how they might be different if he lived in this Cambridge rather than the other one.

In truth, this has all had little effect on my daily life. Instead, moments stand out. In these moments, the impact the modern world has on my relationship are brought forward, pulled in so close I can’t ignore them, and force my attention.

One such moment is purchasing a plane ticket.

In the course of our time together it became quite clear to me that I could not simply expect R to continue to come visit me. At some point it would be -right-, if nothing else, for me to board a plane and hop across the Atlantic as he has now done four times. Frowning over my work calendar, we settled on Thanksgiving. With Thanksgiving, I could go from Wednesday through Sunday and not have to take extra time off. Plus, my mother told me not to visit them for Thanksgiving. She kept insisting, in fact, in spite of my trying to do it. She tried to get out of New Years too, but I’m not giving up.

I am miserly of my days off. I want to hoard them and use them so I can go on the grand trips I used to and dream of–two weeks in Iceland, three weeks biking and camping, a month with my family. However, these trips are far in the future, thanks to my full time employment and firm vacation policy.

Besides, there’s still that week between Christmas and New Years. If I ever run a company, that will be assumed off and you get a bonus if you come work during then.


For over a month now I’ve been getting e-mail alerts about the price fluctuations for tickets between Boston and the UK. I’d comment on them, muse over them, and consider them an odd sign, sigh when they were on sale and I couldn’t afford them, and grumble as prices jumped back up once I could. Finally, once the Job deposited my paycheck for August, I greedily sat down with my laptop, debit card in hand, prepared to buy myself time with my beloved.

(Did you notice that nice use of language there? I really like how that sentence flows.)

R was in town at the time. He watched as I kayaked. I tweaked numbers and times and tried to figure out the best way to get there and back. I pestered him with questions about arrivals and departures and what would work best. Having settled on a flight run through British Airways, I went to their site to book it.

A screenshot of a Kayak-US search for flights between BOS and LHR Thanksgiving weekend 2011.

M's Kayak-US search. Note the top four.

“Hey,” I said. “I could stay in the UK for an extra hour for a hundred dollars more.”

Somehow this lead to a distracted conversation. I went to, for reals this time, order my ticket. R, looking at the Kayak page (he uses their .co.uk page, said “so you’ll be leaving at seven.”

“No, six. It’s a hundred more to leave at seven.”

At this point he showed me the Kayak-UK page. There it was, the flight leaving at seven rather than six, for the same price. They were the same price as each other, not the Kayak-US listing. This is because A) the Kayak-UK price was in pounds and not dollars, and B) when converted, the Kayak-UK flight was actually two dollars US -more-.

A screen shot of a Kayak-UK search for flights between BOS and LHR for Thanksgiving Weekend 2011.

R's search on Kayak-UK. Note the top two.

“Hey, an hour with you is worth two dollars!” I said to R.

I don’t remember if he looked amused.

He suggested I just buy the flight from the UK page. I then had to explain that with international and conversion fees, it would just cost me more. He frowned.

“I’ll just buy it then.”

When I offered him a check, he realized it would be “entirely useless,” as there is nothing he–with his UK bank account–could do with a US check. Paypal keeps GBP and USD in separate accounts. I could give him a stack of cash, but no one really wants 700 USD in cash. Well, maybe they do, but not if the other option is to have it in their bank account. Or to have 434 GBP in their bank account.

In the end, I decided just to buy my own ticket, forsaking an extra hour with my beloved since we had just used about that trying to figure out how to spend an extra hour together. I filled out the information. We shared shock and disgust over the $567.79 of the total cost being attributed to surcharges, taxes, and fees. ($346 for fuel?).A screenshot of the taxes and fees for a British Airways flight.

I appropriately giggled at the ‘title’ list BA offers (‘Sir,’ ‘Dame,’ ‘Lord,’ ‘Lady,’ “Mstr,’ ‘Capt.’)

Finally, I put in my card information and a machine miles away talked to another machine miles away and tried to transfer digits from one machine to another.

But it didn’t work.

“Your card has been declined,” the BA screen told me.

Like all Americans, I have a healthy dislike of talking about money, even though I do it far too much to try and get over this dislike. (The especially hard part here being that R makes quite a bit more than me, and acknowledging that is a difficult point for me which I could easily go on about for a while. At least a five paragraph essay.) A declined card, traditionally meaning you don’t have enough, evokes an immediate sense of embarrassment quickly displaced by indignation once you realize that you can, or ought to be able to, afford it. I didn’t want to have to deal with this around anyone else. But, I had to.

I called my bank.

After a dance around their computerized system, I came to a living person.

“How much was your last deposit?” She asked me for identification purposes.

I glanced at R. “Uhh,” I mumbled my monthly, post-tax income.

“I see,” the lady said. “Well, you had this charge for $700 dollars that didn’t go through. Let me check it out. Oh, I see! It was for an international company. You can’t spend more than $250 with an international company.”

I paused. “How am I supposed to buy my plane ticket?”

“I don’t know.”

I hung up and stared at my phone for a minute. Then, I turned to R very seriously. “I can’t visit you. My bank won’t let me.”

Then I started laughing. At least, I think I started laughing. I hope I started laughing. In between my embarrassment and quickly forming rant at how external forces mitigate my relationship, laughing seems like the only thing one could have done.

Going back to the Kayak page, I looked for other options. Orbitz also had tickets. I bought one from them.

With my bank account looking significantly less happy, I was committed to going to England for Thanksgiving. I began to dreamily talk about baking pies and finding Thanksgiving story coloring books to bring with me, to teach R and his friends the real meaning of Thanksgiving. I decided to make them construction paper pilgrim hats and politically incorrect head bands. I piled on ridiculous plans to try and distract myself from the realization that this will be my first Thanksgiving, one of my favorite holidays, without any of my family.

“Er, can we have it on Friday?” R asked me.

“No! Thanksgiving is on Thursday! It’s always on Thursday! It’s very important that it’s on Thursday.”

“No one will come if it’s on Thursday. They all have work the next day.”

“Oh,” I said. “Well, I guess that’s okay. But we’re going to eat pie on Thursday. And I’m going to make everyone draw hand-turkeys.”