Rachel and Jenn Eat Philadelphia: Abyssinia

**** So I've been informed that "foul" (pronounced fool) is actually an Ethiopian dish.  I feel culturally insensitive.  But oh well. ****

This is the first installment of "Rachel and Jenn Eat Philadelphia."  In reality, this was a restaurant I went to with Eamonn, but that's ok.

See? Totally fine.

Abyssinia is an Ethiopian restaurant two steps from our place.  (I was going to include a map here, but just in case someone I don't know is reading this (unlikely), it's probably not a good idea to show my exact location.)  I had never had Ethiopian food before, but "what the heck?" said I.  Upon arriving, there was a sign on what looked like the front door instructing us to go to the side door to enter.  A surly looking man (obviously not Ethiopian) was smoking on the steps.  He assured us we were heading in the right direction which was not as reassuring as one might believe.  Anyway, it was totally fine inside.  It had cool tables with woven tops and nice paintings on the walls.  They (the proprietors, that is) did a lot with a space that definitely was not meant for a restaurant dining room.

We were seated and given menus.  Now one of my favorite things is misspellings on menus, street signs, billboards, or any public venue.  Generally I see them in foreign businesses.




**Disclaimer!** I'm in no way suggesting that immigrants/foreigners misspell things because they are not intelligent.  Obviously, if they can come into a country where they are not so familiar with the language and create a thriving business, then they are smarter and savvier than me.  It's just that sometimes misspellings can sometimes be very unfortunate and hilarious.  **End of disclaimer!**

So the first misspelling was of jalapeño as hallapino. Understandable.

Can you see that?  I know it's tiny.

The second one, however was simply unfortunate.  It was not even a misspelling, but a word swap.  In describing their chicken dish, they swapped "fowl" with "foul."  So there it was.  A photo of their food (which looked pretty good) had the caption, "foul." I had to get a picture.

What a pity.

Distracted by the menu (or by my bossy photo shoot directions), Eamonn somehow ordered raw meat! On the plate, it looked like something in a tomato sauce and did not taste that bad.  Then we realized what it was.  It's funny how once something changes mentally, the whole taste changes.  We took a bite or two, then just couldn't bring ourselves to eat more.  I was proud of myself though!  Public meat enthusiast that I am, I thought it would be hypocritical to avoid it.  Though I'm not going to make raw meat a part of my regular diet, I'm glad I tried it.

One fun thing about Ethiopian is that you are supposed to eat with your hands.  The food is served on a spongy pancake bread which you use to pick up the food and eat it.  I did that for a while, to pick up the lentils and veggies, but inevitably, I fell back into my fork habits.

What can I say? I'm a fork person!

Misspellings and raw meat aside, the food was plentiful, spicy, and pretty good!

She’s fiya burning, fiya burning...

I should be awarded a prize from Homeland Security.  I have discovered a "humane" way to torture someone!  I was generous enough to be the guinea pig of this new technique...but let me start from the beginning.

I was cooking a lovely Mexican feast for Eamonn and myself.  Mango chicken flautas and Spanish rice to be exact.  As I was cheerfully dicing jalapeños, my nose began to itch.  Without thinking, I scratched it.  In the process, a seed from the pepper made its way up my nose.  The burning sensation started slowly, but I soon started to feel it in my throat and all through my sinuses.  I ran upstairs to try to flush it out, but somehow the addition of water spread the fiery sensation to my eyes and the skin on every part of my face.

So spicy!

Now it's serious.  I start screaming: EAMONN!!!!! AAAAAAAAH!!!!!!  Obviously, he comes running because he thinks I'm dying - and I'm not about to correct him.  I am dying.  Someone has stolen my face and rubbed it into the sun.  I can't see, my nose is dripping, I'm coughing, I'm crying, my whole face is on fire.  It is the worst pain of my life.

Eamonn to the rescue.  "Pour a shot of milk into each eye!" Fail.  Now I'm on fire and have milk all over myself.  "Let's try putting your whole face in it."  Now I think he's just messing with me, but I'm pretty desperate at this point.  I submerge my face in a bowl of 2%.  The burning finally becomes less unbearable.  I keep an ice pack strapped to my face for the rest of the evening, but eventually I recover and now have a lovely YouTube video as a memento of this adventure.

So the point is that I experienced the worst pain of my life and now I'm fine.  I'm not suggesting that waterboarding or getting fingernails plucked off are less painful experiences than jalapeño up the nose, I'm merely suggesting that we can accomplish similar goals with minimal permanent damage!  I would have told anyone anything if they could have made that pain go away - and jalapeños aren't even the hottest pepper!  Imagine what we could do with ghost chiles!  With clever culinary cruelty, we can get what we need from those terrorists without becoming the monsters we seek to destroy!

This post became a bit of a soap box, which was not my original intention.  But now you get to see what a fool I am, a hilarious video, AND know my opinions about torture (kinda).  You're welcome :)

The Kiss of Death

I recently told this story to a friend and I think it's blog-worthy.

My kiss is lethal.
But let me start from the beginning.  In elementary school, my friend Caitlin and I were superior frog catchers (in addition to being professional tree-climbers, bee hunters, film makers, and fort builders).  We caught everything from big bull frogs to little toads.  Once, we caught almost 100 tiny little frogs that we found in my backyard - no joke.  Another time we "saved" tadpoles from the pond in my backyard (a perfectly fine habitat, in retrospect) by moving them to a nearby stream (which led into said pond).

One time, I caught a frog and played with it for a while.  We grew to be friends.  I named him Kermit (creative, no?) and we had the best time.  I made him dance, I poked his eyes, I made him hop around...he had a blast.  After our antics I decided that he should go back to his family, so I walked him to the pond.  (Now, I can't quite remember if Caitlin was with me that day, but if she was I have a sneaking suspicion that she dared me to do this.)  When it was time to say farewell, I decided to double check that Kermit wasn't a prince.  (After all, we had had such a nice time together and wouldn't it be nice to have such a fun-loving guy in my life?) So I kissed him.  Nothing major, just a small peck.  Sadly, he remained a frog.  With a sigh I said "goodbye Kermit!" and tossed him ceremoniously into the water.

I expected to see my little buddy swim away, but instead I saw him float slowly to the top of the water.  "Kermit?" He flipped belly up. "Kermit!" What had I done?  My kiss was the kiss of death!  What had once been a chipper little frog was now the victim on my venomous lips. 

I ran as far as I could from the scene of the crime.  I washed my face and brushed my teeth, trying to scrub away my sin.  Later that night, as I laid in bed, I could hear the familiar sound of bull frogs croaking.  I could have sworn they were chirping "MURDERER!"

They call me baby driver...

...and once upon a pair of wheels, I hit the road and I'm gone.

I'd like to tell you about the day I got my license.  My big bad 17 year old self drove in my friend, Chris's car down to Salem county for my test.  Chris jabbered in the back seat about his driving test and how I would have no problem passing, while I gripped the wheel at 10 and 2 with white knuckles.  My mom interrupted my friend's 60 mile-an-hour talking to coax me to speed up my 35 mile-an-hour driving (on a free-for-all stretch of country road). Wanting to compensate for my timidness, I floored it the rest of the way and proudly walked in to the testing center.  In an effort to boost my own confidence, I told the woman at the desk that I had scored a 100% on the written exam to which a scruffy looking man behind me replied "That don't matter." I could only reply with nervous laughter.

My actual test was uneventful except for the occasional distraction of the 70 year old instructor hacking up a lung with his smoker's cough.  Most importantly, I passed!

I celebrated by taking my mom's giant boat of a Mercedes to the school to pick up my two friends, Rachel and Grace for lunch.  I felt so cool and independent...and nauseated. My mother's car felt too big. There were too many other cars on the road. I was already violating the terms of my Cinderella's license by having two friends in the car at one time. It was all just too much. Mercifully, we arrived at the Hollywood Cafe Diner (isn't that a redundant restaurant name?) I felt much better and surprisingly less nauseated after scarfing a cheesesteak.

Backing out of parking spots had been a tricky task for me during my driving lessons, so I always tried to be very cautious.  I slowly reversed out of my parking spot, checking my mirrors, and having Grace and Rachel monitor my blind spots.  No one, however, was monitoring the front of the vehicle.  Just as I thought I was home free, I heard a "screeeeech crunch!" My mother's headlight had scraped the side of the poor unsuspecting vehicle next to me. Stunned, the three of us simply sat in silence. Then we all yelled "DRIVE! DRIVE! DRIVE!"  I peeled out of that parking lot like I had just robbed the place.

Trembling with guilt and picturing the poor senior citizens' faces when they saw their vehicle's wound, I didn't think I could continue my journey. Knowing I couldn't return home in this emotional state, Grace suggested a trip to the Dollar Store, which always resulted in delightful treasures and lifted spirits. (Looking back, I wonder if I should be proud that we could find joy in such simplicity...or if I should be embarrassed that we were so lame. I'm going to go with proud.)

I pulled into the most remote parking spot on the whole lot (a practice I continued for many months after that day), cried a little, then pulled myself together and walked toward the Dollar Store with my friends. On our way across the vast deserted parking lot, we spotted a Polaroid picture face down on the asphalt. Curious adventurers that we were, we skipped over to the photo, bent down and picked it up. To our shock and horror, the photo was of a man engaging in masturbation. Yes, a very erect penis was front and center. I only saw the picture for a second before screaming in terror, but that image is burned into my brain for all of eternity. My eyes! My innocence! What is this world coming to?!

After the terror wore off, we broke out into laughter and ran for the store to buy trinkets that would reclaim our childhood. I then dropped my friends off at their homes, pulled into my driveway, walked into my house, and burst into tears, crying to my mother that I was a failure. She comforted me, gave me some birthday cake, told me not to tell my father, and sent me to bed.

My adventures on the road continued to be rocky for a while and thankfully ceased during the blissful months I spent riding NYC's public transportation. Now that I need to be on wheels again, I hope I've finally got the hang of it.

an example of a "rocky" park job

The awesome doesn't fall far from the tree.

I was going to post about the amazing trip to the Finger Lakes wine country, but my parents were too funny today that I needed to write about them instead.

I'm having a small soiree tomorrow.  I've had many of these types of gatherings in the past, so it's almost like second nature to throw a "Colna Party" together.  Bagel bites? Check.  Alcohol? Check.  Hot tub? Check.  That's pretty much all my friends and I need to have a great time together.  For some reason though, my parents always get super freaked out right before I have people over.  My dad suddenly thinks I'm throwing this party to convince everyone to like me: "well what kind of food are you going to have? Are there enough tables? Are the speakers set up? Are people going to come???" My mother is worse in that she obsesses about the cleanliness of every room in the house. "Did you dust the pantry? Vacuum the attic? How does the fridge smell??"  I brush off these questions and remind them that I've been friends with these people for 10+ years and that everything will be fine.

But honestly, I owe it to my parents for making our house one of the frequent party destinations in my friends group.  My favorite question they ask: "Do you have enough alcohol?" After all, what else will ensure that everyone likes me and that no one will care how our house looks? My dad makes killer margaritas and keeps a well stocked beer fridge.  Today in the grocery store, my mom picked up a watermelon and said, "we definitely need on of these."  I assumed she intended to cut it up for fruit salad and said, "you don't have to cut up fruit."  She looked confused and replied, "I was just gonna put vodka in it."  That's my mommy :)

  

(vodka-melon)

Amen to NYC

I'm extremely melancholy today.  I moved out of my apartment, away from my wonderful roommates and away from the city I love.  Hamna says my room is echoing and empty...like my heart.  Melodramatic?  Maybe, but it's my blog and I'll whine if I want to.  I will start Teach For America training in June and officially move to Philadelphia in August, but in the meantime, I plan on lying in the sun, drinking, and soaking in every last bit of friendship I have near me.  I'm lucky to have so many wonderful folks in my life...so if you're one of them, THANKS!

The Prodigal Roommate Returns

My darling Hummykins has been gone forEVER.  First jet-setting to Vegas for two weeks, then North Carolina for a week.  But now she's back and all is right with the world!

This is what one would typically see walking into our apartment - the three of us Facebook stalking, Stumbling, and sometimes school work. (Sometimes Cary is on the end, but mostly he's in his room studying.)  For three long weeks it was just Kate and I, but now the trifecta is complete.

We noticed that our comments on blogs and conversation topics turn...bitchier...when we're together.  It reminded me of a TruBlood episode I watched recently in which Bill Compton explained to Sookie that when vampires live in "nests," they become more evil.  So basically, since our nest is full again, our snarkyness is going at full blast and our tongues are sharper than ever.  Watch out!

Eyjafjallajökull and the Yosemite Conspiracy

In light of the Eyjafjallajökull erupting in Iceland, our pre-bedtime conversation was centered around volcanoes.  Cary mentioned that he thought he heard that a volcano in Yosemite or Yellowstone or something might erupt sometime soon.  Now how would you react to this news?  "Oh really? Interesting" or "That's not good, can we do something about it?" or "Where did you hear that?" are all good options.  Kate, however, flew into a rage:

Kate: Oh they would say that!
Cary: What?
Kate: The MEDIA!  "Oh the attention's not on us! Hey! We're still here! Pay attention to AMERICA!"
Cary and I exchange glances...
Cary: What??
Kate: I don't trust the media.
Cary: But it's seismology.
Kate: Well still.
Me: I'm not sure that this is the appropriate reaction, Kate.
Kate: I just think we exaggerate.

Kate then proceeded to rave about the virtues of Iceland.  Cary was not as enthused and proposed making Iceland a national park.  I reminded him that we cannot make other nations into national parks. And then Kate chimed in:
"Anyway, since when is Iceland a part of Europe??"

I'm still laughing.

By the way, Cary was misinformed.  No eruption anytime soon.

HUNGRY!

Being the cleaning champions that we are, my roommate, Cary and I worked up a hunger. Naturally, we panicked.  OH MY GOD WHAT ARE WE GONNA EAT WE DON'T HAVE ANY FOOD!?!?  (Maybe not as panicked as that, but you get the idea.)  After Cary rejected my kettle corn and mini pizza suggestions (c'mon, what's better than that?) and after we gingerly avoided some questionable looking tupperwares, we managed to come up with a pretty classy menu: lobster ravioli with vodka sauce, lightly sauteed asparagus...and nachos (of course).

This hodgepodge of flavors is pretty representative of today.  Slept at the Loft, woke up with puffy eyes and a nice wheeze courtesy of Jonathan Poopstick.  Chicken pot pie for breakfast.  Coffee pot fiasco (we really must remember to use a filter next time).  Room cleaning.  Irresponsible nut-cracking.  Typical Saturday stuff.  And now it's almost midnight and Cary and I are working on our second plate of nachos.

¡Olé!