When I am Copyeditor General (pt.1)

How have I written for so long without exploding into a rant about language--specifically, the inability of other people to use it properly?

Well, that changes right now, mister.

I've always found a perverse thrill in discovering typos, grammatical lapses, ambiguous phrasing. The Boy will tell you how many times my perusal of a dinner menu sounds like this:

"Mmm, foie gras ... ohh, boeuf en daube ... ooh! Typo!"

(At such moments, The Boy rolls his eyes and sighs. If he's lucky, I don't get out my purple pen and mark up the offending text.)

I've been (triumphantly) collecting examples for a while, including this one, found in Miami:



Why the quotes? Is it irony? Are they hinting that the job doesn't involve "sales" at all, but merely hanging around and occasionally straightening the t-shirts?

What riled me up today, though, was the oversized postcard waiting in my mailbox:



Oh, how nice! My invited what?

Should I be more disturbed than usual because the invite is from the mayor of Medford, promoting his re-election announcement? Is he (or rather his wife, who allegedly wrote the copy) making some subtle indictment of the city's school system?

How many people read this before it went to the printer? And did none of them know the difference between "your" (meaning "belonging to you") and "you're" (meaning "you are")?

And I can't pass up the observation that the mayor cordially invites "you and your family to an old fashioned family barbecue." Wait--I can bring my family to the family barbecue? Really?

So your saying their invited too?

Welcome back, Smokey Joe!

Memorial Day weekend marked the beginning of summer in a particular and personal way for us: The Boy pulled out the grill.



It's not a huge, fancy machine; just a Weber Smokey Joe, which I believe we got for free from somewhere. It's a perfect size for two people--big enough for a couple of swordfish steaks plus surrounding veggies--but not something you could cater a party on.

And despite my best efforts, I have yet to find suitably sized utensils; everything we have (tongs, spatula, telescopic fork for long-distance poking) is designed for a monster uber-grill. The act of using them to, for instance, collect slices of zucchini is akin to Andre the Giant bringing his own sugar-spoon to a doll's tea-party.

But still, grilling has added a new dimension to our meals--and to our weekend routine--in three ways:

1) It exemplifies relaxation.
During the week, dinner is first priority of the evening. And because we usually arrive home hungry, we tend to make meals that come together quickly: poached fish, couscous, steamed veggies, etc.

Grilling takes time. There's a lot of waiting involved. The coals have to heat. The food cooks more slowly. So The Boy (as chief grill-cook) sits outside and keeps watch over Smokey Joe's progress in the yuppiest way possible: with a New Yorker and a glass of wine. There's no rush.

And now that we've figured out how long it takes to grill, we start earlier, so talk of dinner begins at around 5:30 (The Boy quickly learned that if he fired up the grill at regular dinner prep-time, he'd be retrieving the finished food in near-darkness).

2) It's a collaborative effort.
You know it, I know it: The Boy hogs the kitchen. Not that I'm complaining, mind you: everything he creates is tasty and interesting. And most days he gets home before me, so it means dinner is already underway when I arrive.

But still, it's nice to have some time in the kitchen by myself. So while The Boy is outside with Smokey Joe, I'll prep stuff for grilling and fix the sides, using the extra time to experiment with marinades and seasonings (a little fresh ginger in the salad? Why not?)

3) The results are fabulous.
Take last night. Flank steak, simply rubbed with sea salt and fresh-ground pepper. Asparagus in a little olive oil and more pepper. Both of the above grilled; the meat to a perfect, tender medium, the spears slightly charred on the tips.

The steak was topped with fresh-made chimichurri--fistfuls of cilantro whizzed in the blender with lime juice, olive oil, red onion, cider vinegar and garlic to make a loose pesto. On the side, a salad of organic greens, explosively tasty cherry tomatoes, cucumber, anjou pear and cheddar.

Dessert was peaches--already so sweet and juicy I had trouble splitting them--dusted with fresh-ground nutmeg before grilling. When they came off the heat, I poured a tiny amount of Cointreau across the cut surface, and it soaked into the fruit, heightening the sweetness nicely.

All this with a bottle of very good 2001 Conde de Valdemar Reserva Rioja (of which The Boy is contemplating buying a case).

We sat on the back porch, plates empty, finishing the wine and listening to music and the last moments of birdsong, and decided it was going to be a good summer.

Top of the Mark

Sunday--our last night in South Beach. Our last chance to find good food. So rather than trying for hipster status by going to the happeningest spot on the block, we decided to go for a place that had been around for at least a few years, with a chef who had a sound reputation.

And so, crossing our fingers that the rain would hold off for the short walk down Collins, we headed out to Mark's South Beach, one of four restos in South Florida owned by chef Mark Militello.

We arrived at the Hotel Nash, which houses the restaurant, just as the raindrops were getting fatter, and ducked inside. There was only one other party in the restaurant, which seemed surprising for 8pm on a Sunday. But, as our waitress pointed out, it was close to the end of the season. Plus the rain tended to keep the locals away. Plus there was some kind of hip-hop convention in town, which really really kept the locals away.

Digression: what happens at a hip-hop convention? Do they have a keynote speaker? Are there tracked sessions (beginner, intermediate and advanced hip-hop)? What does the exhibition hall look like? Is everyone wandering around with baggy low-rise pants and bling, carrying Vibe tote bags filled with brochures and FuBu logo frisbees?

We ordered cocktails--a Martini for me and a Manhattan for The Boy. Wow, were they potent. "Yeah," said our waitress of the bartender, "she's pretty generous with the spirits."

I liked our waitress a lot; cool, funny, laid-back. We talked about life in Miami (she was a California transplant) and whether there was really any perfect place to live in the world (everywhere has its downsides).

I also liked that the corridor to the restrooms had old framed hotel invoices on the walls, itemizing the spending habits of guests in the 1930s (beer: 10 cents. Room for a week: three dollars).

And then to food. The Boy started with the yellowfin tuna tartare, which came with avocado and lemongrass oil. I went for the conch chowder, a generous bowlful, slightly too heavy on the coconut milk but saved by the donut-hole-sized plantain beignets piled in the center.

And then The Boy had striped bass, served with a deep, fresh tomato sauce, and olive gnocchi with the texture of good sausage--not sticky or doughy, as gnocchi often are. And I chose a second app: scallops with calabaza puree and passionfruit. The scallops tried to hold their own next to the fruit, but were slightly overwhelmed by sweetness. I'd probably have enjoyed it more had I not just waded through a bowl of coconut milk.

But even though my choices were not so well thought out, this was still the most satisfying meal we had in Miami (Cuban food aside). There was a sense, from the creative-but-not-painfully-trendy menu, and from the waitstaff, that the food mattered more than anything else.

This wasn't a place to see and be seen, but a place to get carefully considered dishes with fresh ingredients (many menu items are created from that day's market offerings). It was the one resto where the music was in the background, rather than being a pounding obstacle to conversation. It was the one place where we didn't feel completely ripped off when the check arrived.

And it was the one place that, should we find ourselves in South Beach, we'd be likely to go back to.

Rain and La Reina

Sunday we woke up to more rain. Lots of it. And news of golf-ball-sized hailstones in Hialeah and someone being struck by lightning.

Seemed like a good excuse to eat breakfast in the hotel.

Our waiter, Lee, an older New York transplant, explained to us the fiscal benefits of choosing the buffet rather than picking a la carte. "That way, see, you get to try everything on the menu," he said. "Well, except for the pancakes, and the waffles."

But there was granola and fresh berries and fresh OJ and bacon and scrambled eggs and sausage and pretty good homefries and toast and pastries. And a help-yourself bottle of champagne in a silver ice bucket.

Back to the room. Satellite images showed we were directly underneath a big red welt of storm, with a green amorphous blob of rain stretching far, moving slowly, across the area.

So I wrote for a while, and The Boy read, and we both watched the rain come down. Outside, on the street below, people were wading barefoot through ankle-deep water and yelling as passing cars sent up foot-high wakes.

At around noon, fortuitously, the skies cleared a little, so we decided to take a chance and head out for lunch.

After a couple of blocks of leaping wide puddles (and sometimes just giving up and going through the middle), we found David's Café, a 30-year-old neighborhood joint serving Cuban food. Perfect.

So The Boy ordered bistec empanizado, which came with pretty good rice and black beans. And I had the medianoche:



The food was a good prelude to our next stop: the Bass Museum of Art, where the Smithsonian's traveling exhibition ¡Azúcar! The Life and Music of Celia Cruz was on display.

I've had a thing for Celia since I first heard her voice about ten years ago. There's a clarity and a joy and an inherent gift that's hard to describe. Just listen.

The Boy took me to see her at the Orpheum in 2001. It was one of the best shows I've ever seen. This review pretty much captures the experience.

When she passed away in 2003, age 77, I cried. And I was just a British chick who hardly knew her. The people who'd followed her career from the 1950s, and those for whom she was a symbol of Cuban emigration, arrived in their thousands (more than 75,000 in Miami alone) to pay their last respects. The route through Manhattan to her funeral at St Patrick's Cathedral was lined with her fans.

So it would be fair to say that the exhibit is a pretty moving experience. As well as old interviews (including one in which her husband of 41 years says, "There are 24 hours in a day. For Celia and me, there are 25." Snif!) and performance footage, there are a few of her flamboyant custom-made outfits.



(Note the heel):



Yeah, I got the sniffles. But I wasn't the only one.

Style over substance. Again.

Saturday night, and another attempt to find good food at non-rip-off prices. Our plan was to wander Lincoln Road (lined, you may recall, with eatin' joints), and do cocktails and apps at a couple of the best.

Hm.

As it turned out, most of the restos were Italian. And most of these had maitre d's essentially acting as carnival barkers. As we walked past each place, they'd gesture at long tables piled with Saran-wrapped samples of the house specials, entreating us to try, inviting us to a seat, thrusting business cards into our unwilling hands. "Come on, nice couple, you come eat with us, good time, yes?"

Um, no. I don't buy cars from the guys who yell on TV on Sunday mornings, and I don't eat in restaurants that so obviously have no unique value proposition that the owner has to shill on the street. Sorry, buddy.

So after a half-hour stroll up one side of Lincoln and down the other (which was a show in itself, if only for the number of tiny dogs on parade), we settled on Yuca, a nuevo latino resto with an interesting menu.

The only outside table remaining was not under an awning, and after the previous night's monsoon, we decided it would be safer to eat indoors.

I don't remember the last time I was in a place so loud. Not that there were many diners, either; more that every surface seemed designed to bounce sound back into the room.

When it was time to order drinks, the waiter recommended the mojito. "It's a classic traditional Cuban cocktail," he said, assuming we'd never heard of such a thing. So okay, we thought, it's obviously the house special. Let's try it.

Every mojito I've ever had looked like this.

The mojito at Yuca looked like this.

The Boy was indignant. "Is this from a mix?" he half-yelled (no other way to be heard) at the hastily departing waiter.

Okay, it didn't taste bad. But having spent the last couple of days sampling mojitos at various places, this was just sad. Not even a shred of mint leaf--though ironically, both my first app and my dessert came with generous garnishes of the herb, so it's not as though they were suffering a mint shortage.

We felt a little better when the food arrived. I had a roasted piquillo pepper stuffed with chorizo in a pool of cabrales cream sauce, the sweetness of the pepper and the saltiness of the sausage playing off nicely against the cheese. The Boy went for tasajo, a deep-fried yellow plantain wrapped around a cured beef filling, the sweetness of the two working well together.

For our second apps, I had tamale de caracol--a corn tamale stuffed with conch and fresh corn kernels. The filling was interesting and tasty, but could have been more generous; there was a good half-inch of thick, impenetrable cornmeal dough at either end. The Boy won this round with "montaña de Martí," a happy pile of sweet ropa vieja over a fried green plantain cake.

We don't usually do dessert, but the list was too intriguing to pass up: selections like mamey sorbet and sweet potato beignets (which they don't know how to spell).

I'm a sucker for tres leches cake, and they had one made with turrón, a Spanish nougat traditionally eaten at Christmas. It's hard and crunchy, but this cake was soaked with sweet cream, and turned out soft and dense. Delicious, but also too sweet and heavy to finish, especially served with guava cream cheese ice-cream. The Boy opted for "peras en cartucho," slow-roasted pear stuffed with dulce de leche, wrapped in filo, and served with fresh rum-raisin ice-cream. Again, a little too much sweetness (even for The Boy), though the combination of sweet and spicy flavors would make it a perfect Christmas dessert.

So the food made up for the "mojito." But then there was the waitstaff, who seemed largely inexperienced, not sure of what to do next, not noticing when water glasses were empty, occasionally shouting at each other for minor infractions.

As we were settling up (which in itself took a while), four waiters were engaged in pulling together two tables to seat a large party. Evidently there was one more chair than there were diners, so the unemployed seat was left in the middle of the floor like an abandoned car in the middle lane of the highway, forcing waiters and diners to skirt it each time they passed. It didn't seem to occur to anyone that it might be a good idea to move it ...

Aaaaanyway.

After dinner we wandered down Washington, two blocks parallel from Ocean, noting that there were fewer hip restos and more tattoo parlors and strip clubs. And then across onto Ocean to check out the Deco hotels lit with pastel neon, and the former Versace mansion-turned-nightclub (he woulda wanted it that way).

And then the rain came. Again.

We ducked into a doorway for a while, and then decided to make a run for it. Fortunately, we were saved from drowning by the appearance of the two greatest words in the English language: Martini Bar.

So we sat in the gorgeously Deco lobby of the WinterHaven and had reasonably priced rum punches until the rain slowed down.

And so to bed.

Life. It really is a beach.

On Saturday we woke up with one goal: to beat the Hun to the beach.

Okay, maybe the idea of the Germans getting up early to reserve the best spots is a myth, a politically incorrect stereotype upheld by My People (or is it?). But still, you can't be too careful.

So after a breakfast of buttery pastries and strong coffee at the French bakery down the street, we headed out to the sand. Like most hotels that back out onto the beach, The National sets out comfortably cushioned lounge chairs and provides towels, parasols, and roving waitstaff, so there's really no reason to move all day.

And so, apart from a couple of leisurely swims in the turquoise water (schools of tiny fish darting between our ankles) and a stroll or two along the shore, we didn't.



The Boy caught up on New Yorkers, and I plugged into my iPod (mostly to drown out the yahoos and kids around us) and caught up on some work-related podshows.



At around noon, we ordered gazpacho (fresh and piquant) and chicken empanadas (generous chunks of meat in a good sofrito) and Coronas.

And yeeeap, we realized, it don't get any better than that.

Style over substance

One thing we'd wondered before coming down to South Beach, home of the beautiful people: does the idea of style over substance hold true for restaurants as well as for everything else?

So far, the jury is still out.

We checked in to The National, spent a little time hanging at the "Tiki" bar near the pool (in quotes because it wasn't particularly Tiki) and had $30 worth of drinks--that is, one G&T and one mojito. Youch.

Nice pool, though.

And then to the day's big decision: what to do for dinner?

At the salon last week, the client in the chair next to mine, who had just returned from SoBe, recommended Table 8, the hottest new spot with the hottest new chef (all reviews make sure to mention that he started working for Wolfgang Puck "at the tender age of 13"). It seemed promising, and he makes use of local ingredients, so we figured maybe it was Craigie Street transported to Miami and therefore worth a shot.

The fact that we couldn't get a table until 9:30 meant it was popular; another promising sign.

Of course, this was all decided by 5--there was no way we could go hungry for another four hours. So we wandered out to Lincoln Road, the pedestrianized street lined with boutiques, sidewalk cafes and restaurants. I realized it was vitally important to return when I wasn't so hungry; many cute shoes!

Oh, and also a store selling The. Most. Horrendous decorative items: six-foot-tall rampant onyx dolphins and majestic eagles on dodgy faux-marble plinths and "authentic eggs" (whatever that means). I must go back and laugh some more.



And finally we came across SushiSamba, a hip blend of Japanese and Brazilian cuisine, and got a table outside. (Apologies for the link; the site's all Flash, so there's no direct access to the Miami resto. But you get the picture.)

People watching on Lincoln is the best anywhere. In the space of 20 minutes we saw:

• A fuschia-spandex-clad bantamweight Hispanic on rollerblades


• A crazy-haired old lady pushing a stroller containing three white bichon frises in pink hats


• A middle-aged guy (who looked a lot--a lot--like Buffalo Bill in Silence of the Lambs) in a folk-style hippy dress and Cuban-heeled shoes, dancing down the street with a boombox.

Nothing better than watching the parade with cucumber-sake cocktails and sushi tiradito: yellowtail with japaleno and lemongrass; kanpachi with truffle oil; salmon with chimichurri and ginger; tuna with green apple.

And then the rain came.

It started with high winds that blew salad off nearby plates. Then it was as though someone turned the shower on full--fat drops of water, bouncing off the sidewalk, making diners run for cover and waiters rush to collect plates and drag tables under awnings (which quickly lost their waterproof capabilities).

We stood in the doorway and watched as the half-empty water glasses on our abandoned table filled to the brim. Though the sky lightened, the rain kept stotting it down, and we realized the only sensible thing to do was wait it out at the bar with a couple of mojitos.

After about ten more minutes, the skies cleared and we made our way back outside, splashing through two-inch-deep puddles. Such is Miami.

Deluge aside, the dining was great--interesting and thoughtful combinations, fresh ingredients, awesome floor show.

And so on to Table 8. The space is ultra-hip--a long rectangle, dimly lit, the wall at the far end shifting colors from orange to blue to lilac to green. Our reservation was pushed back a half-hour for no particular reason, but we were happy to hang on the low, simple couches and watch the beautiful people watching each other.

The cocktails were interesting; I had what was essentially a basil mojito, spiked with lime juice--very refreshing. The Boy had a black cherry caipirinha, which was just cough-mediciny enough to satisfy him.

And then the food. As it was so late, we decided to stick to apps. The Boy did a much better job of ordering than I; his sweetbreads were melt-in-the-mouth fabulous, and his scallops came on a bed of perfectly creamy risotto.

I probably shouldn't have gone all-salad, but still. The duck prosciutto salad with green beans was pretty good, though a little stingy on the meat. And the second dish involved thin slices of flavorless heirloom tomatoes hidden under an amorphous glop of bland mozzarella.

Eh. Maybe I was just tired. But the fact that all this--two cocktails, two glasses of wine and four apps--came to $175 wasn't cool either. I assume this is an example of style over substance; that one doesn't go to these places to eat, but rather to see and be seen.

But if that's the case, then where does one go to eat really good food at reasonable prices?

(Oh, walking back we saw another only-in-SoBe vision: a guy looking something like this, with one of these around his neck).

Vizcaya! Secada!

Last night at 6, we piled into a shuttle bus with a bunch of conventioneers and set out for an evening of having people be really nice to us.

The location: Vizcaya, a 1915-era Italianate villa (yes, another one) built to be the winter home of an industrial magnate. As most rich people did at the time, he went to Europe, found old stuff he liked (chunks of churches, 16th-century doors, etc) and glued it all together. I'm sure I would have done the same.

The house itself is a fascinating blend of the old stolen stuff and new-fangled implementations (central heating--which doubtless came in real useful in Miami--refrigeration, central vacuuming system).

And the grounds are beyond cool; long, rambling walkways and steps carved from coral and hidden benches and lodges with murals and statues, statues, statues.







The design is such that the view in any direction is perfectly framed, inviting the visitor to go just a little further. I assume the designer's descendents are creating incredibly browsable websites; it had that feel of leading the user down a path of engagement. But with hedge mazes and orchids.

Of course, the whole experience was greatly enhanced by the waiters bearing trays of kir royale, the generous wrists of the guys at the open bar, and the cheerful waitrons stopping by with hors d'oeuvres: red pepper mousse on tiny crackers; mini lobster hot dogs with wasabi-infused roe; lobster empanadas; coconut-encrusted chicken with mango salsa; cucumber cups with tuna tartare ...

And then dinner, which was not quite as interesting: a too-huge chunk of Bibb lettuce with some very mild feta cheese and a slice of grapefruit, followed by panfried sea bass and filet mignon (on the same plate, the two tastes not really going great together). Dessert was nouveau-smartychef: a shot glass of chocolate mousse, an individual flourless chocolate cake, and a "lollipop" of vanilla ice-cream coated in coconut (this last was accompanied by a raspberry sauce that made me think of childhood 99 ice-cream cones from the truck in summer ...)

And then, ladies and gentlemen, two-time Grammy Award-winner Jon Secada! I have to admit, the guy can sing. It was just him at a keyboard, plus a couple of backup guys, and he was flawless. But soul-jazz ballads are just not my style. So The Boy and I grabbed a couple of fresh glasses of wine and wandered out to a small stone pagoda on the water, and sat on coral steps and watched the distant lights across Biscayne Bay.

Notes from the Biltmore (pt. 2)

This has been my day so far:

Startled awake by the electronic screech of the cheapo alarm clock. The Boy leapt in the shower to get ready to go do conference stuff, and I pressed a couple of his shirts. The brand of iron was Toastmaster, which made me consider calling room service for slices of bread for experimentation purposes.

After The Boy went off to his conference, I wandered down to breakfast in the open-air courtyard.

A table by a gently tinkling fountain. Palm trees at my shoulder; vigorous potted rosemary plants on the tables. Fresh papaya juice, good coffee, steel-cut Irish oatmeal and mixed fresh berries bursting with flavor.

Mind you, that pleasant experience cost $25.

And then I figured out where the pool was. Oh. Oh, the pool.

So back up to the room to change into my new bikini, bought last week.

I had planned to post a rant about the horrors of bikini shopping. But it turned out to be a not-terrible experience. I ended up with a fetching black and white polka-dot ensemble that's sufficiently modest (for an almost-40-year-old) without being grandmotherly. That, plus my silver sandals and oversized black sunhat, made me actually want to expose my pale skin.

I found a lounger next to the pool and settled in. Reading material (New Yorker, Freakonomics): check. iPod: check. Bottle of water: check. Sunscreen: check.

All was quiet, peaceful, relaxing. Perfect.

And then a four-year-old moppet, with grandmama in tow, took the loungers to my left, and spent much of the day doing that high-pitched toddler shriek that causes dogs to bark.

And two young women came and sat to my right, comparing skin tone ("You're so much more tan than me"/"No, you're, like, way more tan") until they ordered a cocktail, got impatient ("Why isn't it here yet? It takes, like, four seconds to make a daiquiri") and left.

And the male Samoan out-of-work banker sitting at the end of the row kept trying to make conversation with the female New York out-of-work TV producer sitting behind me, despite her best efforts to rebuff him.

I was close to yelling at them all to "JUST SHUT THE HELL UP, CAN'T YOU?" And then The Boy, on his lunch break, arrived to see how I was doing.

"I really need to get something to eat," I said.

So he walked with me round the pool to the cafe before going inside for his networking buffet. I sat in the shade next to the water. Tall, frosty mojito; conch shell filled with hot, fresh, golden conch fritters, served with a nice curry-cumin-red pepper dipping sauce.

Somewhat fortified, I resumed my place in the noisy corner of the pool. Listened to music, read, and watched a photo shoot for teen fashions (the young models switching effortlessly from between-shots yawning boredom to now-we're-working dazzling vivacity).

A nice enough way to spend the day. And then later I discovered that the conference organizers had set aside a private cabana for accompanying spouses. I could have spent my day abusing the cabana boy! Who knew?

Notes from the Biltmore (pt. 1)

Thunderstorms and tornado warnings had pushed our flight’s departure time back two and a half hours, and by the time we arrived in Miami, collected our luggage and rode to the hotel, it was pushing 2am. But even when viewed through a drowsy fog, the Biltmore is a very very cool place.

The lobby has ridiculously high vaulted ceilings, painted like a starry night sky.



In the middle of the floor sit aviaries that look like something from 20,000 Leagues under the Sea; inside, tiny birds, heads tucked under wings, sleep in woven straw nests.



Given the lateness of the hour, the desk clerk was not waiting at attention for us; he had to put down his bowl of cereal and turn off South Park to check us in.

Our room is up a winding stone staircase lined with painted Spanish tile.



King-sized bed with white linens. The bathroom walls and floor are cream-gold stone.

The view outside is of the front entrance, meaning that one could, if so inclined, spend the day watching the parade of Porsches and Beemers coming up the drive and disgorging men in golf shirts and women in white dresses and high heels.



It's always interesting, in hotels, to see where the level of detail stops; at what point does the management decide they don't have to go the whole hog? Lobbies in fancy-pantsy places like this are always breathtaking; restaurants and bars are inviting; and for the most part, the in-room experience is a continuation of the brand ... to a certain extent. It often seems that, at some point, there's a decision to stop with the luxury and fill in the blanks with cheap stuff.

Example: at the Biltmore, the bathroom has a generous supply of insanely thick towels and there are TVs in both the bedroom and living area and fluffy white Frette bathrobes and satin-covered clothes hangers. And then the clock-radio is a cheap, lightweight plastic box. The ironing board in our room has seen much duty, and opens with a painful metal-on-metal screech.

A card in the bathroom indicates that there's a hair dryer "in bottom drawer of armoiré" (since when has the word had an accent? Probably since someone decided it sounded more posh that way).

And there appears to be one--only one--electrical outlet in the room, hidden behind the couch.

I'm writing this while sitting on a chair in the middle of the room, the only location that allows me to hook up the short internet cable and the laptop's power adaptor at the same time.

I know. Oh, poor me.

I'm Spartacus! (Or Carolyn Grantham)

Until I was 19, I was the only Carolyn I knew. Never met another in all my formative years; not until I moved to London and started working at the University Library, where there were two--two!--other women who dared to share my forename.

Well, I could deal with that.

I never knew of any Granthams outside my family until I moved to Boston, where I discovered that there were some rather wealthy ones living on Beacon Hill. (Sadly, I'm pretty sure we're not related.)

Given the seeming rarity of a combination of first and last name, then, I was rather surprised to discover a veritable slew of people called Carolyn Grantham--none of whom are me--running around.

One is a llama farmer in Virginia.

One is a hot-air balloonist in New Mexico.

One is an elementary-school teacher in Chicago.

And there are others. Many, many others.

It makes me wonder whether, in a parallel universe, I'd be following a career path chosen by one of my namesakes.

It also makes me want to become a llama-farming, hot-air-ballooning schoolteacher, just to corner the market.

But mostly what it makes want to do is achieve search engine dominance.

I've been showing up on page one of Google for a while, thanks to press releases I wrote and posted on PRWeb, which list Carolyn Grantham (i.e. me) as contact person for both a special feature on poverty and prayer and a new Bible study product. But all those other pretenders to the CG crown keep showing up as well, mostly because they're more accomplished and worthy of public note.

Well, that's not what SEO is about, is it? Heck no!

So I signed up with some networking, social media, and "online identity reputation management" sites, to strengthen my position.

Here's Carolyn Grantham on naymz.com.

Here's Carolyn Grantham on LinkedIn.

Here's Carolyn Grantham (aka LimeyG) on the Copywriter's Roundtable Network.

And of course, as previously noted, Carolyn Grantham waxing effusive about SES Latino.

My goal is to dominate the first SERP. There can be only one Carolyn Grantham!

Nature is no match for my hoe

Today began my annual fight to conquer nature by trying to enforce order in the garden. We went out to Pemberton's garden center and got a whole bunch of leafy stuff and bags o' dirt, and spent much of the day digging holes and filling them with plants that will, with luck, survive more than a week.

So we now have, in the front yard: Lavender (winter survivors!), azalea, daylilies, liatris, asters and pansies (plus what I suspect are the gladioli I gave up for dead last year, plus the hardy chrysathemums, now three years old, plus the spiky purple thing whose name I forget, plus, I hope, rudbeckia).

At the previously ignored side of the house: a new rhododendron, along with a newly dug border (The Boy's work) filled with wildflower seeds that I'm determined to germinate, plus lilies-of-the-valley (because they grow fast), plus a couple of elephant ears (to disguise the piles of rubble left over from a cowboy paving job), plus yet more wildflower seeds.

In the back: a cinnamon fern (an Easter gift from my parents, along with the liatris and one of the asters above), and a bunch of plants in our raised-bed herb garden--sage, rosemary, curly mint, lemon thyme, greek oregano, and space for the lime basil I'm starting indoors.

Oh, and a strawberry plant, which I hope will survive both birds and the upstairs neighbor's kid.

Next week, we pick up tomato plants.

Which means future eating.

Bork bork bork!

Yesterday we got up early and drove to the Ikea in Stoughton, ostensibly to look for lighting and a media center. We came back with one light (a modern floor lamp for the dining room), a random sampling of storage and decorative items, and a bench for the front porch. Coulda been worse.

I love the European-ness of Ikea, from its family-friendly cafeteria (with microwave, and kid-sized spoons for those who tote their own baby food) to its hip and funky designs, to its constant reminders about green living--even charging 5 cents per plastic bag to actively discourage unnecessary waste.

And I especially love Ikea's grasp of visual explanation. Given that there are stores in almost 40 countries, from Israel to Malaysia to Greece to Iceland, and given that most of their products require home assembly, there's a need to present instructions in a way that's universally understandable. (With their eco-conscious mission, they're unlikely to produce 40-page multilingual how-to pamphlets.)

So, for instance, this is how they show what to do if you get stuck:



The implication here, of course, is that you're smart enough and independent enough to know how to find the phone number yourself. I like that.

And the package of votive candles comes with a complex list of safety instructions. Some require a little more thought to comprehend (don't use a candle taller than your rocking chair? Don't let your dog bark at an open flame?):

Posh parmo

Last week The Boy decided to re-imagine parmo, Teesside's celebrated post-beer late-night dish of choice, as an upscale entree.

The basic recipe involves breaded chicken, deep-fried, topped with white sauce and cheese and thrown under the broiler.

The Boy's version began with a trip to WholeFoods: organic free-range chicken breast (pounded thin), dipped in free-range egg and coated in organic Italian breadcrumbs, then pan-fried in extra virgin olive oil. Meanwhile, I made a quick bechamel sauce with plenty of local butter, ready to pour over the chicken. We topped the whole thing with grated year-old Vermont cheddar and, well, threw it under the broiler.

And served it with a simple salad of greens, pear, oranges and tomato.



As my people would say, "Aye, that's canny scran, that, knowworrameanlike?"

Spam, poetry

I admit a guilty enjoyment of Spam.

Especially Spam light, because it's made with mechanically separated chicken.

Though of course I liked it better when I was imagining a cartoon-style conveyor belt, on which perplexed cartoon hens met their ends at the hands of 1930s-style cartoon robot arms. To be honest, I never actually imagined the event itself; just the sound effects:

"Buk -- buk -- buk -- bukKAA!!!"

(oh ... it's so much funnier when it's not written down ...)

And then I discovered (thanks, Wikipedia!) that mechanical separation involves forcing all parts of the bird through a fine sieve at high pressure, essentially turning anything not completely solid into a fine slurry, which is then blended with an assortment of spices and preservatives and baked into cans.

Yum.

Still tasty though.

Anyway, I didn't mean to start out with the glories of processed food, but rather to give a shout-out to my friend J, who needs to be better at updating his spam poetry blog. He finds interesting junk-mail messages, adds line breaks at appropriate points, and presto change-o! It's art!

When I found out about this, I sent him one I'd discovered a while ago.

When I am old ...

... I will spend all my spare time writing angry letters to the editors of various publications. Right now, though, my life is too full and exciting (bwa ha ha!), so diatribes are few and far between.

But last month's Boston Magazine article about OpenTable (which I ranted about here) prompted me to jot down a few thoughts (okay, spend a couple of hours obsessing over subtle wording and cunning emphasis) and email it to their letters page.

A week or so later, I got a nice message from one of their editorial assistants, asking for confirmation that I yam who I yam so they could print the letter.

And then--yay!--my rant made it into the May issue, almost completely unedited. They just took out one short phrase, which may give the impression that I'm impossible to please (no comments needed from The Boy, thank you!).

Anyway, as an editor myself, I'm really in no position to get ratty about other people doing exactly what I would have done myself.

On top of which, I have a lovely forum for rants right here, and no-one edits me except me.