New Jersey

At this point in life, I pretty much consider myself a die-hard New Yorker. I live here, I love it here and while I am willing to believe that there may be a wild pack of horses that have the power to drag me out of this place, I hope to live within the boundaries of the five boroughs for the entirety of my life. Like most NYC transplants, I rep here shamelessly. And, for validation, I definitely hold onto the fact that my father was born in Queens, my grandmother in Brooklyn, my birth certificate definitively says New York City on it and for a time my family (with me in tow) lived at 12th and 4th. That said, I spent a solid 16 years of prime developmental time in New Jersey.

Turns out that no matter how hard one tries--December 26 is the day when you instantly shed all your adopted New York-ness with wild abandon, go back to New Jersey, to the mall specifically, and shop like you fucking mean it. Like a homing pigeon on a mission, you get in your car or on a bus and cross that bridge or tunnel because you have been CALLED HOME.

You enter the mall and your eyes pop... no sales tax! 60% off! mom's buying! You no longer give a holiday shit about cool, hip, trendy or handmade. You lick your plate clean at California Pizza Kitchen and actually remember to order the same things you used to order when you were 15. You delight in being given a purple plastic pager and told that your turn to nosh will come in 20-30 minutes. Lunch comes and it tastes like high school dates. You fight with your mother over BBQ chicken pizza and Arnold Palmer's like its 1995.

On December 27th, you will want boutiques and assymetrical clothing once more. On 12/27 you will return to free range and grass fed, surely. But one short day before that? You want chain stores, deep discounts, mass produced food and coupons. On December 26th, you are the most American ever. You heart parking lots and big cars and highways and all the new shopping opportunities being built on Route 3 or 4 (depending on which side of the family you are shopping with that day). You heart Cinnabon, not Magnolia. You are Fuck the Subway. You are Double Cheeseburger Please. You are Wait That's Only $35? I'll Take That Too Then. You are Yes I'll Take a Plastic Bag. You are Gap Old Navy Lord and Taylor Cheesecake Factory Nordstroms Modells Best Buy Brookstone. You are Can We Go To IKEA too?

Some might say that the day after Christmas, you become the infinite end consumer.

A Little Help Please?

Obviously just because we New Yorkers pay more for our apartments than in many other places does NOT mean that in the dead of winter our heat works any better.

HELLO LANDLORD? I AM FREEZING MY LITTLE BLACK ASS OFF. Please to fix.

Geez. The only thing warming my soul right now is that Bednobs and Broomsticks is on Turner Classic Movies and I somehow remember the words to all the songs even though the last time I saw this movie El Debarge was a heartthrob and Michael Jackson was at least medium brown if not a full on black guy.

Grown Ass Woman.

It's been a minute Omnium-Gatherum. And now of course, it's time for the annual talk of becoming older.

I love a snowy morning, and right now, big fat delicious snowflakes are falling from the sky. Needless to say, I prefer looking at my snow through the windows of my apartment while making yummy cold-weather food. In fact, the winter hibernation is in full force--maybe in fuller force than ever. Perhaps its the looming concept of being grown up?

The birthday is coming, I'd tell you how old I was becoming but I promised myself I would stop announcing my age last year so that in 10 years all the world will be completely confused about how old I really am. I'll never lie, I'll just refuse to say! But I feel older, in that good way. I feel old in that way that means I now pay my bills on time. I no longer feel the urge to stay up until the sun rises in some dirty bar because I got shit to do tomorrow. I have a job that makes me happy (save for the part that having to get up every morning and work definitively does not make me happy). Older is good. I like it. And the older I get, the less of a pain in the ass I am. I think that if I were my 20 year old me, I would look at the current me and say "right on Lisa!". Nothing is ever perfect, of course, but things are on their way to very good.

So alas, a new year is coming and with it a new age (literally). I think this is a good thing. I hate the number I am assigned on Driver's Licenses and passports, but love the feeling of being more settled and stable and happy and grown enough to know a little bit more of whats what.

Infidelity.

Of late, I've been dallying with another blog on the sly:

http://www.letterstoemiNY.blogspot.com

A little broken hearted

Do you have a hero? Have you ever had a crush on a 96 year old?

Studs Terkel was mine. And I did. Even though I think people who cite their "heroes" on a regular basis are lame and too used to filling out social networking profiles.

R.I.P Studs. He had a beautiful, quirky, politically viable, humanist brain and I adored him.

Lisa for Obama.

Dear me, dear my--I am in a tizzy over this election.

Over the years, I have generally avoided the 24-hour news cycle. Not so this past two months. (Or more.) I have watched more CNN/MSNBC/Fox News (for reference)/NY1 (for the NYC perspective) than I ever thought I would. I have been in sync with every political joke and viral internet video that has happened. I have pored through the papers every day. I have discussed politics with my peers (which heretofore is something I have avoided, often believing my politics, while "good" are private). I have received 2,560 emails from Obama headquarters. I gave my little money when I could. I called voters in PA. I have hoped my little heart out.

As much as I talk shit about not being able to wait for this all to be over--I don't think I can ever go back to not caring again. I still might never be a news junkie--but I'm a different me 1000 times over no matter how it goes down tomorrow. And this, THIS, is why, amongst 100,000 other very important things, Obama is the most important political figure of my 28 years on this planet.

Win or lose (but good good, please win!) he changes everything.
Obama changed everything.
And he's not even our president (yet).

I'm sorry but...

I was watching Fox News last night (in order to see if I could put myself in someone else's shoes) and I saw what looked like a brown man bashing Obama in broad daylight. If I had bunny ears on my TV, I would have adjusted them, because it was unreal.

Instead of being weirded out or man, I am currently deliberating on how we can revoke his membership to the club. One thing is for sure, he's definitely not allowed to go out in public anymore, whoever he is. I believe in free speech, but I don't believe in idiot. The man should be quarantined.

If ever there was a time to suck it up, get it together and stop acting like an idiot. I mean, it almost hurt to watch this man preaching to what looked shockingly similar to a lynch mob about Obama's alleged "terrorist connections". It looked like a pork chop talking about dinner to a pack of Rottweilers. Guess who was the pork chop?

BrownManWhoLovesMccain, can we talk? I think we need to talk.

You don't want to have a president who looks like you? You don't want your kids to grow up and really think they could be president too? You think an educational system based on testing and teaching to that test is good? You like 5 million dropping into poverty? You wanna live with McCain appoint supreme court justices for the rest of your natural born life? You like the fact that money for a projector used at a planetarium in the countries second city is called irrelevant pork barrel spending. You like presidents who have used the word "gook" in the newspaper? You like not having healthcare, or having to promise your first born to get it? You like recessions? And panic? And you like the idea of women dying from DIY abortions in back alleys with coathangers? You like war? You like the achievement gap? You like the fact that no one will ever date you because being a foaming-at-the-mouth, palin-backing, black republican is number 3 on the Top 5 Least Sexy Things in the Universe list?

Good, I hope so. Cause you'll never get laid again.

BrownManWhoLovesMccain were you raised by wolves? Cause there is no way you had a black mom like me. She would have whooped your ass.

Small notes.

It would be just my luck to return from vacation and descend immediately into the throes of a full on flu. Of course.

But just because I'm bed-bound, coughing, jet lagged and having thousands of panic attacks about all the work I need to get done at the job I was missing from for two weeks (and thus encouraging procrastination) doesn't make me a better blogger. Of course it doesn't.

However, a few small notes regarding the vacation:
I adore France.
13 days with someone you have never spent 13 days with is a challenge... but when you finish intact and happy, its a very good feeling.
We ate gloriously. Vanilla scented foie gras, Chicken with Cepes, Crepes, Tarte Tatin, and on and on.
When you walk endlessly in Paris, you can eat all you want and end up losing weight, or so it seems.
We found ourselves slightly lost in Paris (searching for A.P.C. of all things) and happened upon Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas' former residence. This made me happy.
A "Tango" is a light beer with grenadine. I love it.
Bruno, the bar keep across the street from the apartment where we stayed is awesome, reads sci-fi and considers himself an anarchist. He is welcome here any time.
Josh dropped my camera into Lake Geneva.
The small, flower-covered medieval town of Yvoire is way touristy, but way fun.
Air India is kind of awesome.
My French needs improving.
I miss this trip and will always remember it fondly. Photos to come.

Alas, here I am warm and cozy in New York--reading the paper, sipping coffee and gearing up to cook. Having bought my first pumpkin, its time for homemade ravioli and perhaps a pie. It's time for the New York Times, and for watching Gossip Girl and network TV. It's fall and as soon as I stop coughing, it's on.

All is lovely.

I was pretty sure that I was going to update this blog on a daily basis throughout the vacation. This is not going to happen.

All I have to say is this:


and this:
and this:

How much can one eat in 13 days?

Basically, I've been obsessed with planning. I've been obsessively reading every single food blog and magazine and guide book and newspaper article archive I can find that will give me some idea of what I want to stuff my face with when I get to France on Saturday morning.

I want to eat everything.

I want galettes and crepes and terrines and boudin noir and sweet things and loire valley wine sans sulfites and honey and cream and eggs and confiture de everything and charcuterie and CHEESE and I want to go to markets and eat lovely french vegetables and I want to mail myself a big ass box of what I have found and I want to cook some meals while I am away.

I want it all in my mouth right now. I am hungry all the time just thinking of it.

And it makes me remember that I want smoked fish from Russ & Daughters. And I want a loaf of Amy's Bread. And I want to go to Kalustyan's for preserved lemons and spices. And I want to eat at Pearl's Oyster Bar and Babbo and Blue Hill and to nosh at the Red Hook ball field... well, the point is that I have been seriously ignoring my foodie self.

Lisa needs at least one awesome eating experience per week or she is not happy. Not at all.

There is a fat boy living inside of me and he has been asking for this for years.

Cultural Roundup: Late Summer Edition

It been like a year since I've done one of these and since the sidebars on this blog are way, way late---lets go!

Books:
Down and Out in London and Paris
Blackwater
Hitchcock/Truffaut
I am Legend
The Art of Eating
The Alice B. Toklas Cookbook (thanks J)

Movies:
Year of the Dog
Lars and the Real Girl
Vicky Christina Barcelona
The Last Mistress (tonight! sounds like a corset-ripple, people)
I Am Legend

Music:
Rufus Wainwright (I'm shit late on this one)
El Perro Del Mar (new album)
Girl Talk (Genius! Who brings back whoop there it is??)
Bon Iver (Still, probably for some time to come)
Fleet Foxes (or however many fucking exes one is supposed to use)

(And a warm welcome back to Bonnie 'Prince' Billy, Sigur Ros and Wolf Parade--I haven't listened to you, but I am sure you will make me at least relatively happy.)

That's about it really. I've been busy being happy. Who knew?

Dr. Lisa Katherine Lucas?

I've struggled with the idea of higher education since I graduated from college. I've always felt somehow incomplete without a graduate degree, but truth be told, I never really knew what I actually wanted to do with myself enough to locate a degree that I actually wanted. (Not to mention that my parents would be THRILLED if I went back to school and I've only recently outgrown wanting to do the opposite of anything that would thrill my parents.)

Then I started feeling guilty because of the folks. The folks is educated out the wazoo. (Save for Dad, but he's got the broken Grammy Mom chucked at him as proof that he made good.) And I'm starting to feel like the weakest link.

Alas, the main issue is that I never really decided what I wanted to be when I grew up--I just ended up being it. Just a moment ago really. Truth is, I am an educator and I can't imagine doing anything else for the next little to long while. Or at least I know that I absolutely must do something that directly helps people with the little 8-12 hours I have to give a day. The fact that I get to make movies with high school students for my job (well, kinda, I mean, in the end the kids make movies... I sadly spend quite a bit of time on the phone or on email or in meetings) makes me ridiculously happy.

That said, it is highly likely that I have decided to begin the application process for grad school. And yeah, for the million year kind. The doctorate kind.

We shall see shant we.

The Ikea Chronicles

I used to love IKEA. And you would think that I would love it even more now that there is one in my very own borough....

False.

Long story short is that there was a box.
Ahem, a BIG box.

Full of a kitchen bench that served as a prop in J's play. And it was REALLY heavy. It needed to be bought and dragged home via foot, ferry and subway, making us friends (read: folks who pitied us so much they wanted to talk) the whole way home. Then for reasons I will not explain here, it needed to be deconstructed and taken back to the store. Via 1 train, to 2 train, to Ikea ferry. More friends were made on the way back, mostly in the West Village.

And I think that forevermore, I will think of exhaustion when I think of Ikea. Y'all know I like to shop, and I wasn't even interested in inexpensive particle board, cheap pots and tchotchkes when I got there. Wow. Thats fucking huge.

J had fun though. In the kids section. In his Austrian alter-ego.

Tonight, lets all be a little post-racial.

I had a Jewish grandfather. I have a Chinese uncle. My stepmother has family in Amarillo, Texas and Someplace, Oklahoma (and you'll gather not the Black part of town). A few weeks ago, we welcomed our first half-Mexican cousin. The Lucas' apparently enjoy some good old fashioned miscegenation. Fair enough.

My point is that I'm comfortable living in a world where we'll all likely end up being some shade of brown. I don't care where you are from, what language you speak, what god you pray to, or what kind of hair my kids will end up with if I marry you. I just don't care.

So if I don't care so much, why do I care that I think my mother cares that my guy isn't Black?
I don't really, I've dated plenty non-black guys. BUT SHE'S NEVER MET ANY OF THEM.

If you look like me, then you know the Black Mom Stare well, and you know that mess is scary.
Lisa doesn't want to see that look tonight. No sirree, she does not.

NObu, or Boo to Nobu.

Went about 10 years too late to Nobu and hated it. Passionately.
Actually "hate" is too strong. I was completely and totally bored with the food. That is many bucks a family member spent on a meal that I will not remember by next week.

I felt nothing.

Herb family update:

R.I.P. Tarragon.

Did these plants make some kind of frickin' suicide pact, cause this is getting ridiculous.

You fucking LOVE oysters.

Remember how I was complaining that I hadn't done anything I wanted this summer. Well it was a weekendus mirabilis! (And if the year keeps on like its going, soon to be a whole quarterus mirabilis, maybe even annus???)

In three short days I managed to attend two going away parties (one with bbq'ed meat! one with dancing!), cooked fried chicken/string beans/mac&cheese/brownies, had oysters, watched Vicky Christina Barcelona, went shopping (for gifts, for europe, not for me!!), and spent a ridiculously wonderful day in central park looking up and pretending like I was not in NYC.

I haven't looked back at my original list of complaints, but I'm suspect I'm pretty happy with the number of things I checked off.

The only low point was that when the boy ate an oyster (nay, two oysters), which he claims to hate to eat, I saw a look of delight BUT he is claiming that I saw "a look of surprise that he didn't hate it as much as he expected". I would like to officially add "dislikes liars, esp re: food" to my active social network profiles in the about me section. I SAW DELIGHT. FUCKING DELIGHT.

RED RUM

Remember I was all proud mama about my little nerdy fire escape herb garden?

Well, Sage is doing well; Rosemary is looking a little tired, but good; Tarragon, Thai Basil and Sweet Basil--A-OK. But MINT, PARSLEY AND BOTH THYMES ARE DEAD. I killed them. Red motherfucking Rum. (Photos forthcoming.)

Bad mommy. Can I get a dog now?

How not to tell the time...

I am absolutely a creature of habit.

I go nuts if I forget to set my coffee timer the night before. I go to the same coffee place every single day (3/4 coffee, 1 sugar, steamed milk, room on the top so I don't spill on train). I sit on the same side of the couch when I'm reading and I have a very specific side of the bed (which is recently getting challenged with a persistence and fury that I am deeply uncomfortable with).

So this morning when I walked by my dear friend Taylor's store, The Brooklyn Kitchen, and it was all open and set up and people were milling around I had a complete panic attack because, you see, in Lisa World EVERYTHING SHOULD ALWAYS BE THE SAME. And if Brooklyn Kitchen is open that doesn't mean something changed, it means that by some complete world-gone-wrong reason it must be NOON. So my heart skipped yet another irrational beat until Taylor came outside and explained that they were filming a shoot--my world was slightly topsy turvy.

I am both delighted and disturbed by the places my brain takes me.

Upswing.

The bad day passed, and actually turned into quite the good day:
--A summer rainstorm (during which I actually had an umbrella)
--Dinner at DuMont (Burger, Kir Royale, a ravioli snatched from another's plate)
--And a lovely evening with the boy all to myself

And plans for tonight that are a mystery to me:
"Instructions to come, plan to be semi-dressy, plan to not get home before midnight..."

Today is all about having friday off, knocking a hole in this laundry pile, buying travel books (Alps! Paris! Geneva! Oh my!) and trying not to overanalyze semi-dressed up.

PS--I think I wasn't excited enough when I last mentioned that I got a little good news at the J.O.B.... I always wanted to be the Director of something... Youth Programs should cut it.

Just one of those bad weeks....

Lisa is having one of those bad weeks again.

The thing I hate most is not being able to locate whats wrong, because if one knows what is wrong, then duh(!), one can fix it.

Instead, I am just sort of angsty, inconsolable and find myself very distracted/moody/fidgety. Perhaps I need to do more of what I like to do. This summer has not been an activity driven one... and I find myself literally pining away for summer concerts, movies, dining al fresco, reading in the park, oysters, margaritas and food projects. Perhaps the recent departure of three incredibly dear friends is being felt because I am used to summers and them.

I would like to go to Strand with Seth.
I would like to sit on Diana's roof, drinking Rose.
I would like to go to a Dujeous show with Magda.
I would like to eat foodie food. Like at Momofuku.
I would like to make pickles. and jam.
I would like to see Batman Begins, Pineapple Express, a movie at Film Forum, an exhibit at the Whitney.
I would like to go to summerstage at least once.
I would like to go to City Island and an NYC beach.
I would like to go to an outer borough for random food.
I would like to see August: Osage County.
I would like to dance all night with people I know well and love.
I would like to spend an afternoon in Central Park.
I would like to spend another weekend in Sag Harbor.
I would like to spend a summer Saturday shopping with friends and drinking coffee all the while.
I would like to take advantage of the fact that some NYC streets are pedestrian streets this summer.

Oh, the things many things I would like to do. But mostly, I feel sad today and I would like not to feel sad.

In any case, I find the Olympics soothing and there is always the never-ending task of cleaning my closet to take care of any boredom that might be taking place.

Seriously?

Have you ever behaved like a total nutter and lunatic?
Have you ever picked a five hour fight that doesn't even really make sense to you?
Have you ever changed your plans seven times in one night and ended up really doing nothing?
Have you ever gotten promoted at work, and had the announcement make you want to cry tears of sadness?

Hmmm... well, you too might just have been sucker punched by raging fucking hormones that render you unfit to exist outside of your house, on your couch, in you sweatpants where you fucking belong, crazy. Cause um, that seems to be what happened to my week so far.

My dear Rhonda believes that I am setting Women's Lib back by 20 years by saying this out loud, but the truth is that I really need to talk about the fact that I was recently hijacked by my raging hormones and launched a two day PMS terror campaign on my man.

I think I said the words "But, baby, I FEEL LIKE..." 109,542 times.
I think I made a really big deal out of nothing.
I think I walked in and out of a Starbucks, in the rain, three times, trying to decide whether I wanted a chai latte with him in tow, looking real embarrassed.
I think I sent a really long email.
Worst... I think I might have kicked him while he was sleeping. On purpose.

Oh god.

I think I am going to go and buy myself a shiny new calendar today, because I'm a little wee bit embarrased.

We're not strangers to love.

There are already 34,635 reasons that Barack Obama should be my president.

Number 345 is that he dances EXACTLY LIKE MY MAMA.