Thursday, October 15, 2009

Inhale, Invasion

After a long day, I returned home at 9:15 to be confronted by the acrid aroma of polyurethane in the hallway of my apartment building. Opening the door to my second floor unit, I inhaled and detected another offensive odor, that of exhaust. Exhaust? I could not identify the source but it was unmistakably different from the smell downstairs. I microwaved some dinner and quickly ate it, but I was beginning to feel lightheaded from whatever molecules were invading my airspace. I opened the windows, turned on the ceiling fans and then headed out for a walk, hoping that I'd be able to air the place out before bedtime.

As I was leaving, I met some of the other tenants who were complaining about the smell. Had they contacted the landlord? No.

I strolled to Whole Foods, purchased a poppyseed hamentashen to cheer me up, and when asked by the pony-tailed checkout clerk how my evening was going, I told him, "Not so well. My building has fumes in it and I'm here while I'm airing out my apartment. If it doesn't work, I might have to spend the night in a hotel. By the way, do you know of any hotels nearby?"

He suggested I look off of I-25, heading north, for a Hampden Inn.

When I returned to my apartment the situation had not abated and I left a message for the landlord, letting him know that I did not feel safe sleeping there and that I'd like him to pay the cost of a hotel. Within minutes he had called back and, after discussing the situation, said he'd reimburse me up to $60. Fine, I said, even though that would probably not cover a room at a hotel I'd feel safe staying at. I did not feel like haggling over the amount, I simply had to get out of there. Already, I had a headache. I grabbed my purse (containing the hamentashen), laptop and toothbrush - what else does a gal really need for an unexpected adventure? - and started driving north. While I was on the highway the landlord called again, asking me if I had found a hotel. Not yet, I said, but I told him that I was in my car, in search of lodging. He said he was on his way over to the building install some exhaust fans to help clear the air. He also seemed very apologetic and sympathetic - in his words, he said that I must have an allergy to polyurethane. No, I've been blessed with a sensitive nose that alerts me to anything that might harm me.

As I pulled off the highway I told him I had spotted a "La Quinta Inn" and would check for a room there. He said that was OK and agreed to pay whatever the rate was. It turns out to be more than $60.

Saturday, October 10, 2009

Inimitable

Yesterday evening, as the temperatures plummeted to the 20s in advance of last night's snowfall, I dashed over to a movie theater to see Julie and Julia. I'm a big fan of cooking and eating and of Meryl Streep and I hoped I was in for a treat. Ms. Streep's acting was, as usual, la creme de la creme. Even though I had never seen Julia Child's cooking show on television and was unfamiliar with her trademark voice and gestures, Ms. Streep's artful interpretation and performance made up for that gap in my experience.

As I watched the film, I found myself savoring certain aspects more than others. Ironically, many of the cooking scenes held less of my interest than those where Julia Child confronts the male dominated French culinary establishment and finds herself in the process. After her first humiliating class in which she was the only woman and the slowest to chop an onion, she decides to improve her skills at home. We see a sack of onions and a colossal and growing pile of the chopped white vegetable on Mrs. Child's kitchen table as she single-mindedly practices this fundamental skill, over and over again, onion after onion, oblivious to the tears running down her face. That made more of an impression than many of the scenes of modern day Julie Powell, the blogger, as she's shown preparing the recipes in Mastering the Art of French Cooking and writing about it.

Some of the more satisfying scenes involved Julia Child corresponding with her sister and potential publishers, featuring the physical acts of writing, typing, folding, licking and sealing. What the film left me hungry for was an earlier and slower paced era when people still composed letters by hand, when the sending and receiving of mail was accompanied by anticipation and excitement, and when life was richer for these rituals.

And I wonder if the reason many of the cooking sequences failed to sizzle is that I recently decided to become a pescetarian, eliminating poultry and red meat from my diet. Chicken, beef and duck are also stars in this movie, forming an important but unacknowledged supporting cast, yet despite all the food styling that must have taken place I was not terribly tempted by the sight of a perfectly roasted bird emerging from the oven or by the much-touted boeuf bourguignon that made multiple appearances. Perhaps if I had seen the move before modifying my diet I would have been inspired both to drool over these dishes and to run out and purchase a copy of Mastering the Art of French Cooking. Instead, my plans are to slowly, probably not methodically and most likely not publicly, make my way through The Greens Cookbook and Vegetarian Cooking for Everyone, both by Deborah Madison. It's not that I plan to deprive myself of flavor or fat. For this morning's breakfast, in homage to Julia, I fried an egg in plenty of butter.