Friday, May 22, 2009
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Word of the Week 3
Cam∙ber \ kam'bər \ n:
- A slight convex curve of a surface, as of a road, ship’s deck, or a beam. Sometimes referred to the cant of a surface.
- In automotive wheel alignment, a slight tilt given to each of a pair of wheels on an axle. [1]
Where first seen or heard: Complete Book of Running [2]
When: May 18th, 2009
Usage in a sentence: “Be careful when you drive in residential neighborhoods, or the streets’ camber will cause you to jump the curb and wreck someone’s lawn.”
[1] http://www.yourdictionary.com/camber
[2] Burfoot, Amby, ed. Complete Book of Running.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Melkam Megeb!
After a brisk 15 minute walk from Canal Street in Chinatown, where I had visited my "favorite store," I was exhausted, thirsty, and my stomach was crying out for nourishment. Luckily, I was outside Awash, ready for my dinner rendezvous with my monthly dinner group from Stony Brook. I went inside, and the rest of the group arrived within 10 minutes of our agreed upon time. After sharing tales of our Sunday pre-dinner adventures, we settled down to the business of looking at unfamiliar Amharic dish names and their English descriptions. I had never had Ethiopian food before, but my palate was up for a new culinary challenge, and three friends over the previous week had recommended trying Awash out. Not being able to eat the meat dishes due to dietary restrictions (halal), I busied myself with the vegetarian section, and between sips of water, tried to decide on a single dish. I settled on the vegetarian combination platter, but came the tricky business of picking 5 of the 7 items in the relevant section. A waitress came around, and five of us ordered the meat combination or meat/veggie combination platter, while a couple picked the veggie combination platter for 2. The waitress, in authentic Ethiopian dress, asked for my five choices:
"What two don't you want?"
"Ummm....gomen (collard green with onions, garlic, and green peppers) and....yatakilt alicha (cabbage, carrot, potatoes sauteed in peppers, onions, and garlic)."
After complimenting my passable Ethiopian accent, my friends asked why I didn't go for the gomen.
"Oh, I'm not a big fan of collard greens. I don't like anything that tastes green (chuckle)."
We then got a couple plateloads of hot, steaming towels. My quizzical look turned to horror and then to anticipation when I realized we would be eating with our hands, my favorite mode of eating as a child. The only disturbing thing was that the towels smelled of bleach...which I hoped wouldn't disrupt our gastronomical endeavor.
Whiling away the time and whetting our appetites, we did small talk about lab shenanigans, upcoming plans, and travel arrangements. The latter made for interesting conversation. A couple in our group is planning a big move to the West Coast to write a new chapter in their lives, but the transition involves two week of cross-country driving. They're adventurous when it comes to food, though they prefer staying with the names they recognize. While discussing mapping out Chinese and Korean restaurants along the way, the conversation took a wild twist...and I mean wild. One of us brought up the story of a grizzly bear chasing humans, then Chinese and Korean food (i.e the couple chasing each other if they can't find food along the way), and then Kansas barbeque. Finally, the conversation took a life of its own when I mentioned Roadkill Cafe (it really exists!). Before we could indulge in dreaming about eating turtles, deer, snakes, and desert foxes, our food arrived.
The plates were big, with 5 heaps of vegetables on a large serving of injera, a pancake-like bread, and centered with dressed salad. I picked the red heap to attack first. Turns out it was yemesir kik wat, split red lentils in berbere sauce. Pretty good I must say! Recognizing the folly of folding over the edge of the injera, I unrolled one of the extra ones we got and dug away at the yemesir. Next up was a yellow heap called yater kikalicha, split peas, almost as good as the yemesir, though I still gravitated towards the soothing taste of the former. I scooted along to the shiro, crowned chick peas, and gobbled them up. Now I was really motoring along, with the gentle spices of all the dishes warming up my esophagus and stomach. I bounced around the injera plain, and climbed the mountain of string beans and carrots. But this really slowed me down...I was starting to fill up. And then something stung my tongue and I instinctively reached for the water and took a big gulp. Turns out I had swallowed bits of green chilis, not my favorite food. Not wanting to get an upset stomach, I decided to pass on key sir alicha, beets, carrots, and potatoes, though it was tempting. By this time, my diners-in-arms were done or almost done with their generous portions and were showing looks of satisfaction on their visages. We quickly paid the bill, a very reasonable $17 per person, including gratuity, and headed out for dessert.
Red Mango was our destination, and I opted for the novel Tangomonium frozen yogurt, without toppings, much to the consternation of one of my fellow diners. "I like to try unadulterated flavors," I said in my defense. It had a light citrus flavor, both slightly tangy and slightly sweet, a perfect antidote to the green chilis I had accidentally consumed. Concluding a wonderful night of Ethiopian dinner and frozen yogurt dessert, we bid our adieus and headed our separate ways. I headed down to Chinatown and hitched a ride back to Long Island.
P.S. I enjoyed both the places I went to. Be sure to check them out at http://www.awashnyc.com/ and http://www.redmangousa.com/default.html
"What two don't you want?"
"Ummm....gomen (collard green with onions, garlic, and green peppers) and....yatakilt alicha (cabbage, carrot, potatoes sauteed in peppers, onions, and garlic)."
After complimenting my passable Ethiopian accent, my friends asked why I didn't go for the gomen.
"Oh, I'm not a big fan of collard greens. I don't like anything that tastes green (chuckle)."
We then got a couple plateloads of hot, steaming towels. My quizzical look turned to horror and then to anticipation when I realized we would be eating with our hands, my favorite mode of eating as a child. The only disturbing thing was that the towels smelled of bleach...which I hoped wouldn't disrupt our gastronomical endeavor.
Whiling away the time and whetting our appetites, we did small talk about lab shenanigans, upcoming plans, and travel arrangements. The latter made for interesting conversation. A couple in our group is planning a big move to the West Coast to write a new chapter in their lives, but the transition involves two week of cross-country driving. They're adventurous when it comes to food, though they prefer staying with the names they recognize. While discussing mapping out Chinese and Korean restaurants along the way, the conversation took a wild twist...and I mean wild. One of us brought up the story of a grizzly bear chasing humans, then Chinese and Korean food (i.e the couple chasing each other if they can't find food along the way), and then Kansas barbeque. Finally, the conversation took a life of its own when I mentioned Roadkill Cafe (it really exists!). Before we could indulge in dreaming about eating turtles, deer, snakes, and desert foxes, our food arrived.
The plates were big, with 5 heaps of vegetables on a large serving of injera, a pancake-like bread, and centered with dressed salad. I picked the red heap to attack first. Turns out it was yemesir kik wat, split red lentils in berbere sauce. Pretty good I must say! Recognizing the folly of folding over the edge of the injera, I unrolled one of the extra ones we got and dug away at the yemesir. Next up was a yellow heap called yater kikalicha, split peas, almost as good as the yemesir, though I still gravitated towards the soothing taste of the former. I scooted along to the shiro, crowned chick peas, and gobbled them up. Now I was really motoring along, with the gentle spices of all the dishes warming up my esophagus and stomach. I bounced around the injera plain, and climbed the mountain of string beans and carrots. But this really slowed me down...I was starting to fill up. And then something stung my tongue and I instinctively reached for the water and took a big gulp. Turns out I had swallowed bits of green chilis, not my favorite food. Not wanting to get an upset stomach, I decided to pass on key sir alicha, beets, carrots, and potatoes, though it was tempting. By this time, my diners-in-arms were done or almost done with their generous portions and were showing looks of satisfaction on their visages. We quickly paid the bill, a very reasonable $17 per person, including gratuity, and headed out for dessert.
Red Mango was our destination, and I opted for the novel Tangomonium frozen yogurt, without toppings, much to the consternation of one of my fellow diners. "I like to try unadulterated flavors," I said in my defense. It had a light citrus flavor, both slightly tangy and slightly sweet, a perfect antidote to the green chilis I had accidentally consumed. Concluding a wonderful night of Ethiopian dinner and frozen yogurt dessert, we bid our adieus and headed our separate ways. I headed down to Chinatown and hitched a ride back to Long Island.
P.S. I enjoyed both the places I went to. Be sure to check them out at http://www.awashnyc.com/ and http://www.redmangousa.com/default.html
Monday, May 18, 2009
Quote of the Week 2
"be the Change you want to see in the world"
- Mahatma Gandhi, spotted on a mailbox
Saturday, May 16, 2009
The Spanish Barbershop
My locks had become too long and unmanageable, especially over my ears, and I decided to go for a much-needed haircut. I would have gone to my old hairdresser, except that at $15, was a bit too much. After asking around, I ended up with two suggestions: either an Italian barbershop or a Spanish barbershop. The person who suggested the former said they do a good job and is cheap, at $10, but that the owners' son was a bit racist, directing his rants at "Pakis". On the other hand, the Spanish barbershop was a bit more, at $12, and the barbers take their time, "about 45 minutes," according to Adnaan, my brother.
Finally, Saturday dawned, and after my long run, I decided to go for a mane-trimming. I went with my brother's suggestion. Nunez's Barbershop was located in Port Jefferson Station, right after the train tracks. I pulled into one of the public parking lots and headed down Main Street. On my 40 yard walk, I encountered a homeless man, sitting in the windowsill of a store, cursing at no one in particular. "Interesting," I thought, and continued on. I entered the barbershop, walked down about halfway, and took a seat on the long blue vinyl bench running along the length of the wall. A Spanish ditty was playing over the stereo system, and the Jetsons, muted of course, was playing on the TV hanging in the far corner. There were about 4 or 5 customers, of all different ethnicities, seated around me, and 7 barbers busy humming or chatting away in Spanish, in no apparent hurry to let their customers go, while the customers on the bench waited patiently. 45 minutes sounded about right.
I took a longer look around the store. The walls were painted sky blue and mirrors ran along the front wall. Barbershop certificates were displayed proudly above the mirrors, and green Mexican peso and American dollar bills were taped to the mirrors. On the wall behind me was a large flag from the Dominican Republic. The soothing smell of talcum powder and aftershave permeated the air, and the ambient sound was punctuated with the humming of trimmers. Occasionally, the guy down at the far end would chime in with the conversation, passionately making his point. The song changed, the conversation ended, and the barbers joined in on the chorus blaring from the radio. Every so often, a barber would finish with a customer, a payment would be made, and the deal would be sealed with a handshake. Cool.
After about 10 minutes, it was my turn. My barber was a beefy guy, about 5'10", with a generous midsection and a chinstrap beard, wearing a black-and-white shirt showing common toiletry items. I sat down in the chair, he turned around to arrange his tools, wrapped a bit of a paper towel around my neck, and then covered me with a bright red drape. He took a brush and straightened out my hair, front to back.
"What do you want?," he asked quietly.
"About this much on the top and this much on the side," spacing my fingers about a half inch and eight of an inch apart.
He put a clip on his trimmer and then proceeded to shorten the sides of my overgrown mane, buzzing back and forth as he moved around my head. He glanced every so often in the mirror, checking the eveness of the cut. Once he was satisfied, he placed the trimmer back on the counter, picked up a towel, and draped it over my right shoulder. Then came the foldable safety razor. I gulped. Gently, he trimmed away at the edges, at the temple, below my sideburns, over the ears, and at the nape. While my head was down, he tapped on my shoulder.
"Huh?"
"Round or square?"
"Round please."
The gentle scritch-scratch of the razor continued. With a trimmer, he edged away the area between the top and sides, and then with a brush, arranged my hair in perfectly straight rows. He took the water sprayer, sprayed some on his hands and wiped down where he had previously applied the razor, in gentle circular motions. After weeks of clamoring for a massage, this felt pretty good. Sure, it wasn't for the muscles in my neck, which was slowly healing, but a massage is a massage. I found my eyelids closing, but then quickly forced them open again. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the customer in the chair next to mine drifting off to sleep. By now, more customers had come in, including a 1-year old baby with his mother. The tempo of the song changed, and mother started waving baby's arms around in sync with the rhythm.
Finally, Saturday dawned, and after my long run, I decided to go for a mane-trimming. I went with my brother's suggestion. Nunez's Barbershop was located in Port Jefferson Station, right after the train tracks. I pulled into one of the public parking lots and headed down Main Street. On my 40 yard walk, I encountered a homeless man, sitting in the windowsill of a store, cursing at no one in particular. "Interesting," I thought, and continued on. I entered the barbershop, walked down about halfway, and took a seat on the long blue vinyl bench running along the length of the wall. A Spanish ditty was playing over the stereo system, and the Jetsons, muted of course, was playing on the TV hanging in the far corner. There were about 4 or 5 customers, of all different ethnicities, seated around me, and 7 barbers busy humming or chatting away in Spanish, in no apparent hurry to let their customers go, while the customers on the bench waited patiently. 45 minutes sounded about right.
I took a longer look around the store. The walls were painted sky blue and mirrors ran along the front wall. Barbershop certificates were displayed proudly above the mirrors, and green Mexican peso and American dollar bills were taped to the mirrors. On the wall behind me was a large flag from the Dominican Republic. The soothing smell of talcum powder and aftershave permeated the air, and the ambient sound was punctuated with the humming of trimmers. Occasionally, the guy down at the far end would chime in with the conversation, passionately making his point. The song changed, the conversation ended, and the barbers joined in on the chorus blaring from the radio. Every so often, a barber would finish with a customer, a payment would be made, and the deal would be sealed with a handshake. Cool.
After about 10 minutes, it was my turn. My barber was a beefy guy, about 5'10", with a generous midsection and a chinstrap beard, wearing a black-and-white shirt showing common toiletry items. I sat down in the chair, he turned around to arrange his tools, wrapped a bit of a paper towel around my neck, and then covered me with a bright red drape. He took a brush and straightened out my hair, front to back.
"What do you want?," he asked quietly.
"About this much on the top and this much on the side," spacing my fingers about a half inch and eight of an inch apart.
He put a clip on his trimmer and then proceeded to shorten the sides of my overgrown mane, buzzing back and forth as he moved around my head. He glanced every so often in the mirror, checking the eveness of the cut. Once he was satisfied, he placed the trimmer back on the counter, picked up a towel, and draped it over my right shoulder. Then came the foldable safety razor. I gulped. Gently, he trimmed away at the edges, at the temple, below my sideburns, over the ears, and at the nape. While my head was down, he tapped on my shoulder.
"Huh?"
"Round or square?"
"Round please."
The gentle scritch-scratch of the razor continued. With a trimmer, he edged away the area between the top and sides, and then with a brush, arranged my hair in perfectly straight rows. He took the water sprayer, sprayed some on his hands and wiped down where he had previously applied the razor, in gentle circular motions. After weeks of clamoring for a massage, this felt pretty good. Sure, it wasn't for the muscles in my neck, which was slowly healing, but a massage is a massage. I found my eyelids closing, but then quickly forced them open again. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the customer in the chair next to mine drifting off to sleep. By now, more customers had come in, including a 1-year old baby with his mother. The tempo of the song changed, and mother started waving baby's arms around in sync with the rhythm.
By now, the barber had taken the trimmer to the top, punctuating every so often with a pair of scissors. He made eye contact with me, I nodded satisfaction with the chop job, and out came the brush again. More neatening of the rows, back and forth. More massaging for me. Then he tilted my head down, unbuttoned the red drape, and scritch-scratched one last time. Off came the drape, and I hauled myself out of the chair, taking a few glances in the mirror. Happy with the job the barber I did, I handed him $22 and got my change back. Sealing the deal with a handshake, I headed out to the street. Muy bueno!
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Word of the Week 2
Ho∙mun∙cu∙lus \ hō-mŭng'kyə-ləs \ n:
- A diminutive human
- A miniature fully formed individual which adherents of the early biological theory of preformation believed to be present in the sperm cell. [1]
- In neuroscience, a distorted human figure to represent various body parts’ usage of the cerebral cortex. Also known as the ‘little man inside the brain.’ [2],[3]
Where first seen or heard: From Nabeel, my baby brother
When: May 14th, 2009
Usage in a sentence: “If you have an Extra Sour Warhead, your homunculus would have a really enormous tongue.”
(http://www.juergenhaenggi.ch/Bilder/Homunculus.png)
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