Berlioz and MLK: delusions and putting the "re" in research.

I had a dream. Actually, I have lots of dreams. Many of them involve exploding glassware and past violin professors lecturing me. Then we all play soccer against some very talented talking chipmunks and dance tango. Turn that into a Symphonie Fantastique, Berlioz. Some people don't need opiates... but I digress.

As I was sitting in immunology (I think this class is much better for my culinary tangents than actual learning,) flavors tiptoed into my head. Antibodies morphed into sesame seeds. B-cell development whispered of crystalline ginger. Orange zest seduced my senses long before class got to VDJ recombination. Honestly, I will fail this class.

Yet, it was a cookie: a daring fusion of Asian and butter. It would command the senses, stimulate the palate, and save old ladies from being hit by buses. Crunch, zing, and sweetness in one fattening bite. I pulled out a legal pad, and started designing.

A candy-like cookie that could be cooled into cup-like shapes, filled with a ginger-chocolate ganache, garnished with candied orange zest and ginger. I only had to wait for the week to end.

That day of cooking research went much like normal research: death. Two main problems: don't make anything relating to candy without proper equipment. Thus, a buttered and floured cookie sheet will NOT substitute a silicone mat. The cookie came out as a lacy, sticky disaster that bubbled into the pan and wouldn't come off. Instead of a cup that could hold something, I got a delicate coral-esque garnishe that I had to pry off the pan with the finesse of a bulldozer lifting a concrete foundation. The kitchen radiated a miasma of a sugared Asia and bad cooking aura. The cookies, once cooled, were cute and would not hold anything.

How does this parallel my research. Ah. My enzyme assay result proved exciting at first. It suggested that our interesting hypothesis might hold true. Wait, something actually worked? Elation. That is, until the following week where I managed to destroy everything I touched. In a procedure where sample wells must be free of air bubbles, I made one sample look like Mr. Bubble assaulted the NIH. I forgot to save results. I saved results and realized they sucked. I redu the unsaved experiment, and realize the results sucked. This is why they call it "research" and not "shit we figured out that lives in this test tube".

So, I was left with a delicious chocolate ganache (mixture of cream and chocolate used to make fondue, truffles, etc.) that had a spicy ginger finish, candied ginger, a zested orange, and black roasted sesame seeds. I refused to declare defeat. Yet there was no way in hell I was baking anything else that night.

What else does a girl do? Make the most pretentious ice cream sundae at home, naturally. Vanilla ice cream provides the perfect backdrop for a spicy bite and citrus finish. I didn't even have to candy the orange zest, which was nice. It was sexy in a bowl. My roommates approved. They should: something like this would cost a bunch on a restaurant menu.


[Insert pretentious name here]/ Sexy Asian Sundae

Candied Ginger and syrup:
2 in ginger root, sliced as thinly as possible. Don't slice off fingers, they probably taste terrible.
Water
Sugar

Chocolate Sauce:
1:1 ratio chocolate chips to cream.
Ginger syrup (I used 1 T for about 1 c sauce)

Sundae:
Vanilla icecream (breyer's natural vanilla!)
Black roasted sesame seeds
Zest from 1/2 orange
Candied ginger

To candy ginger:
put ginger in a small saucepot, cover with water. Bring to a boil. Let simmer 15 min, then strain out water. Cover again with water and add sugar. (Try to have an equal ginger:sugar ratio by weight. I guessed.) Bring to a simmer and let simmer for at least 30 min. If water boils too low, add more.

Remove ginger and let syrup reduce down a few min more. Let ginger drain and dry over a baking rack for at least an hour (I put it on tin foil... but I imagine a rack would be better.) Tos with granulated sugar.

Chocolate sauce: the lazy man's ganache:
Heat cream in microwave in 1 min increments until simmering. Pour over chocolate, let stand 2 min. Stir until smooth and shiny. Add in syrup to taste.

Assemble:
Scoop ice cream into a sexy bowl. Not a normal one. Chic will do
Sprinkle sesame seeds
Sprinkle orange zest
Drizzle chocolate ginger sauce
Garnish with candied ginger

My roommates are superheroes, and I'm the Narcoleptic Ostrich

The Beatles should write a song about me.
Oh wait. They're mostly dead.

Yes. I have awesome roommates. In fact, I'm pretty sure one of them is superwoman. Instead of an invisible jet, she wears a headlamp when biking at night. Moreover, I'm pretty sure that after working ridiculous hours and reading way too many scientific papers, she fights crime on the streets of Berkeley.

Another roommate manages to do well and know what the hell is going on, while still watching remarkable amounts of television. Not to mention his research rather freaks me out. Weird Neuroscientists. The third roomate, other than being generally awesome, can make tasty sweet-potato burritos. Finally, my incredible ex-roommate from ASU is Queen of the Universe, and doesn't even have to wait for more than an hour at the DMV.

I'm pretty sure they'll go out and save the world one day. I'll watch and make popcorn.

Ah yes, the narcoleptic ostrich. That would be me. As it should be, because blogs are essentially narcissitic writing exercises in cyber-space. right?

One great travesty of my life is a complete resistance to caffeine. Alas, coffee, energy drinks, amphetamine precursors--I am impervious to all. Not only that, but when tired, my body shuts down immediately, giving rise to plenty f interesting scenarios where I'm found sleeping on the dining room table, the floor, under my lab bench, etc. I have fallen asleep in the middle of scale practice (Jesus must've kept me from dropping my violin), during experiments (failed ones, mind you) and in piano bars on busy Friday nights.

So you can imagine my struggle to stay awake in class. So far I have been woken up by a professor snidely commenting, "...well, it's better than nodding off in a warm classroom" and a fellow student poking me in the arm and asking if I was ok. Either I definitely belong in grad school, or they should kick me out tomorrow. I'm not sure which.

My other skill apparently involves hiding my face. Actually, I don't really understand how this evolved, but I think my penchant for folding myself into weird contortions morphed into me always hiding my face. Actually, I have no clue. Self analysis fails here. I'm well aware of the cowardly implications of my new title, but I wouldn't consider myself one to run from danger... I live in Oakland. (And I've paid for it--if you ever read the first post.)

This falls in line with most of the past week. It has neither been the best of times nor the worst of times, but just one of those stretches where you just can't seem to excel at anything. You are good at falling behind or just scraping by, but actually being on top seems unreachable. It's an optimization of mediocrity, if you will.

Even when cooking I have missed the mark. I have yet to get a proper rising out of a loaf of bread, even when the proofed yeast is so raring to go the bowl of milk and honey looks like a cheap sci-fi movie. I guess my yeasty friends can sense the aura of inadequacy radiating from my bewildered hands.

Similarly, I have dreamed of making baked mac and cheese for my dish to bring for lunch for the week. I prefer to add chicken to increase protein and use roasted butternut squash in place of a fatty traditional roux (roo: the thickener of butter and flour). I had seen similar versions online, and even made mine before at home. This time I had optimized the strategy and was ready to go.

Alas! 'twasn't meant to be. I stupidly kept the heat on after adding the cheese to the mixture, breaking the emulsion. Instead of a thick, creamy cheese sauce with roasted squash undertones, I got cheesy blobs in milk. Yum. Nonetheless it came out ok, just lacking a textural homogeneity key to the comfort-food character of the dish.

Surprisingly, the pasta was amazing as leftovers. I don't know why, or if I was just starving after moderately sucking at science, but reheated it was tasty and satisfying.

Here's the recipe- with the proper directions I failed to follow. As always, adjust to your taste, because it's adjusted to mine. I swear, it should come out right if you aren't... me. :)

Baked Mac 'n cheese

1/2 lb chicken, marinated. (I used a little Dijon mustard, olive oil, garlic, onion, marjoram, and salt/pepper)
1/2 lb pasta (or more, if you want it to last. Doesn't have to be macaroni)
Half onion, diced
2 cloves garlic, minced
2 t paprika
1 t cayenne pepper
2 t ground mustard
~1.5 c of 2 cheeses, preferably semi-soft ones that melt well. (I used extra-sharp cheddar and monterey jack.)
1 c roasted butternut squash (skin squash, cube half of it into 1 in pieces. Drizzle with olive oil and season. Roast at 400 F until fork tender. You can roast the whole squash one night and toss half with blue cheese crumbles and pecans as a side dish, then use the rest for this.)
1 c lowfat milk
few handfulls Panko (japanese breadcrumbs. or rice krispies, if you can't find those)
olive oil or butter
1/4 c grated parmesan cheese

Roast squash (see above.) When done, mash up and set aside. Marinate chicken, turn oven temp down to 350 when squash is done.

Boil pasta, set aside.

Pan to med-high, add olive oil. Saute small part of onions, garlic, and all of chicken. Set aside.

Turn heat down to med. Add onions and garlic, stir until onions are translucent. Add spices. Add squash, make sure it is very puree-like (I use an immersion blender beforehand if I'm not feeling lazy.) Add milk, bring to simmer.

Turn off heat, stir in cheese. Dump chicken, pasta, and sauce in a casserole dish, toss together.

Mix breadcrumbs with a couple tablespoons of olive oil or melted butter. Mix in parmesan cheese. Sprinkle mixture over pasta. Bake about 25 min, or until top is golden brown and sauce bubbling.

Don't forget-- even if you screw it up, it still tastes good. My kind of cooking.

In discombobulated daydreaming, veritas

"Oh I wish I were an Oscar-Meyer wiener, that is what I truly wish to be...
for if I were an Oscar-Meyer wiener... I wouldn't have to get my PhD!"

I believe it is Cal Tech that compares educating undergrads to blasting them in the face with a fire hydrant. I don't think the hydrant has quite opened on my face, but I think a dog is peeing on it and I'm running the other direction. Constant mental engagement is not the specialty of people who have the neural equivalent of sugared-up chipmunks playing freezetag.

It is not that the science isn't interesting. It is, and it is taught (generally) very well. The thing is that when science is crammed down my throat every waking moment, my inner ADHD wakes up and starts dancing the cha-cha. Or maybe the hustle.

An interesting consequence of such mental choreography is that the instant class material is NOT presented in a structured, fascinating manner, I go off the deep end. In fact, I'm surprised I am still in advanced immunology. Quick preface: if physical biochemistry is essentially math, immunology is essentially Icelandish. This wretched field has so many acronyms and names (acronyms of acronyms, actually) that you almost need a bilingual dictionary to survive.

Thus, I alternate between deep concentration (read: desperation) and composing music/writing recipes on my scientific articles. I focus pretty well at lectures, as long as I spend time before class checking ESPN for latest soccer and football news. However, discussions are student led. Which means that Charlene often spends her time dreaming about steak and sweet potato fries, whole wheat Bavarian pretzels, and prosecco-sorbato floats. Last discussion I wrote an eight bar piece in A minor and common time that made no sense at all and filled the margins with random comments that did not pertain at ALL to the cross priming of CD8 T cells.

For example, the professor was discussing the significance of results in vitro, (test tube) to those done in vivo, (shit, it's alive!). My mind went down this profound path instead:

in vivo, veritas
in vino, veritas
in tequila, veritas.

Amen.

Similarly, I forget to be intelligent. So, when I ask a question about how a diptheria toxin technique in mice can be used to study organ transplants, I end up saying things like "but, the mice aren't groovy with being injected with toxin every day, how can this be a long term model?" "Not groovy" is an unprofessional way of saying "dead." oops.

Non-sequitur: pseudo chili
I like to make big dishes that will last through the week. Finally, I nailed my pseudo-chili. So here it is... for posterity. Or to clutter up the internet. You never know.

1 1.5 qt crockpot
1lb stew meat (I used round steak)
half an onion, sliced
3 cloves garlic, minced
spices/herbs (I used salt, pepper, cumin, cilantro, and paprica)
2 chipotle peppers in adobo sauce (maybe 3 T sauce)
1 dark beer (1554! still cooking my way through it)
Olive oil
Tomato paste
crushed tomatoes (about 12 oz)
12 oz black beans
Fresh avocado, for garnish

Pat meat dry. Sprinkle seasonings over meat. Heat olive oil in skillet on high. Sear meat, turning frequently. As soon as all sides are browned, transfer to crock-pot. Sautee onions and garlic in skillet util house smells amazing.

Douse meat in olive oil. Add onions and garlic on top. Pour in beer. Add chipotle peppers. Cook on low heat in the crock-pot for several hours, until meat falls apart under a fork.

Add crushed tomatoes and paste. Heat a while longer. Transfer to bigger container and mix in beans.

To serve, spoon into bowl. Dice fresh avocado and place on top. I actually eat an entire small avocado with one big bowl. You think it might not work. It does.

Cracked out squirrels and wino watermelons

I love pretty flowers. Don't we all? Such delicate symbols of life and beauty, reminding us all that in this chaotic world of jaded souls and consumerist idolatry, nature will always exude a stunning subtlety we can never achieve. That is, until the pretty flowers growing en masse next to your porch are actually angel's trumpets: a member of the hallucinogenic nightshade family (belladona being the most famous member). These babies are chock-full of anti-cholinergics: compounds that reduce the acetylcholine balance in your system. This means increased heart rate, dilated pupils (a sign of beauty in midieval times, hence the name belladonna) and hallucinations in certain doses. However, since nerve gas actually causes acetylcholine to build up in your synapses until you drown in your own bodily fluids, should we ever be attacked, we could light the bush on fire and live an extra five minutes.

I don't know the dosage for getting high on the charming flowers on your patio. However, I do know Fritz: the cracked out squirrel that lives on the property. I named him Fritz after watching him dart around schizophrenically on the trees and porch. Squirrels buzz around rather comically; but this dude definitely needs to lay off the drugs. Nothing quite like an idyllic bay area morning. A light breeze lilts through the kitchen while that ever-elusive sun fills the day with wide-eyed optimism. You steep some tea, put on a little Sinatra, and walk out on the porch to water the basil. There is Fritz, staring at you like you lived in the House of Usher. After an intense moment of squirrel stare down, he darts around erratically until he ends up in the psychedelic foliage. His movements have an edginess that transcend 'squirrely' into 'definitely a crackhead'. Ah, I love pleasant mornings, don't you?

Sunday crept in lazily, and the house prepared to relax for the evening. I had snagged a new viognier (a grape I've become obsessed with, despite my preference for red wines.) Now, I have no problem drinking wine out of a plastic cup, straight out of the bottle, in a big gulp... pretty much in any form. In fact, I like to drink "in half steps" which involves blowing across the top of the bottle to get a pitch, then trying to drink the right amount of wine so that the next note is a half step lower. I'm a classy gal. Yet tonight I busted out my nice pinot noir glasses a friend gave me for Christmas. We put on Mozart opera (I prefer his operas to everything else. To me, they exude a brilliance and depth that connects at every level.) Everything was set for a classy evening.

Until the ASU genes kicked in. Rather than cook dinner, I split a baby seedless watermelon in half and grabbed a spoon. Tasty. It complemented the citrusy notes of the viognier. That is when brilliance struck. I had scooped out a smallhole in the watermelon. To the bemusement of my roommates, I tipped my French wine in the fancy glass into the watermelon. It was fantastic. The ripe fruit melded with the crisp wine. I tipped the miniature melon half into my mouth. A playful duet. Tasty! I felt like a genius. Never mind the fact that I turned a potentially elegant evening into... well, wine drinking out of a watermelon.

Wino watermelon:
One small, personal-sized seedless watermelon, ripe.
A white wine of choice (recommended: McManus Viognier, Bears Lair Viognier, or Long Tail Lizard white table wine from Preston wineries, which you can only find in the Tri cities).
1 spoon.

Eat some melon to make a small hole. Fill with wine. Scoop watermelon bites so that they are dipped in wine before tasting. Raise your half melon for any toasts. Pat yourself on the back for combining a quiet evening at home with the county fair.

Leech segmentation development and playing with my pelvis: one day in grad school

All in your average Wednesday...

In the end, regardless of the tale being told, time moves on and eventually no one cares. Apathy takes over the small stretch of time that governs our minuscule existences, and we, in short, get over ourselves.

I find myself nearing equilibrium between managing everyday life and having small, cataclysmic identity crises that result in plans to run out of a room screaming, join the peace corps, and become a rafting guide in the Pacific northwest when I return.

Yoga helps with mental stability. Lab rotations don't start until Tuesday, so I tried out a few different yoga classes. I was ecstatic to find an Ashtanga class on campus! The primary series of ashtanga consists of 119 poses intended to bring healing, but actually tie you in impossible knots and then have you unravel your legs while balanced on your hands in order to pull into a handstand before floating back into a push-up. It was essentially free and on campus?? I was in heaven.

Alas, I must still be in yoga purgatory, because it was atrocious. The teacher didn't follow the series at all, and he kept saying "play with your pelvis... until you find alignment and the energy makes you float up easily!" As a yoga-addict, I get a lot of crap for the sexual innuendos of my hobby. Nonetheless, I nearly exploded with laughter, which is bad news if you are in a headstand. Needless to say, play with your pelvis... with care. I'm not going back.

The class nearly made me late to the faculty evening research presentations (cutely called 'ferps'). I'm part of an enormous umbrella program--so we have people looking at brains, proteins, evolution, and genes. The approaches these scientists take are exciting and leave me rather giddy as I wonder how a fabulous place like Berkeley admitted an absurd little nut-job like me.

However, there are just some days when you can't care anymore. The evolution of leech segmentation did it for me. I can understand studying flies, yeast, infectious bacteria, non-infectious bacteria, cats, dogs, democrats, republicans, and little vials of stuff you forgot to label. Leeches? I cannot care about leeches. So I went online to 'pull off papers to read for class' which turned into 'reading college football news on ESPN.' (As a side note--although this will only continue to foster the "lack-9" shit our conference gets, I was happy as hell to see Oregon lose. Ever since Fiesta Bowl 2007 when Boise State showed the world what's up by beating Oklahoma with absurd plays that made them look like the Harlem globetrotters of football, I have been a small Broncos fan. Besides, some ducks are mean and sucker punch people after the game.)

Ahem. So... biology! The presentations are fascinating. I love to contrast the professor styles. Business casual to 'shouldn't be seen in public' to tshirts and jeans. Some professors speak as if it were a conference, while others crack jokes, "Eukaryotes are fun to sleep with, but I'd never want to work on one."

The moral of the sotry? I'll probably survive my first year. I start lab in two days, so failed experiments will give me something else to bitch about. Yet, I managed to fall asleep in two different libraries in three days; clearly, I am home. Sometimes, life is about getting over yourself. Even if you are supposed to play with your pelvis.

Swingin' smoothie dreamsicle ;-)

It's a delightful little pick-me-up for when you're short of time and tired--so, always! One day I decided to make a smoothie with whatever smoothie-like ingredients I had. This drink is now my favorite, and tastes just like those orange Popsicle-icecream bars from childhood.

1 pt vanilla yoghurt
1 pt vanilla soymilk
1 pt orange juice

Mix together first two in a glass with a spoon. Make a lot of noise, so that it blends better and your roommates think an earthquake started. Add OJ and blend.

If you don't like soymilk, use normal milk. If you don't have vanilla versions of stuff, add honey and vanilla to taste.

Settling in; officially a lunatic; Soup Rant

Transitions suck. But you don't need to hear my angsty emotional goings-on. That is what Lifetime movies and irritating people are for. Yet slowly, the transition has begun from blissful post-graduation bum stretched out on a beach in Costa Rica to focused graduate student reading papers and engaged in science.

I recieved my CA drivers' license. The universe, et al, established that California drivers are lunatics who wish to test Gods' patience by nearly killing something every time they drive. (J. of Life, 2005). And now I'm officially one of them. Oh goody.

Moreover, my roommates have figured out that I'm weird. Too bad for them, we've already signed a lease, muahaha. Fortunately, I end up baking and cooking for the people I live with enough that people tend to forgive the roommate who makes cat noises and does handstands in the hallway.

So what can I cook that provides substance, comfort, and is NOT an alcohol-infused sweet? I adore making soup. Homemade soup epitomizes a sense of peace in the world. Cue John Lennon. It is an orgy of healthy flavors that meld together in a symphony of taste-bud happiness. It even tastes better as it sits in the fridge! Why people confine themselves to those over-preserved sodium traps confuses me. Soup is not hard to make. Some freeze indefinitely. Don't get me wrong, canned convenience is ok, but there is life outside of Campbell's.

Tomato soup is a staple in my diet. I believe the genesis of this method (not recipe) came from Michael Chiarello, but this is my pseudo-protocol. It isn't precise, and never is. Everything is to taste.

Hearty Tomato Soup
2 12 oz cans canned Tomato (whole or diced)
2-4 cloves garlic, peeled (keep in mind I'm asian and addicted to garlic)
Equal pts diced onion, carrot, and celery (I never have celery, and often do w/o)
Chicken Stock (depends on how thick a soup you want.)
Herbs (suggested: basil, thyme, marjoram, or oregano. Dry = 3x stronger than fresh)
Olive oil
Healthy Tbs grape jelly. (Yeah, you heard me)

Oven to 400

Spread tomatoes on a baking sheet. Add garlic cloves. Fresh tomatoes can be sliced into thick steaks and added. Drizzle with olive oil, and salt and pepper. Put into oven until everything is roasted and caramelized and garlic is fork tender. Time will vary on what you've got.

Heat soup pot with olive oil, saute onions, carrot, and celery until it smells fantastic and onions are translucent. Add roasted stuff and stir. Add chicken stock to cover veggies, and sprinkle herbs.

Simmer. You can forget about the soup here and do something else, just keep it covered. This soup is forgiving. Otherwise, 5 min, ish.

Take off heat. Use an immersion blender (looks like a boat motor) and blend to textured soup consistency. Or pour into blender. Add more chicken stock if you wish.

Return to heat, add grape jelly (takes edge off acidity). I also add cayenne, pepper flakes, or Siracha at this point. Test the seasoning.

You can add a small amount of cream, butter, sour cream, full-fat greek yogurt or more olive oil, to taste. Fat scares me, so I don't.

So, recap: Roast, Saute, Combine. Simmer, Blend. Simmer, season, Eat.

Compare to "open can, dump in bowl, nuke." it's harder. Yet soup is like life. You can "emerge from womb. Live. Die." or you can add some flavor to your bland existence and make some damn soup. Yes, it's that important.