Happy Thanksgiving!

Here's Ricky Gervais being interviewed about his time on Sesame Street. Hope everyone has a wonderful Thanksgiving!

Bye bye, Barcelona.

This serves four, by the way.

I should be paid to take portraits of you with a snifter.

On our last night in Barcelona, the Hubs and Alex stopped dead in their tracks in front of a bar that had its back wall lined with bottles of scotch. We clearly had our plans for the evening. As you might or might not know, drinking scotch would kill me, so I took photos of everyone. And dare I say, I think they were inspired.

Sarah and scotch.

See the Japanese man in the upper right? They don't mess around. This place is legit.

Jobert, scotch and dreams.

Walk it off, walk it off

Singin' in the rain on our hike up to the Parc Güell.

Alex and Hubs around the Medieval quarter.

Graffiti outside the Boqueria.

Happy!

Me and the Thinking Toro.

La Boqueria: Real Good Marketing?

Sorry for the real dumb pun, but it's late, and I just finished watching War of the Worlds. Scary! (Not bad, Tom Cruise. But Dakota, you need to stop screaming.) And here we have a market. The best market in the world? I dunno. But it's got to come pretty close. It has chocolate as you can see.

Fruits and shrooms

No touch.

As much salted cod as your heart desires

And we're back to the pig.

Sagrada Familia: A sight!

Giant. And still under construction.

But it's a nice war.

So, Jenn-from-Tokyo and I have been partaking in a sort of food photo war, and I think it's clear that I'm winning, except then she'll send me a photo of a pork bowl or tonkotsu ramen, and that'll drive me insane until I find just the right mixture of glistening-crispy-something that will make her really hurt (see above). Here are some other dishes from Murmuri.

Pepper shrimp 0n a futon of gingery wood ear mushrooms.

This is the one I sent to Jenn the other day. That's chocolate sauce. Over ribs. Tee hee.

Tapaç 24: Where we learned the difference between huevas and huevos

This is not a plate of eggs. Lesson learned!

Oil, garlic and tomato rubbed bread

McFoie Burger. Yes, a burger of foie gras. And a saucer of mayo for dipping?!

Leeks and truffle sauce

Chanterelle mushrooms, beans, sausages. And a mayo sauce.

Rovello mushrooms in a pesto sauce

Chocolate mousse, olive oil and fleur de sel. I SAID: CHOCOLATE MOUSSE OLIVE OIL AND FLEUR DE SEL. We all remembered this particular dish for days after we left Barcelona.

Gaudí redux: The house that Chupa Chups bought

The Casa Battló at night! Hey, did you know that Chupa Chups are Spanish lollipops? (I guess Chupa Chups is something like "Suck Suckers"?) And that the family of the Chupa Chups inventor owns the Casa Battló? It's a very Wonka-esque place, indeed. Check out the dragon back on the roof deck:

Clown hat chimneys!

Oniony domes!

No, please, you go in!

A lot of exclamation points, I know, but it was a cool building to run around. And...

It made the Hubs smile real big. He loves his Gaudí!

Thank god, a vegetable.

Not here, silly, but don't worry, the green stuff is coming up. This is foie gras, lamb and peppers. Wait, I guess peppers count as vegetables, but when they're roasted and soaking in foie gras and lamb juice? Discuss.

Sauteed clams, garlic, but not enough chilies! Want more chilies.

Ta-daaa! Chickpeas, spinach, pancetta (all fried, but still).

Grilled asparagus.

Spanish cheeses and quince.

By the way, you can check out the Taller de Tapas menu here.

Gaudí fun! (+ tourists)

What an awesome vision to have for a park!

Boring photo, but did you see the cool diamond shaped windows and ornate gate?

Gingerbread houses! Not really, but still, gingerbread houses!

Let's reinvestigate tile collage: Why aren't we doing this more in our bathrooms today?

On the snaking balcony benches hanging over the steps of Park Güell.

Outside Gaudí's house.

Along the walls of the entry steps.

Oohing and Aahing at Parc Güell

I have to post about something other than food and The Cutting Edge, because other things allow me to sleep at night. Here, we are gazing up at the ceiling mosaics at Gaudí's Parc Güell in Barcelona. All the high people were doing it, too. (Seriously, why do people insist on playing the didgeridoo in public spaces?)

Found: Favorite pintxos!

Wow, that Cutting Edge confession has me feeling awkward. It's best to feed the discomfort. As you can see we're right back into the tapas, or pintxos, as it's known in Basque country. A sea of pretties. There was magic with quail eggs:The quail eggs were stronger tasting than I remembered (I've only ever had quail eggs in Thai fish maw soup). Gamier than I remembered? Anyone else? Ooooh! Cod with chilly oil:

And finally what else? A ham and croquette plate:

This is the only place where I had to have seconds on the same pintxos:

The winner. Gooey, chopped-up Jamon Iberico de Bellota. I think this was my favorite thing-I-ate on the whole trip.

Spain can wait: Let's talk about The Cutting Edge and other awkward transitions

A couple days ago my friend Jenn-from-Tokyo sends me an e-mail with the subject heading: "We are needing an explosion." Yes, it is Coach Pamchenko's voice you are hearing! As Jenn informs me, the Canadians have a reality show that pairs hockey players with ice dancers. A real live Cutting Edge! Now you might say, "Big deal. What the hell does The Cutting Edge have to do with travel or food or shirking work?" Well, as with my little essay on "What Robotech means to me," it would be inconceivable to have a public blog and not share with you (i.e. inflict on you, force you to digest) a little piece I like to call "What the The Cutting Edge means to me." And like my essay on Robotech and most of my adolescence, we are dealing with a much scarier and escapist (if that's even possible) little Ms. Dip who only wanted to dream the dream of the Pamchenko twist.

Let us begin with prissy Kate and and vacant Doug, a.k.a. Moira Kelly and D.B. Sweeney, who hate each other, see?:

God, look at how they hate each other but also desire to get freaky on the ice. I saw this movie in the theater on my 15th birthday. Loved it so much that I quoted it and sent anonymous scraps of paper to friends with quotes (and only quotes) from the movie. Like, with no other message or signature because I was WEIRD, but really because I felt that the material stood on its own. Weighty gems like, "You cretin" and "Toe pick" and "You want me to put my hands where?" Oh my god it was so funny (even though my friend Amanda said upon receiving an anonymously sent Cutting Edge quote, "Um, I feel like someone's watching me.") I even followed the careers of Moira Kelly and D.B. Sweeney, which took unspeakable amounts of time and dedication because all of my research was pre-IMDB and because we're talking about Moira Kelly and D.B. Sweeney (a poor and possibly schizophrenic homeless man's Rachel Weisz and Ben Affleck). Result?

Ice dancing in the dark. Except let's talk about one thing that bugged me even in 1992. The ice dancing costumes were the most normal and believable aspect of the clothing choices/entire movie. Even then, I had a major problem with Kate's civilian clothes and more specifically, with her ridiculously boxy, size-double-D-shoulder-padded blazers, sweaters and turtlenecks, which I can only attribute 1) to their being in Canada (maybe it's just that cold your shoulders freeze up without pads) and 2) to awkward 80s-to-90s fashion and musical transitions. With the The Cutting Edge, it's as if grunge never happened, musically or fashion-wise, and the only costuming direction was: "I see shades of teal." And basics from the 1989 sale rack at the Limited.

Anyhow, before now I would have apologized to my friends (Laura, Amanda, Morgan, you know who you are) for submitting them to my crazy when we were only 15 (how could they have known?), but now I think I was just ahead of my time. Especially with two sequels and a reality show, I just don't see any real closure for this particular obsession.

Why do I bother? For the shoes!

This is just to set the scene for more food photos, because that's the majority of photos I took, and because that's mostly what we did in Spain. It was like, "I'm not hungry, but we have to eat again in an hour so I'm going to skip Guernica and take a nap to save up energy, m'kay?" Anyhow, before I get into Basque country, can I first say chestito to Jen and Milcho on their wedding! And a big blagodarya to them for letting us, their Bulgarian ruffian neighbors, be a part of their festivities this past weekend in Skopje. We loved it. Vcihko hubavo to you both (and Jen: Milcho really wants you to get that Mac). On to uninspired scenes from Bilbao:

Train station

Around the old town in Bilbao.

Shops built into the backside of a church.

I did not climb these steps, but just so you know, they're there. There was an H&M around here. AND, perhaps most importantly, I bought these in Bilbao:

And it's because they were to closest thing I could find to these:

Real flamenco shoes! The ones I wanted were actually further in the back in grey suede. I asked to buy them, but the cobbler said they were for chicos only.

How to decorate with El Jamón

Ham wall and carver in the neighborhood of La Latina.

Ham centerpieces.

Ham as ceiling fixtures in Toledo.

When only a ham collage will do

I caught a cold in Barcelona, nursed it through our last days in Madrid, and then withstood a cruel plane ride back to Sofia, where the cold transformed me into a nasty, nasty beast out of Pan's Labyrinth. And it snowed. And the city shut off the water for the last three hours. So I thought I'd make a ham collage. So many shades of rose and pink...

Iberico Bellota at the Museo del Jamon in Madrid

Jabugo ham at Taller de Tapas in Barcelona

They just called this "cured ham" at Senyor Parellada in Barcelona.

Lacon Iberic at Tapaç 24 in Barcelona.

I also have a collage of ham legs in the hopper. I know. This is a different kind of swine flu. It's safe to expect future postings on: Gaudi, food markets and flamenco shoes.

Bilbao: And they call it puppy love.

The Guggenheim Puppy by Jeff Koons in Bilbao! I've waited so long to see you, Puppy! Ever since my friend sent me a postcard of you ten years ago. You are made of flowers and joy, and you're really really hard to leave behind. Look how he guards the museum:

And look at his bushy back and tail:

In noble stance with purple flower nose (and Jobert):

I read that after the opening of the museum, the piece was going to be taken on tour to other museums, but the Bilbaoans fought for the Puppy to stay. I would, too. The museum itself is miraculous, but honestly, it was enough for me just to see the Puppy.

Drunk. On sangria and flamenco. And ham.

We went to Casa Patas to see some flamenco and holy crap, it was awesome! The restaurant/bar had an intimate cabaret-style stage in the back where the dancers, singers and guitarist got down.

Crazy faces.

HAM WALL!!!

The program of flamenco performers. Unfortunately, my photos of the actual dancers and musicians didn't turn out.

Groupies. If I lived here, I would totally become a flamenco groupie.

Overheard 2 hours later: We can't seat you now. It's too early.

Look at Josh's tiny beer! Oh my goodness. I know what you're thinking: "Why do you have all this time to blog on a vacation?" Well, it's because I'm waiting for dinner. 8:30 is the earliest possible time to get a reservation and still, I swear they set their clocks to run slower because the restaurants still won't be open at 8:30. So I blog.

Cervantes lived here at Casa Alberto's.

Matador stuff.

Sarah. Who now wants to be known as the Contessa. I said, okay, as long as she referred to me as Nida Carpaccio. We're back to calling each other by our regular names.

I'm sweating while thinking about this little "starter" I ordered, which was called "Castillian soup." It's a beef based broth with fried bread and ham and garlic. And a fried egg. I should tell you that I followed this with tripe in the Madrid-style, of which I took no pictures because I got excited. Good lord, it was rich and tripey. I'll tell you that this is the last time I follow that soup with that main dish.

Hubs' starter: Broad beans and ham.

Jobert's main: oxtail stew.

No time for dessert or coffee because we have to rush off to...

Reunion with Jobert

=

Hilarity. The most reliable circular saw.

Overheard an hour later: Time for a churro?

The Hubs drank the hot chocolate that was MADE FOR DIPPING ONLY.

Churro mountain

Touched by a Tapas

Iberian ham, mozzarella, porcini mushroom on toast

Cockles and lemon juice

Foie gras and spiced toast

Chorizos ham and toast

Ham croquettes

Meat bombs

Cod in olive oil soup with grapefruit

Foie gras in stewed lentils

Marscapone cream with liquor gelatin and cake crumbles

Imagonnagopassoutnow.

If I could choose my guide to Spain...

It's a toss- up between Javier or the ghost of Cristobal Balenciaga. We are off to Spain tonight! To rendezvous with Jobert in Madrid, pay homage to the Guggenheim in Bilbao (please please please let the puppy made of flowers still be there), and check out some Gaudi in Barcelona. Any tips about your favorite leg o' Spanish ham and must-try dishes, feel free to bombard me with them now!

My circus ringleader outfit

Fun vintage to be had in Amsterdam. I stopped in Laura Dols and made away with above wookie stole. By the way, what's with all the tall girls with creamy glowy skin cycling around the Negen Straatjes? Dutch girls, what are you using on your skin?! And please tell me it's because you rub chocolate all over your faces in the morning and then take marzipan baths at night. Because I could really commit to a beauty regimen like that.

Here's my thin red purse with a gold chain also from Laura Dols. Enough room for my 10 leva bill with which I can buy three, 350-gram shopska salads. That's a lot for such a little purse!

The murse I always wanted! No, seriously. I really always wanted a purse like this. Also fits maybe a wad of tissue and a cellphone. It's hanging on my dress form over an obnoxious-but-sort-of-had-to-have-it, red-and-white-striped, knee length skirt with a ruffle at the hem. Again, perhaps only appropriate for a circus ringleader, but I kind of feel that way sometimes. This purchase might also have been influenced by the constant presence of 6-foot-tall Anthropologie type models who all wore quirky things like this, which made me think, "Hey, I shop here, too. Must be because I'm cool, and I'd still look sexy wearing only a cape and cornhusk blue cowboy booties." I'd love to have an Edna Mode who sits on my shoulder in the changing room and says, "Yoo look like an asshole, dahling."

Rijsttafel: Holy nut, pickle, satay, spicy crispy baby fish bonanza!

After waiting in the rain (yes, again) and wandering through the awesome but packed Van Gogh Museum, it was oh-so-lovely to behold the rijsttafel (thanks for the tip, Betsy!), the Indonesian-Dutch mini-dish explosion you see below:

Woah woah woah, you mean the satay isn't ours? Wha..? KIDDING.

Finally. Post-colonial deliciousness.

Bike, Tart, Cheese, Night

Canals? Please, we got 'em.

Just the memory gets me through the week

I'm not trying to start a fight or anything between the Dutch and the Belgians, but Puccini chocolates really give Marcolini a run for their money. Featured flavors: apricot marzipan, white chocolate poppyseed, plum, caramel, rhubarb, and mint. The Hubs' favorite was plum (a surprising win over the crunchy caramel after which he uttered "Mmmph!" then "Nap...") while mine was the apricot marzipan (I don't know, marzipan really gets me these days). We also brought back some dark chocolate almond chips for gifts, which I'm now regretting, since those were damn good too.

I was having a bad day today because the gods like their Asian girls real angry like, all the time, but then I thought back to the first time I bit into one of these:
...and I still felt rage, but at least there was a moment where I felt, "Yeah, it's worth all the shenanigans in the world just so I can have another bite of chocolate love." I'm still talking about chocolate here, folks.

Staring down rabbits in Jordaan

I figured it would be best to show what a street (as opposed to a dining establishment) in Amsterdam looks like. It's just as wild and crazy as you thought it would be: rabbits painted willy-nilly all over electricity boxes. They love their cute here.

Okay fine one food shot:

This is Dutch licorice. On top is the "sweet" kind. I put "sweet" in quotes, because it's not as sweet as our licorice, but tastes more like actual (black) licorice with hints of honey. That was pretty yummy. On the bottom, in the shape of mice, is the salty licorice, which was really salty even though it was only the "salt" kind, and not the "double salt" or "triple salt" kind, which I can only imagine must be like chewing sea water. I thought it was alright, but we had really gotten too much of the salty stuff and started getting thirsty. It got to the point where we were giving the licorice drops away to shop owners and random vendors, all of whom accepted and would exclaim, "I love this stuff!"

And I love people who love their candy.

Went all the way to Amsterdam to see some Vermeers, but guess what. The Milkmaid's in New York.

Well, well, well. Do you have anything to say for yourselves? Cecily? Laura? Jac? Mike? Pete? Masumi? NYPD? NYFD? And the biggest offender of them all: Metropolitan Museum of Art?! I walk all the way to the Rijksmuseum and wait in the rain to get through the security line and pay eleven euro just so that I can get a glimpse of that glowy Vermeer lighting, and instead of The Milkmaid, I get a little sign with the painting printed on it that says, "On loan to the Metropolitan blah blah." Um, excuse me? It's not enough that the Met has a bazillion other paintings? You had to take the Dutch ones, too? From a guy who only did, like, 35 paintings? Well, f*** all ya'll. Damn yankees (and I know that burns some of you real bad, you know I'm talking to you Georgians).

I kid, of course. There were two other Vermeers and plenty of Rembrandts and Frans Hals. So you know, as my friend Justin would say, "Rijksmuseum? Crushed it."

Check out the Hubs' huntuns.

I know, I know. No one wants to see the Hubs' huntuns, but these huntuns were so huge that I had to photograph and comment. Is that why the Dutch are so tall? They eat more shrimp in their wontons? Hm. Anyhow, we ordered these bowls of huntun mien at Nam Kee in the red light district, which funny, also seems to be the Chinatown. Check out the huge gailan smothered in oyster sauce:

And this is just to prove that I was in Amsterdam, while eating all this Chinese food:

The restaurant above is called, wait for it, Oriental City, where we had some awesome dim sum staples. I was stressing out all morning about arriving at the O.C. when it opened because if you know a good dim sum, you know the tables are going to fill up quick, Dutch or no Dutch. Of course, the Hubs was all, no problem, no hurry, don't worry, no one's going to take your steam bun, and I'm like, if I get there and it's full, I will leave your ass to sit with a Chinese family, so move. It. NOW. Finally we get there at like 12:15, and whaddyaknow, we grab the last table before there's a line up the three flights of stairs and out the door. The Hubs: "I guess you were right about the dim sum." Oh, oh really? Am I not my father's daughter? Is it not in the blood?! Don't mess with the dim sum experience, man!! *pant pant blacks out*

At Patisserie Pompadour: Would you rather Dutch apple tart or apricot macaroon cake?

So I was in Amsterdam, and I was kind of like, why do people even bother getting high here when they could be gorging themselves? Besides on brownies, I mean! And the vintage clothing here rocks, too! But that's for a later post. First, which would you rather: Dutch apple tart or apricot cream macaroon cake (with marzipan frosting)?

Can you guess who ordered what?

Mmmph.

Next stop: Amsterdam

How awesome is this portrait of Rembrandt? I can't wait to join the Hubs tomorrow in Amsterdam. I've never been! I'm going to be a good tourist (ahem), visit the museums and eat my fries with mayo — any other suggestions (besides the ones that would force me to lose my job and owe the man even more money)? I've also planned for dim sum on Sunday and a night with some traditional Dutch-prepared eels. Forecast says rain all weekend, which only means more time inside with some stamppot and snert. Want. Eat. NOW.

French Sundays: Hours of my life that I'll never get back from YouTube

In addition to some Serge and Edith (ouai, I dare to mix), my French Sunday includes:

Bulgaria's own (she was born in Sofia!) and one of the original French rock girls:

I want her hair:

Check out the cutie Vanessa Paradis in the 80s! Right when Johnny Depp would have been portraying officer Tom Hanson in 21 Jump Street. Wow, I'd be perfect for Tiger Beat's research department. Though, I'd have to specialize only in 80s and 90s TV heartthrobs from Thursday, Friday and Saturday night prime time line ups. Lee Majors, anyone?

Christophe Mae was in heavy rotation on the music video channels when we first came to the BLG in 2007 for our language immersion:

The little Lolita:

Not a French song, but come on, it's got dresses and shoes and pastries:

In theory, I'll be listening to this when I clean out my closets and archive my magazines. In theory.

When the Hubs is away...

Sing it, Fievel!

The Hubs is out of town, so I thought it was time to catch up on my to do list:

1) Clean out closet. Give stuff to homeless and/or put it all back in the closet.

2) Archive magazines.

3) Write a novel. And make it snappy.

4) Find a house in DC. Better cost 50,000. Make the recession work for me.

5) Find a job in DC. Maybe.

6) Cook new dishes.

Here's what I've done so far:

1) Downloaded I Love You, Man, Glee, and Gossip Girl from iTunes.

2) Watched the OC for six hours.

3) Created a new avatar on Second Life. (I actually do count this as an accomplishment.)

4) Went to "work."

5) Prioritized "Stuff I Want" list.

6) Ate a lot of avocados out of their shell. (OMG, they come with their own bowl!)

7) Filled the mind-shattering silence with this heartfelt song from Fievel and friends.

Jam On It: My friend goes to the Smolyan Breakdance Festival and brings back ham jam.

Sarah (a.k.a. Captain Binoculars, Shorty Fire, Kim Pine, etc.) attended the Breakdance Festival in Smolyan this past weekend, and can't stop rhapsodizing about how amazing it was. How the crews were doing the most unbelievable moves, how the energy and dancing was so great that it brought tears to her eyes. Oh, so did you bring me a souvenir t-shirt? Did you bring me a taste of that dance fire going on in the Rhodopes? Naw, but I did save something for you from our hotel breakfast.

Rain falling on the corner of Cherni Vruh and Nikola Vaptsarov = Dancing at home in pjs

How many gnomes do you see? And yes, that's a full coat of armor inside the corner-lawn-ornament-shack.

And now, I dance.

She can't dance, but those are some hot boots and rhinestone gloves.

Oh you KNOW I'm doing that dance when she's goes "My guilty pleasure I ain't goin' nowhere baby long as you're here I'll be floatin' on air."

And here's my euro-trash contribution to the mix:

Big argument between Katerine's version above and Milow's here. Or do you prefer the original?

The Hubs displays "jazzy" drumming style, The Admiral sticks the finish, and I got really hot under that wig

Jazzy, no?

Crazy-ass exertion.

Stickin' it in rock stance.

Getting overheated. (Btw, Gwen Stefani songs are really hard to sing. Stole or no stole.)

Look at all the pretty stars on my dress. So golden and plentiful.

Gotta respect the wig and crown. I mean, a Pringles stand is respectable, right?

We already sang More Than a Feeling. What the EFF are we still doing here?

Captain Binoculars doesn't like you.

This is snarly Sarah, aka Captain Binoculars. For Rockband Night she was wearing a vinyl skirt, a LOT of glitter and was overheard saying, "I bought these green tights four years ago thinking I'd find some place to wear them." She drums as her (yet another) alter ego "Kim Pine." Any other Scott Pilgrim fans out there?!

Rockband Night: Would you say no to this man and his honeycomb tie?

This is the Admiral. When he hosts a Rockband Night, you don't say a word. You just nod and go.

It was pretty clear when I looked in my closet that the only option I had was to go in Lady Gaga drag. No punk, no rock, no goth. There was no other translation possible. Only Gaga. Plus, you don't have to wear any pants as Lady Gaga. Easy-peasy.

The Hubs had a pretty good night, since he was able to whip out those tiger pants he purchased in Baltimore in 2000, for Cecily's Halloween party with a bunch of socially retarded writers (e.g. So, what are you reading?). That year, I went as a slutty lab assistant, of course, since all the pieces were already in my closet. Before you scroll down, please notice that not only do the tiger pants feature the tiger print, but the velvet (or whatever) fabric is crushed in a squiggly shape, so there's extra visual movement. The workmanship, people!

Alex. On guitar. Wearing a kilt. What next?! Actually, I have to clear some photos with others before I post more Rockband photos...

Itteh bitteh kitteh in Thessalonikeh

Wish I had cheerier pictures, but I mean, summer's OVER. What's the point?

Dramatic grass.

The view from the ramparts in the Kastra (Turkish Quarter). And I don't want to say that's Mount Olympus in the background, because I actually have no idea if it is, but it's around here somewhere.

Looking through barbed wire. I've gone completely Balkan.

This is the ceiling of the oldest church in Thessaloniki, called the Rotonda, from the 3rd century AD. The mosaics were so golden and shiny that it made Sarah cry out, "Ooooo."

Thessaloniki is cool. No, seriously, it was pretty chilly.

Did it just get cold really fast where you are? On Saturday in Thessaloniki it was around 90F. I took no photos because it was too hot and uncomfortable to lift the camera and push the button. Next day, it was rainy, windy and around 60F. (And Sofia is colder!) But rainy weather made for some neat photos as we walked around the "second city" of both Byzantium and modern Greece (oooooh...)!

Textural shot? I won't lie. I was obsessed with texture on this trip.

Mood lighting in the Church of Agios Dimitrios, 5th Century.

This, as you can see, is a busted-open pomegranate. I've never seen one busted open while it was still on the tree. Oh, the jokes that were going back and forth about Persephone and D.H. Lawrence! (One each.) It was a rare moment where fruity texture, mythology and stupid jokes seemed appropriate for a good 10 seconds.