The Erin O'Brien Owner's Manual for Human Beings

The trouble with money

noreply@blogger.com (Erin O'Brien) — Thu, 26 Jan 2012 12:38:00 +0000

I'm not one for pithy phrases, but sometimes they stick. This one for instance:

When you do something for the money, all you have is the money.

Last month, Warren Olney did a show focusing on today's wealthy class and how different it is from the wealthy class of just a few decades ago, when you made a good widget and built a small empire around it. I know two men who did just that. One started manufacturing paper tubes, the other packaging products. They worked hard producing superior items. They employed good-sized staffs. They succeeded and reaped the financial reward. Everything about these men was solid, including their money.

Today's wealthy class are anything but solid. Most make nothing other than money. They have ten- or one-hundred fold more than what was considered old school wealth. And if you listen to Olney's show, you'll learn that they lose it very easily and that taxing them is hardly a reliable income source.

I don't deny anyone a career in the financial industry, but at some point money becomes obscene. Venture capitalists make one thing: money. And judging by Romney's squirming over tax returns, I'll bet he's made an awful lot of it.

I have no idea what will become of Romney, but avarice is a deadly sin for a reason.

Writing does not pay much, but it is my craft. I strive to make it the best it can be. Sometimes my writing shines and sometimes it doesn't. When I write on this blog I don't get paid a dime, but when I get it right and produce something that lifts or energizes or enlightens you, it does the same for me.

And something of value is born

* * *

Phone cam round-up

noreply@blogger.com (Erin O'Brien) — Tue, 24 Jan 2012 20:11:00 +0000

Gently used torsos and chairs at Annie's.

I do not miss smoking. I do miss ashtrays, the glorious garish ashtrays.

Chocolate Buddha.

Model for chocolate Buddha.

Socialist infiltrator on the road.

Corned beef hash at Dee's Diner? HELL YES.

Special erf submission from a member of the readership.

Undieville and striped thingies.

Plastic protected mailbox.

Mall plant failure.

Kissing flamingo glasses.

Got the plans right here, boss.

Smoke croak.

Face and no, I don't know who it is.

* * *

Diamonds

noreply@blogger.com (Erin O'Brien) — Mon, 23 Jan 2012 09:32:00 +0000

To make diamonds, you'll need water and sun, both of which are always available, but diamonds are rare nonetheless. Unless of course they're abundant.

Enter clouds.

Clouds are the keepers of the diamonds. The sun will be up there, being his regular sun-self and filling an ocean with dazzles or turning a snowy mountaintop into a glittering treasure. Then your clouds come along and put the kibosh on the whole party.

You can't buy diamonds.

Fortunately, clouds are fickle and short-minded. They never stay in one place for too long unless there's a whole bunch of them and then they positively take over--mob-mentality on a celestial level if you will. The miserable lot of them hang up there in the sky like some sort of beasty monolith, keeping the sun on one side and the water on the other. No diamonds for anyone.

Don't get too angry with them, though. They're only doing what they do best and frankly, without them we'd never get any snow or water or ice to make diamonds in the first place.

I keep talking about making diamonds. Yeah, right. As if we have any control over diamond production. We don't. Can't make one diamond to save our lives. Welcome to the human condition.

Sheesh.

Here's the thing: Sometimes you can have sunshine like all get out and as much snow (or water or ice) as you ever saw and there won't be one diamond in sight. Hence, you never want to take diamonds for granted.

(shhh ... come and let me whisper in your ear: this is the real magic. these are the things no one is telling you.)

* * *

A completely inappropriate audio interlude that made me laugh like a hyena

noreply@blogger.com (Erin O'Brien) — Sat, 21 Jan 2012 13:38:00 +0000

The National City Bank Building

noreply@blogger.com (Erin O'Brien) — Fri, 20 Jan 2012 14:46:00 +0000

For this week's fresh water, I've written a story about Rosetta, a cutting edge marketing company.

What sets Rosetta's Cleveland office apart is that last year, it eschewed it's suburban digs and now calls the downtown National City Bank Building home. The structure hails back to the 1890's, when architects Shepley, Rutan and Coolidge designed the original building, part of which is now occupied by a Holiday Inn Express (ughville on the awning, dudes). A major addition about 30 years later makes the NCB sort of an odd historic complex, stretching around the block bordered by Euclid Ave., E. 6th St. and Short Vincent.

Here are some pix, taken in and around the building. For the record, Rosetta's offices are far above all of this. You can see their posh penthouse lounge peeking from the rear of the complex in the last pic in this series. Hop over to the article to see my buddy Bob Perkoski's pix of Rosetta's sleek offices.

For more of downtown Cleveland's architectural eye candy, here are three don't-miss clicks: the Huntington Bank Building, the Cleveland Public Library's Main Branch and the Cuyahoga County Court House.

~~Loves Cleveland~~

* * *

O'Brien redux

noreply@blogger.com (Erin O'Brien) — Thu, 19 Jan 2012 15:03:00 +0000

Yes, I got my hair cut. Gone is the giant Erin Hair, with this new do in its place.

Apparently, I had enough hair for myself and then some. The stylist cut these four ponies off to donate to someone who needs some hair. The locks looks sort of sad and amputated.

Bye, hair.

It's weird to think that someone will be walking around wearing my hair. They will not know that I used to use the ends of a tendril to torture the Goat by tickling his nose and ear as he lay half asleep next to me.

Sometimes my long hair would get in the way of close interpersonal contact with the Goat.

"You're on my hair!"

I won't miss that.

Anyway, if you see someone walking around wearing my hair, say, "Hey man, that's some nice hair!" It'll sort of boost the good karma of the planet all the way around.

This post is done.

* * *

Ghosts

noreply@blogger.com (Erin O'Brien) — Wed, 18 Jan 2012 13:10:00 +0000

Short Vincent, April 1967 during a George Wallace protest.
Courtesy of CSU's Michael Schwartz Library, special collections. Click to Enlarge.

An excerpt from an entry I posted last March:

... The Theatrical was a legendary club on Short Vincent. It was big and brash with a huge kidney shaped bar that surrounded an elevated stage. The club was housed in one cavernous room, with tables and booths flanking that incredible bar. Giant figures graced the two-story walls: demure chicks in hoop skirts and devilishly exaggerated harlequin men lunging for them. There was a coat check. Attendants in the ladies' lounge handed you a towel and made sure the bottles of hand cream and cologne were properly arranged.

During college breaks, I pushed beers at a weird little joint called the Park Pub in the basement of what is now Reserve Square apartments. I used to go braless and wear cute little outfits with high heels in order to garner better tips (sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't). When my shift was over I would occasionally sashay over to the Theatrical to meet a friend or wait for my ride. The bar proper had four sections, each serviced by a regular bartender who was as legendary as the Theatrical itself. Everyone had their favorite. I always sat in Jim's section. I'd settle in as he'd straighten from his perfect bar lean, amble over and snap open his Zippo to light my Marlboro before pouring me a big icy tumbler of Canadian Club and soda.

"Hey Jim, can I have a paper and pencil?"

"Sure thing, girlie."

I'd jot down, Girl from Ipanema? then hand it to Jim, who would in turn deliver it to the house pianist, who, if he had no other requests pending, would stop in the middle of whatever he was playing and start playing "Girl from Ipanema."

On his break, the pianist (whose name I am purposefully omitting) would ask me to dance. We'd step onto the dance floor and start swaying to and fro. He wasn't terribly attractive, but his sexuality was unmistakable as his cologne wafted between us. The fabric of his suit against my chin felt formal and expensive. When he'd pull me close, I'd look up into his eyes.

"Your lips are less then an inch from my own," he once remarked.

Perhaps not surprisingly, he would become aroused during these interludes, which were as pure and erotic as anything I can recollect. He would push hard into my torso as we moved ever-so-slowly against one another. He never once kissed me.

That's what it was like. Back then. At the Theatrical. In Cleveland.

* * *

So that's what I wrote last March. Yesterday, I was taking photos on Vincent. The Theatrical's a parking lot now.

Yeah, yeah. You go on ahead and charge your $12.50 a day. I'll take the memories.

* * *

Hungry Hippo redux

noreply@blogger.com (Erin O'Brien) — Tue, 17 Jan 2012 13:52:00 +0000

Dear Tim Tebow,

noreply@blogger.com (Erin O'Brien) — Sun, 15 Jan 2012 17:27:00 +0000

First off, let me come clean: you could write what I know about football on one square of toilet paper.

Gram Soos knew cute buns.

I know the football is the oblong brown one with the two white circle/stripes and that my Gram Soos used to say that football players had "the cutest little buns" (usually accompanied by the assertion that "it's a well known fact that body-builders are not well-endowed").

I don't know about your buns or whether or not they are cute (they probably are, Gram Soos knew some stuff). I do know you're A-list football, A-list God Squad, and that you do some kneel/pray thing that your other God Squadders dig, which brings me to the point of this correspondence.

I think you can see that gassing on too loudly about your God Squadliness can get you into trouble. Because today while everyone's talking about how the Lord helped get you as far as you got, they're thinking that it wasn't quite far enough.

Just an aside question: Is Newt Gingrich a dead ringer for BamBam Rubble all grown up and then some (with a bad case of gout), or what?

Oops. Sorry about that. Hard to stay focused, what with the Righties so worried about who you're going to endorse and all. Well ... maybe they're not quite as worried today as they were, say, yesterday.

(ouch!)

My whole point is this, Timster: God Squadliness is one of those things you probably should keep sort of quiet along with your sex life, your guns, and your money. The more you crow about some things, the further you push them away.

Once you give something power, watch out. And trust me, you're the only one who can give power to the Lord or the money or the guns or the sex.

Guess that's about enough of that. Better luck next year, kid.

Love, Erin

* * *

A tumblresque post

noreply@blogger.com (Erin O'Brien) — Fri, 13 Jan 2012 17:37:00 +0000

All original O'Brien eye-candy, unrelated and tossed like a salad for your Friday lunch. Click on any to enlarge. Enjoy.

We're not grey people, we're not dirty, we're not mean

noreply@blogger.com (Erin O'Brien) — Thu, 12 Jan 2012 10:25:00 +0000

Where do you begin?

I guess the I'll start with the shirt. I want the shirt.

As for the mutton chops and sideburns, is it just me or do they look absolutely sexual? They look like pubic hair on Ray Dorset's face. Maybe that's the point. No matter. The important take-away is that I miss sideburns and mutton chops.

Dig Dorset's odd unfocused look--the way his eyes dart around the room. Dig his teeth.

Dig the way they go uh uh uh. Dig the close up on the foot stomping for chrissake!

I'm not going to tell you what happens at the 2:06 mark. You'll have to watch and find out for yourself.

Before anyone asks: yes, I have this classic on my iPod. I love this song and have loved it ever since I can remember.

It makes me happy.

* * *

The Oracle of Cleveland

noreply@blogger.com (Erin O'Brien) — Tue, 10 Jan 2012 11:08:00 +0000

The Oracle of Cleveland.

What Cleveland needs is an oracle.

Who better for the job than me? Delphi had the Pythia, Cleveland's got the O'Brien. It's what you call your no-brainer: Erin O'Brien, Oracle of Cleveland.

I figure I'll set up shop over the Cleveland Toynbee tile on West 3rd and Prospect, wait for some vapors to come seeping out of that mother, sniff them up real gentle-like and then relay my interpretations to all you good townfolk.

How perfect is that?

First you're dealing with a Toynbee tile, so even if it doesn't make with your vapors, the thing is as likely as not to produce some sort of vision. Maybe I'll even get abducted by aliens and get to fly around in space and learn important space alien secrets.

Foot of O'Brien, tile of Toynbee.

Then there's the matter of location.

The Cleveland Toynbee tile is adjacent to the Ritz Carlton, where you have your Ritz doorman who looks like a Ruskie Cossack with his long stiff coat and furry round hat. He is a totally cool guy who asks chicks taking pictures of the Toynbee tile (a fairly regular phenomenon in the life of the Cleveland Ritz Carlton doorman) what they think the Toynbee tile is all about (I can attest to this from personal experience).

You can count on the Ritz Carlton Doorman.

A fantastical parade will precede my oracular sessions, with bowing priestesses and dancing maidens wielding tambourines and those sticks with long flowing ribbons. They'll all follow me down to the Cuyahoga River and then help me bathe/purify myself before anointing me with oils.

Anointing oils.

Of course, people will want to come and witness me hovering over the Toynbee tile, which will turn into what insider's call a captive audience. What a boon for your local hot dog carts and food trucks. And if someone wants to set up shop selling the anointing oils or reading tarot, no problem. The ol' Oracle of Cleveland doesn't mind sharing the love.

This will be some heady stuff, but I'm not worried. If I get overcome with magical infusions, I'll just dismount my tripod and step into the Ritz, take a powder and have a lay-down in a special room they'll keep reserved 24/7 just for me.

After I've communicated the Toynbee whispers to the elders and gotten their approval to share them with the good subjects of Cleveland, I'll make a grand announcement. (The fireball will return to the sky in a fortnight!) Then we'll have a celebratory breaking of my fast at Nate's Deli on West 25th. (Shish tawook sandwich please with extra pickled turnips.) In lieu of wine squeezed from a skin, we'll keep it simple with a can or two of PBR.

Righteous!

* * *

A local launch and an Irish Hungarian

noreply@blogger.com (Erin O'Brien) — Sun, 08 Jan 2012 13:50:00 +0000

On Thursday, Feb, 2 at 7:30 p.m., Red Giant Books and yours truly will be launching The Irish Hungarian Guide to the Domestic Arts at Local Girl Gallery in Lakewood, Ohio.

Although the word "launch" implies backwards counting, a huge explosion and blasting through the earth's atmosphere, this event won't include any of that (unless you're into metaphor). It will, however, be just as spectacular (and a tad less noisy).

That's because not only will you partake in some nibbles and vino, you'll mingle with the one and only Irish Hungarian (that's me) and get a sample reading of The Irish Hungarian (that's the book). As for spectacular, dig what Michael Heaton, the Cleveland Plain Dealer's Minister of Culture has to say about The Irish Hungarian.

(psst: you should really click that link--really.)

That all of this will unfold at Local Girl Gallery isn't just icing--it's an extra large fluffy dollop of buttercream frosting. Because this place will fill you with Extreme Cleveland Love. The gallery is brimming with arts and crafts made by, well, local girls (and guys). I'd love to tell you exactly what you'll find when you amble in next month, but the shop's inventory changes all the time depending on who's creating what in and around the fabulous North Coast (today's pix were taken in November 2007).

Odds are you'll find something funky or hip at Local Girl and that it will be the right price. You might even find that one object that simply takes your breath away and you absolutely cannot live without. I promise you'll find a copy of The Irish Hungarian, which, incidentally IS PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA (can you tell I sort of dig that?) and will run you fourteen clams.

(Yes, it will eventually be available online. Hold your horses already!)

To my old buddies, I'd love to see you. To the buddies I've yet to make, I'd love to meet you. To my online buddies I've never met in person, well, finally saying hello face-to-face would be wonderful.

* * *

Seven years gone

noreply@blogger.com (Erin O'Brien) — Fri, 06 Jan 2012 13:58:00 +0000

Goat and Lil' OB, July 18, 2004.

* * *

Guilty pleasures vol. seven: Wikipedia

noreply@blogger.com (Erin O'Brien) — Wed, 04 Jan 2012 21:56:00 +0000

That I had already begun drafting this post when I casually tweeted about men excusing themselves to go see a man about a horse plays so beautifully into this guilty pleasure that I am obliged to mention it.

Because it didn't take long for someone out there in the land of responses to post a Wiki entry explaining the history of men, horses, dogs, seeing a man, and the act of relieving one's self. The link filled me with a sense of validation. To any who doubt my assertion, behold. Men really do say they gotta go see a man about a horse when they have to take a leak. 'Tis true. It says so on WIKI!

As if anyone should believe it just because some anonymous contributor entered it into Wiki.

No. Yes. Cut it out! Damn. Okay. I admit it: I cannot resist Wikipedia.

Guru Rasa von Werder

Imagine this: I am vacuous before my blinking cursor with only a formless idea languishing in my miserable brain. Eventually, I migrate to the Google text box. A few keystrokes later, Andy Capp's Hot Fries ride the Wikipedia train from Vague Memory Depot to the Station of Undeniable Relevance. Rasa von Werder transforms from a nebulous cartoon character to a copiously notable human being.

Yes Erin, there really is a connection between octopuses, the Zamboni machine and a man named Al.

Then the next hundred and fifty hours are mine and mine alone to cross check and verify, for therein lies my Wiki conundrum: Wikipedia gleefully offers these glittering jewels, but trusting them is a fool's game.

Oh despicable admission. Oh woeful lament. Oh godless plight!

So goes the dubious love affair between Erin O'Brien, Girl Writer, and her seductively unreliable source. For the record, I've been kissing and telling on Wiki for quite a while. And if you decide to go slumming around over there, be careful. There's no telling who you might run into.

* * *

Deep fried spatula and other delights

noreply@blogger.com (Erin O'Brien) — Tue, 03 Jan 2012 11:36:00 +0000

A collection of brief clips to inspire all those New Year's diet resolutions.

* * *

My Cleveland: a first and last time visitor's guide

noreply@blogger.com (Erin O'Brien) — Sun, 01 Jan 2012 20:27:00 +0000

--This first one is easy. If you are coming to Cleveland, the one thing you must see is Armor Court in the Cleveland Museum of Art.

Charging Armor Court in the Cleveland Museum of Art

I have been strolling through this magnificent room for four decades and it takes my breath away every time. While you walk amid dazzling tapestries and authentic knights in shining armor, do keep in mind that all the metal around you was forged with fire and a hammer.

A hammer.

Looking skyward, Interior, Peter Lewis Building.

The museum is in the heart of University Circle, which you will not have enough time to explore (no one ever does, which is part of its intrigue), but do take in the Peter B. Lewis Building, if only to challenge your conception of solidity. You might even be able to sneak in and snoop around the common areas.

Lunch suggestion: L'Albatros Brasserie.

--The Gordon Square neighborhood is one of my favorite parts of town. It's old and tough and coming back, plus it's got the Capital Theatre, where the silver screen glitters in a building that hails from 1921. HELL YEAH.

Gordon Square street band.

After the movie, amble across the street to LUXE and enjoy their braised short ribs with potato gnocchi and blue cheese sauce. When I took my first bite of this dish, I chewed, swallowed, inhaled, then leveled my eyes at my husband and said, "This may be the best plate of food I have ever eaten."

Dessert: Sweet Moses.

--I start talking about the West Side Market and my eyes well up. Places with a energy such as this are very rare indeed. You don't have to buy anything; just being here will feed you.

Some people say "living history" and it's just two words. But when I get a falafel sandwich at Maha's (the best in town) and eat it while perched on the stone bench in the market balcony with my kid at my side, I take living history into singular territory. My great grandfather was a sweet corn and potato farmer in this county and he used to trade his produce at the West Side Market almost a hundred years ago.

View from the balcony, Cleveland's West Side Market

If you're looking for a nosh with a little more swank, walk over to Crop Bistro. Oh hell, just go over there anyway for a glass or cuppa while you take in the most elegant dining room in Cleveland.

Quirk at Big Fun.

--The Coventry neighborhood is brimming with small quirk at places like Big Fun and Mac's Backs, where you MUST descend the stairs and browse the stacks and stacks of used books.

Don't miss: the spring rolls at Tree Country Bistro.

--For a handful of unparallelled architectural delights in the downtown area, try the Huntington Bank Building, the Cleveland Public Library's Main Branch or the Cuyahoga County Court House. Eats? I always hope to find one of our eclectic food trucks.

Bigger quirk: Cleveland's Free Stamp.

--Because this is Cleveland and because it's January, I must include Rockefeller Park Greenhouse in this list. Let the wind and snow blow, in here you'll find a vintage tropical wonderland worthy of Gatsby & Co.

--Yeah, yeah. I know. We've got the ultimate Rock House, which is right next door to a big ol' science center, you can learn more about those and tons of other venues over here But this is an Erin guide and while the Cleveland savvy will drone on about the history of Playhouse Square and crow about it being the second largest theater district in the country (next to NYC's Broadway), I will tell you that to stepping into the Palace Theater is pure magic bathed in undiluted opulence.

So I shall leave you here, where anything is possible.

* * *

This post is a response to a request for a list of suggestions of what to do in my town for a few days surrounding a life threatening procedure at the Cleveland Clinic.

More of Erin O'Brien's Cleveland.

* * *

Welcome 2012

noreply@blogger.com (Erin O'Brien) — Sun, 01 Jan 2012 13:45:00 +0000

Now listen up kid, you've got a whole year to fill that diaper with you-know-what. Take it easy on us, will ya?

* * *

Nothing compares 2 who?

noreply@blogger.com (Erin O'Brien) — Fri, 30 Dec 2011 19:55:00 +0000

Sinéad O'Connor's emotional performance in this video for her 1990 chart-topping hit "Nothing Compares 2 U" won the hearts of many, but not mine. Something about the long long duster coat, short short hair, and that angry/wounded thing just got under my skin. I never liked You Oughtta Know by Alanis Morissette either, with that big brave "would she go down on you in a theater" line.

Angry heartbroken singing chicks make my bullshit meter quiver. (Quiver? O'Connor's painful five second to yooooooooooooou wail at the 1:18 mark above practically pins the needle.)

O'Connor's histrionic effort may have been 21 years ago, but hey, what compares to the following admission regarding her 16-day marriage?

O'Connor owns up in the interview that she went on a frantic hunt for cannabis on their wedding night.

"We ended up in a cab in some place that was quite dangerous," O'Connor is quoted as telling the Sun. "I wasn't scared – but he's a drugs counselor. What was I thinking?"

She adds: "Then I was handed a load of crack. Barry was very frightened – that kind of messed everything up a bit, really." --source

I am vindicated.

* * *

The cable library

noreply@blogger.com (Erin O'Brien) — Thu, 29 Dec 2011 13:13:00 +0000

I'm starting a cable library.

You need a cable? No more shelling out 30 bucks at Radio Shit Shack for a cable you're only going to use one effing time. You come on over to the cable library.

Hey man, you got a male to male nine to six pin firewire?

Hell yeah. How long you need it for?

Aw christ, one day? Two on the outside?

Here. Take it for a week.

Thanks man!

Then the guy takes the cable, uses it for his data transfer and brings it back. How beautiful is that?

No more buying a new cable, taking it home, taking it out of the package real careful-like, using it, putting it back in the package real careful-like (so it looks like you never took it out), trying to return it, and getting busted by the snotty Radio Shit Shack clerk (not that I would know anything about that). We're talking a one hundred percent honor system cable library.

You go in your old cable drawer? You bring all those cables to the cable library and donate them? We'll totally give you a beer. Everyone at the cable library will be totally cool.

You know the crap they have on the walls at the regular library? Some happy "Think Spring!" billboard with pink and yellow construction paper flowers?

Not at the cable library.

We'll have stuff like a 2004 fishing calendar and pictures of people no one knows standing next to their cars. Maybe a special section where we can staple "paid return" slips from cable library users who actually got the Radio Shit Shack clerk to take their cable back. The cable library won't have your regular library smell either. It'll smell like a machine shop and have used mismatched display cases that are never locked and have tons of cables in them.

This is sort of pie-in-the-sky, but maybe there'll even be a picture of the ol' O'Brien with a scroll-type banner at the bottom: Our Founder.

Obviously, there's room for plenty of expansion here. I'm thinking outdated disk drives, power adapters, camera memory cards, chargers--anything you need to get something old to talk again.

You with me? You're either with me or you're not with me.

So, you with me?

* * *

Sneak peek

noreply@blogger.com (Erin O'Brien) — Wed, 28 Dec 2011 15:45:00 +0000

As my regular readers may have gathered, my forthcoming book, The Irish Hungarian Guide to the Domestic Arts, is running a little late. In the meantime, I thought I'd share the cover (click to enlarge) and a bit of promo information.

Now back to the enthralling task of software upgrading ....

* * *

In the meadow we can build a snowman

noreply@blogger.com (Erin O'Brien) — Mon, 26 Dec 2011 13:53:00 +0000

In lieu of a white Christmas, the following is a snowy day-late message from the Secret Santa Love Bunnies of Joe, James Old Guy, and Bill the Commenter, respectively.

Thanks to a twinkling star for bringing the girls on over.

* * *

One size fits all

noreply@blogger.com (Erin O'Brien) — Sat, 24 Dec 2011 10:56:00 +0000

While researching this article, I encountered Aldo's, a tiny Italian restaurant in Brooklyn (Ohio, that is). Spurred by a long history of rave reviews, the Goat, Lil' OB and I had dinner there.

Placing a forkful of Aldo's lasagna deluged in their homemade marinara upon my tongue was a life-changing experience.

There were the sauces that came before this moment and there is this sauce. Let there be light.

Thus began my intrepid search for an authentic marinara recipe. I have not replicated Aldo's yet, although I've not yet tried in earnest. But I did find this with the embedded recipe, "Tomato Sauce with Onion and Butter."

Hmmm ... adjectives? Try intense and lush and simple and sublime. The beauty of this recipe is that anyone can make it. To that end, spreading it around the world is like slipping diamond rings on the fingers of every peasant girl and silken robes around her work-weary beau's shoulders. When you twirl your angel hair in a puddle of this sauce and place it ever so reverently in your mouth, you will inflate with breath and turn your eyes skyward.

Why can't everything in life be like this?

Behold:

You will need:

-Two cups whole, peeled, canned plum tomatoes, chopped, with their juices (about one 28-oz. can, preferably Italian and without citric acid)

-Five tablespoons unsalted butter

-One medium yellow onion, peeled and cut in half

-Salt to taste

Combine the first three ingredients in a medium saucepan. Add a shake or two of salt. Bring to a simmer over medium heat. Adjusting heat as necessary, cook uncovered for about 45 minutes at a very slow steady simmer until droplets of fat float free from the tomato. Stir occasionally, mashing any large pieces of tomato with the back of a wooden spoon. Taste and salt as needed.

That's it.

The recipe says to discard the onion. But therein is another bit of magic. Of course you don't discard the onion! You pluck it from the pot, cursing as you burn your fingers and, as it drips with this rich tomatoey buttery sauce, you eat that onion right out of hand over the sink. Who says there's no such thing as heaven on earth?

So there's your xmas gift, admittedly regifted from Molly Wizenberg who regifted it from Marcella Hazan, but I have a feeling the spirit of an old Italian cook, full up with love, is smiling somewhere out there in the ether and thinking, that's exactly right, girls, keep passing it along.

Merry merry and happy happy.

Love,

Erin

* * *

Phone cam round up: dubious holiday roll call

noreply@blogger.com (Erin O'Brien) — Thu, 22 Dec 2011 12:31:00 +0000

Stumbled upon these militant little bastards in my travels. Those things underneath them are their giant silver turds. Got Rudolph?

Yes, I shopped at the mall. Yes, I ate lunch in the food court. No, I don't like to admit it. But red taco shells? As if taking a "break" from holiday mall shopping by eating at Taco Bell isn't enough punishment. I'm telling you people, everything comes back to you.

These guys are trying. I give them points for trying.

One wonders, one does, if this unfortunate discovery ...

... is related to this one.

Now then, if that guy isn't Christmas-alternative enough for you, stop by SantaCon 2011. You won't regret it.

Off for more ho-ho-ho-ing.

* * *

Seven roses for 60 minutes

noreply@blogger.com (Erin O'Brien) — Tue, 20 Dec 2011 20:42:00 +0000

Hey 60 Minutes, saw the segment you did last week on Cleveland's foreclosure troubles. You probably took a ride through Slavic Village, one of our oldest and most foreclosed neighborhoods.

Iffin' you and the crew pass through again, you boys take a break from filming torn and frayed houses and go on into Seven Roses Deli. It's smack in the middle of ForeclosureLand--right on the corner of Fleet and E. 63rd.

Up front you got your deli.

You're talking your homemade Polish sausages and bakery--old school from the bottom up.

You might run into someone you know. I did.

The walls are lined with imported European stuff. You won't know what any of it is, but you'll want to buy some anyway (go ahead).

The big secret--one of Cleveland's biggest in fact--is in the dining room in back.

Slow-cooked kielbasi and sauerkraut? Check. Cabbage and noodles? We've got that. Homemade mashed potato and stuffed cabbage? No problem.

Does your Leslie Stahl ever whip up a batch of old world potato pancakes for the crew? I didn't think so. You come to Seven Roses? You get some potato pancakes? You will be so down. And all of it is every bit as good as it's cracked up to be. No surprise there, you can hear the kitchen crew yammering in Polish every time the door swings open.

After all that you can call it a wrap with a few butter cookies and a square of poppy seed pound cake. HELL YEAH.

The bathroom's cool, but watch out for dubious characters.

Look at this banquet room! Plenty of room for Morley Safer to belly up with Steve Kroft. What the hell--bring Anderson Cooper and that Byron Pitts guy as well.

I don't think the fancy plates are for sale ...

... but you could pick up some candy for Lara Logan.

No, Mike Wallace, none of the presents are marked for you.

So that's the skinny on Seven Roses, 60 Minutes. This town might have it's problems, but our heart's still beating, even where the fabric's worn thinnest.

Sometimes I think that's where it beats truest.

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