Red Sauce

Pink Shirts and Chorizo the Next Day

Cool and sunny. I took the turn with the other spandex-clad group and rounded the slight decline in a tucked, lovely aerodynamic position. I was ahead and while it was no race, I was enjoying leading the huffy group of men in their tight shorts and their serious mouths. Then all the sudden I hear this woman off to the left say, “Look, there, you got one, the pink shirt.” She was looking at me, pointing at me and talking into a walky talky device.
I stopped since I noticed my fellow shiny clothed friends also stopped and then it dawned on me quickly. I was wearing a pink shirt, a pink lycra shirt. Not my usual color choice but it figured when a police officer stops me for running a red light while on a bike path in Central Park, I would be sporting my bubble gum colored cycling shirt. In fact, it was the only time this year I had it on. When I showed up at Central Park, my riding partner just looked at me and said, “Rose. Pink. Right on.”
So then just about 30 minutes and 12 miles later, I got pulled over by a cop and threatened with a ticket for running a red light in my pink shirt. But I do believe the pink shirt saved me a bit. How do you give someone a slap when they are wearing pink?
I was also lucky to be riding with a native New Yorker and a law student working for Eliot Spitzer who talked me out of the ticket by simply asking the cop not to yell at us, “please.” The cop stopped, thought about it and told me, the pink shirt, to go on my way.
Just after that I nearly mowed down an old man and his dog who were both looking the wrong way as they crossed the path.
I hate to become a pedestrian basher but if I am going to get my peach pie stuffed fat ass out at Central Park at 630 a.m. and don a pink shirt to ride with the serious cycling kids then I should be looked for on the path by this old man and his dog out for their morning walk. They should know better.
Last night’s dinner was a mash of leftovers that turned into a master piece of textural complexity and color. I was all Sarah Moulton in the kitchen. I took Sunday dinner’s leftovers and made a lovely Tuesday night meal.
On Sunday, besides peach pie, I made tacos. Chorizo, beef and bean tacos. Last night, I cut up the leftovers, added some onion, garlic and fresh basil with a generous amount of olive oil and mixed in some cavatelli and parmesan.
Lovely and amazing, just like the first time around.

Sometimes It Don't Feel Like it Should

It’s getting easier to get up. But two days ago, I could barely lift myself off any surface. I still use both hands to help me.
I place my hands on the arms of my chair or on top of the lovely light shiny wood of my desk, bow my head down to the gods, and lift up gingerly. I usually give off an audible, albeit quiet, “ow.” Or sometimes an “ooohhh.” Last time, it was a “Jesus!” I have since learned to breathe in on the way up and off my seat. This way I don’t scream or say anything out loud that may make the photo editor who sits next to me (who, strangely looks just like Natalie Merchant if she had blond curly hair) were to ask me what was wrong.
I have internal hemorrhoids. Or at least one ‘roid. I had external ones years ago and you know it’s painful shit.
Well, I mean it’s painful. And I am not talking about the act of pooping.
So this photo editor, she is sweet, but I don’t want to put her in the position of asking me why I am in such pain. So I hide my pain. I just don’t want to have to turn to her and tell her I have internal ‘roids. That would just make the sweetness and light disappear from the room forever. We would forever then have a new relationship—post ‘roid relationship. I like to keep up the fantasy of our love for each other right now. Though we did discuss the painful crotch burn one gets from bad bicycle seats. So, yesterday morning when she asked how I was and I said my crotch hurt she laughed and there was still sweetness.
So, of course I have been doing some googling and research about hemorrhoids. And of course conversing with my pregnant friend about them and, you know, not much you can do about these puppies if you don’t want to go to a colorectal specialist to discuss.
And I am not going to buy a donut to sit on.
So, I sit here with a change in my diet (I had two peaches yesterday, some broccoli and oatmeal, but then bad bad dinner of pizza. The pizza was good, as usual, my obsession pizza. But white flour is not good for the ‘roids. But Fornino’s funghi misti pizza wins out over the ‘roids) And with the change in diet, things will settled down in there a bit.
The internal hemorrhoid is a major obstacle to bicycling. I was actually convinced that the reinvigorated bicycling routine I was enjoying was the culprit. I figured I was pinching, restricting some blood vessels down there and causing the roids. But apparently this is not true, just that all that sitting and restricting of anus blood flow can make the ‘roids flare up worse than they would. This morning’s ride was only slightly unbearable.
For breakfast today? Some Kashi GoLean Krunch cereal and a peach. I am going to conquer this one. And it means this former vegetarian needs to stop pouring so much red meat down her throat.
I think crazy Andrew Young may also have ‘roids. Maybe the distrustful Arabs, Jews and Koreans overcharged him for the Preparation H and so he just lives with the pain and when your butt is in pain you don’t have any censors.

Turkey Meatballs and Sports Bras

The subway windows are an unflattering reflective surface. They bubble you up. They puff up your face, your cheeks, the skin underneath your eyes, your chin. So, it’s 8 a.m and I look up at the reflective glass across from me and I have this puffy face, and I am all gray on my way to work.
And even when the air conditioning is blasting in this tin can, I find myself dripping sweat and then finally I get a seat and this is when I am at first relieved but then horrifyingly check out my reflection and now I feel puffy and gray and realize I am having a bad hair day.
My new freelance gig is full of runners and athletes. So most of them either literally run to work in their sports bras and tiny shorts or they ride their fancy bikes in and come in camouflaged in their lycra shirts and shorts and wraparound glasses and helmets. There are showers on every floor of the townhouse the office is housed in. They shower and sit in their chairs with the same tank top and skirt they wore the day before. The thing that changes daily is the sports gear, not the office gear. Priorities.
I have been riding my bike in but today with a little drizzle and the odd desire to wear jeans to work, I decide to subway in.
But what makes me smile a puffy subway smile is that I remember that in my bag I have one large turkey meatball sitting in red sauce and next to it some (Good 'n Plenty recipe) mac and cheese. My belly will thank me later, even if it protrudes a bit more in the afternoon.

Turkey meatballs

1 lb. organic ground turkey (dark meat)
1 chopped onion
1 clove of garlic
1 egg
Grated Parmesan Cheese
Dried basil
Breadcrumbs
Milk

Mix all ingredients together using enough milk to make the meatballs barely hold together when you form them.
Bake in oven at 400 for about ten minutes. Place in red sauce cooking over medium to low heat on stove. Cook for about 15 to 20 minutes longer.
Serve with pasta or potatoes.

Big Muffins, Big Hills, Big Crab Cake

Against a brick wall they sat in their tight shirts and their tight shorts and their clicky clacky clipped shoes. In the early afternoon on a Saturday or Sunday at the Runcible Spoon in Nyack you will see at least one hundred of them, cyclists, drinking iced coffee, eating huge (albeit spongy) muffins and pouring cool brightly colored smoothies down their throats.
The Runcible Spoon is about a 25 mile ride from the George W Bridge in Manhattan through farm country and rolling suburban hill country. It’s lovely, but someone has to learn to make a better muffin there. After riding 30 miles there I was happy to have a huge muffin and a smoothie. But during my 30 plus miles back to my Brooklyn apartment, I unfortunately still felt that huge, dense, meatloaf textured-apple crumb muffin sitting at the bottom of my belly. I wonder if the sinewy cyclists are just used to this or only eat half a muffin at “the Spoon.”
But I didn’t puke. I loved me the crazy gearheads. Will go back next weekend.

The Life of a Sexy Ass Guido

The life of a sexy ass guido is not an uncomplicated one. I beg and I borrow this a bit, but when it says so much by saying so little, I have to take it.
I met a man that looked like Donald O'Connor in a yellow jersey and I am just now recovering from the whole experience.
He is standing there in his fancy yellow lycra cycling jersey, puffing out around his flat belly, and he is sporting a slight but constant smile on his face and he is asking me if I “ever met anyone at these things.” "One of these things" is an organized bike ride through a New York cycling club.
I can’t get his face out of my head. It’s sitting there like the last chip in a bowl or not the last chip in the bowl because that is usually the most desired chip. No, his face is sitting there stuck in that place in my brain where things stick and become a vision all around you even if you are looking at the 7-11 on 23rd off Park Avenue like the last girl standing at the high school dance. But I never went to high school dances, but still, there is that girl standing there and this guy, the guy with the yellow lycra thinking he is all Lance Armstrong studly standing there, grinning.
“Have you ever met anyone special or interesting at these rides?” he asked again after I said, “Huh?” the first time he asked.
The man looks a bit like Donald O’Connor but O’Connor would for sure be nicer, kinder, gentler and not in dire need of a post-divorce fling with a chick in her own lycra jersey. And he might sing and dance and be friends with someone like Gene Kelly.
This Donald O’Connor man may even be obsessed. Yes, he seems obsessed. He bought a $2,000 Serotta bike and got professionally sized for another $500 and he is sporting all this cycling gear, Look clips, Cannondale socks, Pearl Izumi cycling shorts and he is constantly smiling. No, he is grinning. He is suave. No, he thinks he is suave.