Thanks everyone for indulging me/us this Music Week. In case you weren’t able to watch the videos–or, in case you loved them so much you want to put those songs on your iPod (please let me know if you do: I know a good therapist)–here are all four tracks in mp3 form. Have a great weekend!
[Click to listen to the songs online. Right-click to download to your desktop, import to your iTunes, and enjoy these songs on repeat every day for the rest of your life…]
One of the joys of living New York is that you can be reading Florence Fabricant’s column in the New York Times about a new frozen yogurt place in Park Slope and then realize that to get there you need only walk out your door and over a few blocks. And that’s exactly what I did after reading about Öko which, apparently, means “eco” in Hungarian. What does “eco” mean in English? Regardless, here’s what I brought back:
That’s just plain frozen yogurt (there was only plain or wild berry) with kiwi and a gooseberry on top. I’d never had a gooseberry and I immediately heard Veruca Salt’s voice: “The gooseberries taste like gooseberries, the snozberries taste like snozberries!” In fact, this gooseberry was like nature’s version of one of those gummy sour balls, except not gummy. It had a wonderful surprising squirt of sour.
And as for the yogurt, the richness and complex flavors took me by surprise. This is some serious frozen yogurt–the Harvard graduate to TCBY’s community college drop-out–and I couldn’t get enough. And with the kiwi it felt like a healthy snack, but was it? Lisa tells me that unless it says low fat, it’s probably still fattening. So I guess I can’t eat it three times a day. Perhaps this video, the last video of music week, will set the record straight.
Music week continues today with falafel! Not only does falafel have three bouncy, musical syllables but it’s also a food I’ve never attempted to make at home. I recruited my friends Lisa and Ricky who are not only game falafel makers but also wonderful musicians and singers (they sing the song at the end of the post). We used Joan Nathan’s recipe which you can read here on Epicurious. Here are Lisa and Ricky rolling our falafel in flour:
News flash: The Sopranos had its last episode Sunday night. Did you see it? We did. In fact, we were all so engrossed that when this lasagna (from “Molto Italiano”) came out of the oven–a lasagna that I spent a few hours making, and spent a good amount of money on–we decided to wait until the episode was over before we ate it:
And as everyone bit in, instead of singing its praises everyone said: “What kind of ending was that?” Or: “Did the cable cut out?” Or: “Worst series finale ever!” (However, after much discussion half of us came around and decided we liked it. The ending, that is.)
Meanwhile, the merits of my lasagna remained unsung. So today I present to you this lasagna song which pays homage to a lasagna that, in my opinion, was worth singing about. You can find the recipe online here, though I cheated and used dry pasta. (I was going to make the lasagna from scratch, but didn’t have enough time.) The results were still tremendous. Harmonicas, however, are optional.
Here Lisa and I present a sweet and serious song about our dinner at Chennai Garden. Our thanks to The Association.
This is a lame return, I must admit. It’s one of my favorite songs. But two factors fail us:
(1) I use the verb “try” which is weak when compared to the original “fall.” “Try” isn’t really active. I should’ve “tried” something better.
(2) The recording skips in important places. I will paste the lyrics in the comments so you can know what it is that I am singing.
And with that lovely introduction, here it is: “I’ll Never Try To Cook Again.”
Parenting a cat requires patience and petting and plenty of crunchy cat treats. It also requires honesty; which is why tonight proved so difficult.
Lolita approached me at my desk:
“Dad?” she asked innocently enough.
“What is it son?” I replied.
“I’m a girl,” she hissed.
“Oh, yes,” I said, blowing a bubble. “How can I help you?”
“Where does meat come from?”
Here she was, my little furry animal, asking the question no parent of a furry animal wants to answer. What made it worse was that earlier tonight I ate another furry animal–well not as furry, but slightly hairy–a pig at Fat Matt’s:
Then it occurred to me that, in many ways, I’m a hairy animal too. I have hair on my head, hair on my chest (ha!) and hair between my toes. Lolita and I are in the same boat.
“Look, Lola,” I explained. “We’re all animals, see. And animals, by nature, eat other animals. Which is why you and I both have canine teeth.”
I pulled up her gums and tapped on her canine. She hissed.
“Look at Andrew for example…”
“…he is an animal eating another animal. Does that make him a bad animal? No. It just makes him an animal.”
Lolita was unimpressed.
“Then look at Trinh…”
“…see what she’s eating? She’s eating Andrew. She ground him up into a sandwich. That’s just the way it works.”
Lola began gnawing at my foot.
“Ow,” I said.
Thank God Mickey Dolenz came in and performed his Monkees Meat-Eater Medley.
Lola loves the Monkees, much like Marsha Brady. She bopped along, tail-wagging. I slipped out quietly. My work here was done.