Alexis blogs

Last week I purchased my very own TURKISH COFFEE pot.

I have to put TURKISH COFFEE in all caps because it is the mother of all coffees. Strong. Gritty. More potent than espresso.

Basically, you put some very finely ground coffee in the pot with some water and sugar (if you want sugar) and heat it until it’s creamy and good. You drink it in one of these little cups. It’s unfiltered, so the grounds are still at the bottom. And it’s good.

Last summer my friend Monica and I went on a long road trip to the East Coast, and a single travel mug full of TURKISH COFFEE kept us both wide awake for an entire day, and we had plenty left over.

I’ve tried making it twice using the grounds Monica gave me for Christmas, and I still don’t have it quite right. After some further advice from Monica, I’m pretty sure I’ll get it next time.

So if you know me in person, have me make you some TURKISH COFFEE, a gift from the bottom of my caffeine-addicted heart.

Here’s a recipe if you’re interested.

I haven’t been watching “Lost,” but here’s a little funny (with spoilers from the Jan. 18 episode, so beware) for my “Lost”-obsessed friends (i.e., everyone I work with): Molly Ringwraith’s condensed episode parody.

For the rest of you, have a look at Ms. Ringwraith’s “Lord of the Rings” One, Two and Three.

As long as I’m starting the blog off right with posts about things I’m embarrassingly ignorant of/incompetent at (got to make a good impression), allow me to get something off my chest.

I don’t know the Beatles.

Not well, anyway. I could perhaps identify a few songs of theirs. For about half of those songs, I know the tune but not the lyrics. The other half: The lyrics but not the tune. I know who John Lennon was and what happened to him (because of “Mr. Holland’s Opus”), and I know who Ringo Starr is (because he has a cool name and has been on “The Daily Show”), and I think I know the other two guys’ names, but I won’t mention them here because if I get them wrong, I’ll be in trouble. I know I could identify them on TV because they had funny hairstyles and labeled their drum set. There are, of course, numerous references to them in our culture, many of which I can pinpoint. In fact, one of my favorite Barenaked Ladies songs is “Be My Yoko Ono.”

However, I have come to realize that ignorance of the Beatles is socially unacceptable. When I hear a song I don’t know and ask what it is, I can always tell it’s the Beatles from the dumbfounded/appalled stare I receive in response. This, what I call “The Beatle Effect,” is perhaps tripled when I make the mistake of not immediately liking whatever song of theirs I hear. When such a thing occurs in the presence of friends, I may ask, “What the hell is this?” Quite innocently, of course.

I asked that question today at work, and my friends were powerless against the Beatle Effect. One threw a bottle cap (and missed me by three feet). Another pointed at me and declared, “Don’t make me come over there!” which I suppose was a threat, although it did come from a fairly skinny fellow who studies law.

I know there is a super-duper ultimate Beatles CD set that I could simply buy and use to educate myself against the wrath of the Beatle Effect. Because of a conversation that took place in the middle of class today between my professor and another student, I know that this CD set has loads of special features that would help me learn the story of the Beatles. I could use the video component to learn to identify the name and face of each Beatle. If there are lyrics in the liner notes, I could use them to clarify any unclear words (warning: audio link, not for classrooms or computer labs) and memorize the classics.

I fear, however, that if I educate myself, learn the names, learn the songs, I may become guilty of a far worse crime: What if I don’t like the Beatles?

Would disliking them be better or worse than not knowing them? Would I become an even greater aberration than I already am? Would my friend with the bottle cap improve his aim?

These questions trouble me. Because you know what? I have heard a few Beatles songs, and I thought they were just OK.

(Please don’t hurt me.)

Ever since returning from holiday break, I’ve been fixated on learning how to cook.

Growing up, I never had to learn even the bare basics of cooking. I’d watched Mom and Dad cook many times, but I’d never really paid attention. To my eye, they simply performed some sleight of hand with pots, pans, utensils and ingredients, and out came a meal.

Oh, I knew a few things. I could bake brownies from a package using the recipe on the box with relative ease. (I enjoyed baking; the magical numbered dial on the oven eliminated such hard-hitting questions as “How high is ‘medium heat’?”)

I could do noodles. (Boil until noodley.) I could do toast. (Place bread in toaster. Toast until toasted.)

Really, that’s all I felt I needed to know. When I moved into a college dorm, I didn’t even have a kitchen. I mastered the art of EasyMac (disgusting) and ramen (unsatisfying), but mostly I just ate campus food.

Now I’m in an apartment. I have a kitchen and, by god, I am going to use it.

Mom supports me in this endeavor with enthusiasm. She’s been trying to get me cooking for years. For Christmas she bought me two cookbooks, one of them entitled Help! My Apartment Has a Kitchen.

She happily answers all my phone calls with what must surely be the stupidest questions she’s ever heard. On my last shopping trip, I called her two or three times asking what to buy and where the heck it was. She successfully directed me to the seasoned breadcrumbs, even though I was shopping at a Kroger she’d never set foot in before.

So now I’ve made a few things: potato soup, ranch chicken, grilled cheese. The cookbooks have been very helpful. They speak on my level. (”To hard boil an egg…”) I still have to follow the recipes more or less as though they were the operating instructions for the mechanical device that would prevent the world from exploding.

I still get a sense of amazed accomplishment when I follow some instructions using pots, pans, utensils and ingredients, and out comes a meal. I compare it to the feeling I got in that photography class I took: shine some light on a piece of paper, dip it in some stuff, and out comes a photograph. It’s so simple!

Then again, I’m a bad photographer.