One last week of "classes", except it is unlike any class I've ever known. Filled with medical etiquette, financial planning, medical license... it is thoughtful, practical, applicable, and most importantly, skippable. The strange thing is, my class makes its best effort to make a presence. We fill most seats, bring our computers, ask questions... it's like we all realize this is our last chance to be a student.

A beautiful tart was made for a special birthday last Wednesday night. It was my first time attempting a tart and a wonderful Emeril recipe with a pressed on almond crust means my friend and I didn't have to roll any dough. It was as refreshing as it is beautiful, especially when chilled overnight in the fridge.

I went to my first wedding yesterday! Can't believe I've never been to a wedding either... but it is true. The ceremony took place in a downtown New Orleans Jesuit church, as breathtakingly beautiful as the most beautiful of New Orleanian churches. Pristine and ornate, with rows of wooden pew marked with iron cast Fleur De Li's at each end. Higher than it is wide, the space commands a hushed regalness that only churches can. The bride, walking down the isle with her dad, didn't feel like my classmate at all... but some ethereal creature enshrined in a glossy white gown, so beautiful I can only admire from a far. It is neither cheesy nor cliche, neither ordinary or predictable, but a singularly moving rite of passage that makes me wonder how anyone experienced it could ever consider the d word.

My new apartment has yellow walls, darker than lemon, lighter than dijon. It's the color of sunny egg yolk when whisked with sugar. I looked at three complexes before making a prudent, economic decision to rent not the newest or the largest, but a good compromise of all the things I'm looking for, while still fitting for a poor, heavily in-debt, over worked intern. Yes, that is the role I am all ready to play.

I almost bought a house today.

"Almost"... as in I got on the phone with a realtor, asked around about the interest rate, calculated some down payments, looked at floor plans, and seriously tried to imagine myself the owner of a piece of land (plus more).

As it turns out, my soon to be new city does not have a good rental market at all, esp close to the hospital. My friend, who was so damn determined to live in the same apt complex with me, was there for 2 hours before she called a realtor and bought a house in ONE day. She said to me -- I suggest you do the same. Simple as that... like buying a windbreaker. She couldn't begin to understand (and I can't begin to explain to her) how UNprepared I am to buy a house. It's not even about the lack of money in my bank account, or that I've only spend 48 hours in the city, or that I've never even paid for my own electricity let alone a mortgage...

No... it's not about that about all. It's about the deep unsettled feeling of dread that I am sure is what people refer to as the 6th sense. It's about needing to know that I am, still, free and unattached. It's about knowing that I am not ready to be attached... to a house... to a city... before I find someone special to share that house and city with. It's about not tearing down my back up plan-- when times get really bad I can always say to myself, it's only three years. I don't need a lawn and real neighbors and extra bedrooms to remind me that I own more than a kitchen aid in my new city

Also, when I do buy a house, I want to be over the moon excited, not feel like someone just enlisted me on death row...

To make a long story short, I am not buying. I talked to people and lined up a couple of places to look. If there is anything I have more of now than one month ago, it is faith. I have no doubt that things will work out just fine.

Magazine street shopping, Sucree gelato and macaron sampling, then a perfect cupcake from "Bee Sweet Cupcakes" to end a Saturday. So this is what it feels like to be young and carefree... not bad at all. :)

Blogging... disappointment.

Disappointment in others is really disappointment in myself. Why did I not do better, especially since deep down, I know better. So much easier to point fingers when the only person I should be disappointed in is me. And I was... I am... but now I must get over it before I seriously hurt my self-esteem. All of which is much needed when I start my intern year in June.

If something else has to absorb the residual frustration of the "B" situation, I blame it on the craziness of this year. Being back to NO after four months of away rotations, realizing I was still carrying the remembrances of a ghost that left long ago, I NEEDED a distraction! Of course I knew it would end no other way. But, as one of my favorite movies quoted: Surprisingly wonderful things can happen, even late in the game.

I wanted it to apply to me so badly.

But... something wonderful did happen, just not the form I wanted.

As far as THAT's concerned... its a whole different game... and I'm not late at all.

I should have posted the result of Match Day two days ago, but I couldn't imagine describing it coherently on paper. My excitement was uncontainable and radiated every which way. I must have hugged a million people and floated so high on a cloud it was actually VISIBLE.

Seriously! One stranger said -- you look like you're floating on a cloud! I told her I AM!

I don't think I actually believed that envelop could spell out my number one choice. I know people told me it would... but I never got my hopes up. If I didn't get it, eventually the disappointment would be all mine to swallow. And I didn't know if I could... in public... surrounded by happy people. But little did I know that I would be the happiest of them all! (I really might be...)

My excitement may seem naive... even to me. After all, the hardest part hasn't even started. But the past four years have not exactly been a walk in the park, and the many pep talks I have given and received never completely erased the sense of... doubt? Then Thursday happened. And I don't doubt anymore. Good things and bad things happen, who knows what the next three year holds. But one thing is for sure, I really am blessed. So I'm gong to be obliviously happy, even if just for this extended weekend.

Should I put on make up now and let it sit on my face for a couple of hours, or should I wait awhile so it has the fresh glow that I can never purposely create, but sometimes appears effortlessly when I look sideways? My hair I will have to blow dry soon, before the clip creates a permanent kink and strips any possibility of "volume".

These are the hard questions I content myself with on the morning of "Match Day". To ponder on the harder questions takes me dangerously close to sulking and pessimism, which I do not want to trudge into just yet. My violin teacher said wherever I go, it's up to me what I turn the experience into. There is truth to it. I turned medical school and New Orleans into a place (in life and in this world) that I'm sad to leave. Is that my doing or a stroke of luck? After four years of being uncomfortable in my own skin, the universe decides to throws me a bone and give me some friends that will love me no matter what... I believe people call it "unconditional".

Whatever the envelope holds, I'm leaving New Orleans for sure. It's good to leave when I have so much fondness for the city, when there are still stores and restaurants I want to explore, when even the shady neighborhoods (and there are many) I look onto with hopeful expectations. I have waited a long time to begin buying fleur de lis memorabilia. Nothing crazy, like a door mat... something more subtle, like subliminal messages of happiness that I can leave all over my new apt.

Would it be narcissistic of me to say that there is nothing ordinary about my life because of all the extraordinary people in it?

I hope not, because driving home from Baton Rouge at 10pm last night, I felt like the luckiest person in the whole world. I was so grateful to spend the day with my host family and old roommates that I, momentarily, made peace with all the current anguish in my life - Match Day anxiety and all.

I have been looking forward to cook dinner for my host family, whom I haven't seen since last September... to surprise Randy with an early birthday cake, to test out Michelle's recipe for the most moist Amaretto Chocolate Cake, to catch St. Patrick's Day parade with Laura... I missed the house, the lake, the kitchen, the long driveway with its canopy of pine trees, my amazing host family, Mark and Mary-Anne, being together with the girls under one roof, dashing around the kitchen looking for pots and pans, and praying Elaine's unpredictable oven pulls through.

As soon as I stepped into the house, I knew where everything is. I pulled open the fridge and pantry closet checking stock, noting what we need to buy to make dinner and what they already have. I leaned my elbow against the cool marble counter, thinking of the old one that split down the middle when I put hot biscuits on top (I was reassured a million times that I didn't break it, it was already broken)... I sat down by the kitchen table, thinking of all the times I sat there to study, to stare at the lake, to pretend to study, to day dream, to cry over boys...

It was 55 degrees and raining. The St Patrick's day parade route was filled with people. I kept maybe three beads and gave the rest to Randy and Elaine's grand kids (who, in turn, gave me a stuffed tiger football with a tail). The bean dip made my stomach turn. Laura and I ran through the rain and an empty golf course to get back to the car. We were so drenched and cold she couldn't feel her hands and my mascara ran down my face (which doesn't happen even when I cry during movies)... But can I tell you, honestly, I had a BLAST.

Laura's Pork Chop with Orange Soy Glaze and Udon Noodles was so delicious, even when Whole Foods runs out of Udon Noodles and we had to substitute with fettuccine. And I was so grateful she calmly took over the entree so I can concentrate on my roasted potato and mushroom salad with mascarpone (Fine Cooking, Feb/March 2009) and Parmesan-roasted cauliflower (Barefoot Contessa at Home, 2006), which also turned out amazing. We also made mango salsa, which Laura tells people is a Tian invention. :)

At end of the night, Randy told me to keep the house key, so I can come home whenever I want.

This is yet. A Chocolate Amaretto Cake so moist and delicious that it lives up to the beautiful shape of the Williams and Sonoma bundt cake mold. This mold is so distractingly beautiful I have to bath in the compliments for a full minute (or more) before admitting that, no, I didn't chisel out the swirl one by one... But like I said, the cake is so good it doesn't even matter.

Libbie's Chocolate Amaretto Cake

1 package (18.25 ounces) plain devil's food cake mix

1 package (3.9 ounces) chocolate instant pudding mix

1/2 Cup vegetable oil

3/4 C whole milk

1/2 C water

1/4 C mayonnaise (can you believe it?!)

4 large eggs

1/4 C amaretto liqueur

1 tsp pure almond extract

1 C semisweet chocolate chips

Confectioner's sugar for garnish

1. Place rack in center of oven and preheat to 350 F. Mist 12 C bundt pan with veg oil spray and dust with flour. Shake out excess.

2. Place cake mix, pudding mix, milk, oil, water, mayo, eggs, amaretto, and almond extract in large bowl. Blend on low for 1 min. Scrape down sides. Increase speed and mix another 2 minutes more. Fold in chocolate chips. Pour into pan and smooth out.

3. Bake till cake springs back when lightly pressed, 53 to 56 minutes. Cool pan on rack for 20 minutes Invert and cool on rack.

4. Dust with powdered sugar or glaze.

They're pretty accurate with the baking time. Don't over bake!

I'm about to take the last test of my medical school career, I thought this moment is blog-worthy. The impending sense of doom and the butterflies in my stomach are all very familiar, like bad streets I've been forced to walk down too many times. Let's hope I make it through unscathed.

There are many "soft spots" in my heart; a special one is reserved for peacocks. They remind me of my grandfather and Sunday mornings all dressed up to go to the zoo. He said if I wear pretty dresses, the peacocks would be envious and spread their own feathers. I remember spinning around in front of their cage, showing off my dress, willing them to do the same...

When I saw these note cards in BnN, I had to get them... Just like the peacock dress from Banana, just like the peacock hair clip from China...

I met a boy with the cutest smile. The kind that elicits a mirrored happiness so spontaneous and true. I turn my head in his direction every chance I get and step into his path even when mine should not cross, only to see that smile once more. Just as quickly though, he turns the corner, walks away. Sometimes we turn our heads at the same time and I feel like the star in a French movie... minus the mist, minus the rain. But as he disappears out of sight I ask myself only one question -- did I just imagine that?

There is a certain sadness in reading old entries. I always try to recall the "past me" and compare it with the present. What changed? What hasn't? I find that my writing was so much more personal back then. I dared to put it out there more, not afraid to be corny. Now, I'm more guarded and aware. Just the other day I peeled off the Hello Kitty band aid because it seems not age-appropriate or work-appropriate or some other kind of inappropriateness (sorry, Maria).

Do you ever wonder how other people see you? I have this secret fear that I am completely off base when it comes to my perception of the persona I present forth every day. Of course I have asked my friends... but their answers are superficial. Maybe they don't want to tell me the truth. Maybe I tune out the truth because I don't want to accept it. Last night my friend said -- you're like a princess. What the ****?! I think he said it without giving it any thought, unaware of the effect it would have on me. I hate it when people do that!

I haven't studied for a test in quite awhile, dating back to Step II in September. That is why this Saturday morning, confronted by the upcoming Neurology exam next Friday, I find myself in an unfamiliar state of mind.

Am I... anxious about procrastinating?

I uploaded onto Facebook all the pictures I have been thinking of uploading, baked some short bread cookies, looked for cake recipes for my friend's birthday next week, dusted my computer keyboard, changed my blog format, updated my blog, re-read old blogs, and almost painted my finger nails...

Bobbie Flay was making mussels and fries (moules frites) on Throwdown yesterday and it only intensified my perpetual craving for mussels and fries. Since I can't drive to Houston for Cafe Rabelais or visit DC's Granville Moore, I called my friend for the closest best-thing: Cafe Degas. A most romantic French Bistro with covered balcony, twinkle lights, candles, and fresh flowers on every table. Nothing like harmless gossip and skinny, long golden fries dipped in savory fennel broth to chase away any weekday blue.

A French Quarter ghost tour leaves much to be wanted. My tour guide had cigarette in one hand, alcohol in the other, and a most circumferential speech pattern that makes me shift uncomfortably from one foot to the other. My friend said - wow, I never realized how short your attention span is. For the rest of the night, I couldn't follow their conversation about the tour since I only paid attention to one single story about an Irish prostitute named "Marie". My friends wondered if I had gone on the same tour at all. :)

The tour starts at the Voodoo shop. Cost per person? 20 dollars.

It wasn't long before I needed a drink, or two, to get me through it.

Apparently this famous French Quarter restaurant is haunted... I can't tell you why, I wasn't paying attention to my tour guide.

Dinner, on the other hand, is a completely different story! Restaurant Stella! How could you not love a place with an exclamation mark in its name. The food isn't creole, isn't French, but rather Asian inspired. Edible art that is as delicious as it is beautiful, that is hard to come by outside of New Orleans.

I can't remember what this complimentary dish is, something with mango and lobster and taro on top... I do remember it was very delicious.

Lobster inside an egg? and truffles on top!

Spicy Asian Shrimp!

Scallops, Gulf shrimp, andouille potato hash, all in caviar butter....

Duck Five Ways! Foie Gras won tons especially received great reviews.

My favorite part of the meal: Banana Foster French Toast with candied walnut and plantains.

Just when we began to lament the end of dinner, nothing like complimentary coconut marsh mellows and softest dark truffles to cheer us up!

The end of another happy day playing tourist in the Big Easy! Yay!

Today is Fat Tuesday, the end of Carnival Season. I woke up at 6am to get ready for the last big parade by Rex, the oldest Krewe of all.

6pm. The TV is tuned to the local coverage of Mardi Gras. I'm feeling quite sad to see the end my first but hopefully not last MG experience.

The entire four years I've lived here, I have always left the city during Mardi Gras... Rotations, traveling, going home... The particular brand of "carnival" I associated with New Orleans has meant nothing more to me than bad traffic and more frequent than usual ambulance siren. So what was I missing? This year, while checking flights out, it occurred to me what a mistake it would be to leave my beloved city without ever experiencing its most (in)famous holiday. As soon as I thought of this, I couldn't bare to leave.

When navigating through chaos, the most important thing a person needs is an insider. I knew I found her when my friend's excited voice over the phone exclaimed "I love Mardi Gras and I LOVE to share my love of Mardi Gras with others."

Perfect! Share it with me!

Muses is an all women Krewe and their theme is always "shoes". It's a night time parade on a particularly chilly Thursday night. I wore my "almost" Mardi Gras coloured scarf and most comfortable walking shoes.

See these amazing shoe bracelets? You have no idea how hard I had to work to get one... Nothing indecent, of course. Just when I was about to give up, someone threw one at me. Please note the huge silver bead around my neck... A lot of hard work went into getting that one.

Rex is the early Tuesday morning parade. Never seen so many people so early so alert and ready to party!

This and a couple of pictures below are taken by my friend Sanyo... I have a serious case of camera envy.

Did they know it was the year of the Ox?

Why do we bother screaming and jumping for beads when they're EVERYWHERE?!

My beautiful parade buddies. Sanyo calmly took pictures while Thuy and I screamed silly for beads. I hung plenty around his neck though, as my own becomes quite heavy after awhile.

I did find the price for the dress. It was so high my heart hit the floor. It's insensible, even for my frivolous taste. That's the thing with Vogue. I have to keep that fantasy world separate from reality. It's dangerous when I start thinking "maybe if I don't eat or drink or buy anything for a year... I can buy this dress... so perfect for brunch..."

This dress in the latest Vogue reminds of the shirts I see my mom wearing in old photographs. Soft silk or chiffon that seems to move even in still frames, creating its own swirls of air. I am absolutely in love with it, and wish I could find a price tag to know how out of reach it really is.

Woody Allen looks old in the new Vanity Fair spread. Makes me sad...

I started Neurosurgery today. It wasn't bad at all. I'm waiting for my good luck to run out and the anticipation of doom is making me nauseous. I have to work very closely with someone that used to (but no longer) means the world to me, so it's important to keep a level head for the next two weeks. Must not revert back to old mistakes. I see people do it alllll the time. Must not be one of them.

Many years ago (four to be exact), my friend Michelle baked me a chocolate amaretto birthday cake so good it blew me away! I should have begged for the recipe right then and there except I never imagined that I would one day own a bundt pan. So... you can imagine how happy I was when she emailed me the recipe, with a surprise ingredient that I never would have thought of but could very well explain the magic of this cake. I'm going to make it before sharing the recipe, just in case my memory played a trick on me.

I'm not going to buy any more clothes no matter how lovely. I'm also going to stop buying cooking magazines and books until I've tried the ones in my recipe book, now bulging with clippings. I will, however, get the new Vogue... just soon as it comes out.

This Valentine's Day is bittersweet, just like the chocolate I used for my Chocolate Pomegranate Torte. The sweet part being my dear friend who threw a dinner party with lots of hearts and kisses. The bitter part being... well, you know who you are.

I can't help but recall the very first dinner party that ever took place in Thuy's apt, after the first test second year when we returned to New Orleans after Katrina. That was the first time I ever made bread pudding, with Thuy's recipe and supervision. To think that I almost chickened out and didn't think I had it in me to make a creamy custard.

For this dinner party, I decided to make the chocolate-pomegranate torte on the cover of December's FINE COOKING. My biggest fear when making any chocolate cake is that it turns out to be nothing more than a fancy brownie that took five hours to prepare. I had to fight every urge not to have a back-up chocolate cake, something safe and fluffy, preferably with buttermilk. But I know for my torte to even have a fighting chance against my friends' sweet-sensitive palates, it had to be the solo star of the dessert table.

So... I faithfully folded egg whites into the dense chocolate batter (72% cocoa); simmered, reduced, and strained pomegranate/cranberries to make a tart jelly; and early Saturday morning, I put a shiny dark glaze to cover the whole thing.

The end result, as you can see, is quite worth the labor. Something that tastes as pretty as it looks is a rare find. The sprinkle of fresh pomegranate seed makes it elegant yet sweet. And this glaze, while suspiciously shiny, still has the soft and earthy richness of fine dark chocolate.


The layer of pomegranate jelly between the torte and glaze is hard to see, but believe me its presence is quite necessary. A tartness to balance the bittersweet chocolate. The torte is actually quite moist, despite what this picture may show. Next time, I will use 70% chocolate instead of 72%. It turns out that had I read the article more carefully, I would have learned that darker the chocolate, the more crumbly and dry the cake will turn out to be.

The hand-dipped strawberries always look so heavenly in the Godiva store. So I bought some long-stemmed strawberries and made my own! Tuxedo styled. :)

Thuy... always the perfect hostess.

Doing the dishes... Not bad at all... :)

Dinner last night at La Crepe Nanou was part pleasant, part sticky. Why must people be moody? And worse yet, why must you displace your bad mood onto other people? If you can't snap out of it, stay home!

That's harsh, I know... but a week day gathering of old friends over steaming mussels and chocolate crepes should be better-than-Xmas-morning good. I'm bitter because there are only 3 more months left before I leave them, before I have to fake smiles and force conversations with NEW acquaintances who may or may not ever become good friends. Sigh... I'm so exhausted just thinking about it.

Valentine's Day dinner party! I've decided on a chocolate-pomegranate torte and Juliet Kisses! The torte will be much too sweet for my friends who prefer whipped cream icing instead of butter cream... but it's for the ambitious baker in me... I couldn't resist the thought of making a pomegranate jelly! A fine skill to have under my sleeve and brag about, don't you think?

I have a lot going on in my mind. Is that why I have been waking up at 3:30 am for the past two days? It's not pleasant, this insomnia thing. I can see how people can go crazy.

Slumdog Millionaire goes on my list of favorite movies. It also goes on my list of movies I would never watch again. It is heart wrenching, spares no graphic detail. I had to look down (or up, or not at all) a couple of times. The plot? Not the point at all. It's the backdrop of this film that I walk away thinking about, and probably will always think about when I encounter anything Indian for the next couple of months.

All mornings do not start off equally. Some leads to the corner I've been waiting to turn. There is no guarantee what lies ahead, of course... but there it is, something new!

Sometimes I refuse to feel better. If I didn't, I would sleep with this book. I would keep a copy in every room of my apartment. I would read it instead of watching TV. I would read it instead of blogging.

I'm going to mail a copy to my "little swallow" (literal translation of her Chinese name). She is in DC! From China!! For three years!!! Here is when no amount of exclamation marks or adverbs layered on adjectives layered on grandiose vocabulary could express how utterly shocked and happy I am. Sure, she is still rather far, I still can't see her right away, but we are in the same country!!! I haven't spend quality time with her since I was seventeen! Our last reunion in 2005 was only 48 hrs and so very rushed.

I'm also going to mail her a package of gumbo mix! I think cooking has never been her forte and I still remember my first bite into a hamburger when I first came to the US... the taste of pickles was so disgusting it would take months before I give hamburgers another try (must have been a whopper). There is something about the spices in gumbo that agrees rather well with even the most unaccustomed/picky of Chinese taste buds. Plus it's easy to make. Plus I just want to send her stuff.

http://www.elizabethgilbert.com/eatpraylove.htm

Today is a historic day in my country, and this entry is just my way of saying -- I'm here. This happened in my time.

The day Barack Obama was elected, about twenty TV stations televised the last twenty minutes of the election. I flipped the channels without pausing, a blur of balloons and confetti. I did stop for one full minute on one particular image, long enough to formulate what this election meant to me.

The image was a little girl sitting high on her dad's shoulders, waving the American flag with such excitement that her blond curls went wild. She couldn't be more than five, and the big smile on her face convinced me that she grasped fully the significance of this election, had toiled for the president's win, and was so proud of the victory. I thought: how special, for this one moment in time, there isn't an ounce of racial prejudice in her heart. She truly loves her President, as only a child can. Then I thought how amazing it would be for a whole new generation to grow up with an African American man as their President, if only for the personification of racial equality, an extra weapon to fend off bigotry. I hope all the narrow-minded conservatives slept a little uneasily that night, and their festering beliefs shaken just enough to let some new air in.

I also hope once the Inauguration is over, my new President won't continue to be a celebrity, at least not in this blindly-worship-and-douse-with-impossible-expectations sort of way. I hope he does wonderful things for the country. As of right now, he is what we need... and I'm thankful for what he has already done.

A little trepidation on rejoining the home crowd. I've been away for so long. Three more months of rotations, then it's almost graduation time. Sounds fast, but can feel like an eternity when the immediate future is so uncertain. I don't even know where to report to for clinic next week. How I would like to climb back into Linda N's sofa bed, curl up with The Traveler's Wife, and catch the late shuttle.

Beautiful hazelnuts. They are my favorite. Special little dome tops with pointed nose. I was careful not to burn them in the oven. That would be so sad.

Just because I like a city, doesn't mean I have to live there for three years... Yet how hard it is to commit three years of my life to a city that I do not enjoy.

The city of Charleston had me at the first sniff of these road-side, home-made praline candy stores. I thought they were a New Orleans specialty and would never be found beyond the rain gutters of French Quarter, yet there they are on streets with such promising names (Market, King, East Bay).

I'm not pointing to anything in particular. The greedy smile says "I want it all". In the end, I settled on pumpkin fudge and warm praline. They made my tour through downtown Charleston, in the drizzing RAIN, quite enjoyable.

There were chocolate barks of every kind. This one in particular caught my eye because it seems easily duplicable... by TnL. I seem to remember some M&M cookies that were well received. This may be worth a try, don't you think?

A pot of gold! Actually, it was a barrel.

Look how clean the streets are, a striking contrast to my beloved French Quarter. I can make these critical comparisons without feeling guilty because I LOVE New Orleans, and we all know it's quite acceptable to criticize what we truly love.

Where to go for lunch? Not an easy question to answer when Charleston is a city known for its lowcountry cooking and entire magazines are devoted to answering this very question. So...

Bull Street Gourmet. It does not disappoint. Fresh sandwiches made from scratch by smiling cashier/chef/owner behind wooden counters. It's a local kitchen/restaurant with a steady streaming of customers lined up for their take outs. The famous chicken salad sandwich is dotted with cranberries and hazelnuts, creamy and crunchy...

Interesting how well walnut goes with banana, like tapioca with milk tea. Pecans? Almonds? Not the same. I have tried half a dozen bread pudding recipes, but the simplicity and variations on this rustic dessert always makes it hard for me to turn down a new one. In fact, I have never repeated myself. The truth is good bread soaked in creamy sweet custard is good no matter what you do. Burn the topping? Scrap it off! Still good. Forgot the raisins? Sprinkle it on! Still good. My mom wanted me to make bread pudding for her, so I tried a new banana walnut version with raisins soaked in brandy. Oh so goo!

http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/emeril-lagasse/banana-walnut-bread-pudding-with-buttery-rum-sauce-recipe/index.html

Interesting that even though I insisted no celebration, I cannot forgo the need to feel especially special today… When I was ten I demanded ten presents (the tenth one, I remember, was a white fluffy stuffed animal hidden in my bed). I now prefer to spread out my material needs evenly throughout the year. I do, however, appreciate the cookbooks my mom bought without second guessing me with "are you sure you need these"? It was my birthday, and she bought me what I wanted with an obliging consent that I will miss... tomorrow. The pretty ribboned zucchini salad below is from Giada (her book I actually didn't buy). I didn't have asparagus so I sprinkled on some sweet corn for color.

Interesting how I don't feel a day over twenty… five?

I had the same old discussion with my parents today, which almost dangerously ended with me not in tears. No such luck. My mom opened her mouth for two seconds and down pour the tears. They just don't get it. I don't get it. Is this going to be a sour topic for the next few months or the next few years?! Will this never be resolved?! Dear God, is there anything I can do? A class, a book, divine intervention?! I'm so frustrated I cry when driving long distances... I so wish to give up, but that involves stop living... There is no changing their minds, there is no changing my mind, there is no changing status quo... so... for now, some tears seem to be all I can do.

My mom is on the computer with her best friend in China, via video phone. They're both eating sun-flower seeds and talking about getting older, laughing at themselves between sounds of spitting out shells and talking over each other.

I'm reading Under the Tuscan Sun, a book that writes so elaborately about nothing at all (at least so far). Beautiful adjectives and modifiers lavished on mattress springs and broken table legs. It's not at all like the movie, which I rather liked because it's so people-centric. I read it for the parts that she talks about food, the pointed differentiations between buffalo milk mozzarella and regular cow's. Also because when I was little my mom told me no matter how labor-some certain books may be to read, the author put in so much work writing them that the least I could do is finish. I wholeheartedly disagree. There are far too many amazing works out there to spend time on the not so amazing ones... but her logic made so much sense when I was eight that I still can't shake it... Sometimes I rebel, putting down unfinished books for months at a time, but always retrieving it from the bookshelf when I can't bare its neglected binding sitting so sadly on my bookshelf, accusing me of mistreatment.

So I'm half way through my latest book, so I'm inspired to write about nothing at all, so continues my search for the next amazing one...

Okay, so... ratatouille... I made it but I don't really get it... Don't be mad, all the ratatouille lovers out there, but it's just stewed veggies with some herbs... right? I keep thinking maybe when I layer it all together, the whole thing would take on this new flavor, but my zucchini still tasted like zucchini. The problem is I make too many things without having tasted them first (done the correct way), so I never know whether what I made is close to the way the kitchen gods intended. I want to taste Linda's before passing judgement on the dish... after all, there was a whole movie named after it.



What I loved from dinner are the thyme popovers I made! I've never had popovers before so I have no idea whether mine rose to the target height. But below this crusty top is a texture so light it's almost hollow, a fluffiness I like to pull apart with both hands between my fingers before putting it in my mouth. To think, I didn't even have the whole milk specified in the recipe... how good they would have been otherwise.

Happy New Year!!!

Something delicious came out of my oven today -- a hazelnut cake with 2 heaping cups of hazelnuts, pulsed with sugar and a tiny bit of flour. The most amazing part is this cake calls for no butter! The nutty flavor really shines through. I baked this healthful dessert at the very first day of 2009, hoping to start a trend for this coming year!

I couldn't get into the groove of baking this morning, staring at the recipes and missing Linda N's smooth, marbled kitchen counters. Sure, I have three springform pans and muffin tins big and small... but my stupid kitchen light buzzes like a mosquito when I turn it on. It wasn't until I started chopping up apples that I started to feel better, even dared to imagine the apple galette as pretty as the picture. It's still in the oven, I'm once again struggling over the fine line between gooey rawness and burnt crust. Thus the resetting of the timer for every 3 minutes... thus the cursing of the oven for lack of an oven light! Aiii... I do what I can.

I go home tomorrow, in time for New Year's eve. It's only been a couple of weeks since I saw my parents, so I dare say that I don't miss them yet. I do miss the people I more recently left behind, the old friends who snap into my present no matter how loosely we keep in touch... and I wonder, how did I ever get by without talking to them everyday. I resist the urge to text and call over random little things, just to keep them present a little longer. I don't count on the next time we meet (with xiao ming!)... life can be unpredictable in the worst ways... I have pictures to bring back the great friends I have, here and now.

I'm picking and choosing what I want to talk about... skipping over topics too complicated and convoluted to spill over my keyboard. I don't want to talk about the residency interview process, the false sense of security programs douse on their applicants and the uncertain aftertaste in my mouth after each trip. Before I rank programs, I need to rank my priorities... and that has been very difficult. It involves a balance of personal happiness and professional success... perhaps the two are mostly counteractive for all but the lucky few.

Something else I don't want to talk about is the dark cloud hanging over me for the past months. It comes and goes, more out of sight when I was reading "Eat, Pray, Love", but comes back at the most inconvenient times. It makes me sad when I should be happy, forces me to smile insincerely, and pushes me to participate in conversations I know nothing about ... so no one notices that I feel out of place...

Let's talk about how difficult it is to bake a cake or tart or pie for the very first time and not know what it tastes like before giving it to people. That first bit (mine and theirs) is pure torment, that moment of silent chewing before the verdict. Of course, I have taste buds of my own, I know perfectly well when something is good, amazing, or horrid... So is it appropriate to criticize my own baking in front of other people, or is that bad baker etiquette. I need to know.

Yet another new recipe from my new cookbook (Williams-Sonoma's Savoring Desserts). This almond sponge cake only takes a little flour, the rest are finely ground almonds (almond flour?). I love that. The texture is more substantial and satisfying, a nice contrast because it's very moist. One complaint is how sweet it is, and I skipped the last step that asked me to poke holes all over the cake and pour simple syrup all over it!

This Apple and Goat Cheese Galette is worth repeating! I know this because my friend picked his second slice with bare hands and ate it like a pizza! Such gusto is a great compliment. Of course, you have to like goat cheese... The puff pastry make this very easy, no kneading or rolling needed. I've been making a lot of layered apple desserts (all different, mind you), because that is the one staple I always have around...

It has been a good month in Houston. So good that I don't want to leave, so good I'm making plans to come back, so good that I wonder wouldn't it be cool if my friend and I both end up here for residency. Yes, it has been a good month.

On my last morning in Houston, Linda N took me to our favorite crepery one last time... CoCo Crepes and Coffee. She was in the mood for anything Nutella and I wanted the old favorite - raspberry white chocolate mousse (no, it's not too early for this much sugar).

Thinking back, we realized that we have come here every weekend for breakfast
and that one time for lunch with the girls.

I miss it already.

I got my first pedicure in the village with Linda and Linda (and Linda's Richard) and confirmed what I suspected to be true -- I have sensitive toes and very thin toe nails. I was trying hard not to say "ouch" or make any tortured faces... When I glanced over at the girls they seemed comfortable as can be with their magazines in hand and the nail ladies painting/filing/scrubbing away. This is all rather worrisome because I loved my pedicure and look forward to more in the future.

I'm having packing anxieties. Apparently so, since I'm sitting on the floor surrounded by open suitcaes, unconfirmed iteneraries, short sleeve dresses, a scarf, a mitten, and this laptop I'm about to leave behind... blogging. Let me explain. It was 70 degrees in Houston this morning. Now it is 45 F. I'm about to leave for the Sunshine State tomorrow where it's almost80 degrees... but only after waiting thirty minutes in the freezing cold at the crack of dawn for the super shuttle to take me to the airport. What's a girl to wear? What's a girl to pack? My tiny suitcae will be filled up to the max with my suit and shoes alone.

Thus the anxiety. Thus the blogging.

2008 is almost over, so suddenly. I'm back where I started, long ago. I find myself forgetting old grudges, giving the city another chance. There are so much to miss, after all. The hardest part was driving in, seeing the Fannin St exit for the first time in four years. I have exited here hundreds of times before, but never in the driver's seat. I changed lanes and missed my exit... by choice.

I burned toast yesterday. Reflexively I panicked, seeing the thick, dark smoke leaking out of Linda N's little white toaster oven. I turned on the fan, opened door, cracked on the AC, lit the candle… Suddenly I'm back in that cramped dorm room, where nothing belonged to me except the lavender cup filled with colorful pens. Suddenly my blond roommate is accusing me of stealing her ID, so early on Saturday morning. Suddenly I'm trapped within the hedges, with nowhere to go except the gym.

The smoke clings to the apartment, my current apartment so close to the med school, the one Linda N invited me to share with her for my month in Houston. I scrub the toaster clean, throw out the dark brick of a toast, and chase a fly out of the balcony door. The smell stays. Linda comes home. I tell the story. She laughs. I'm all flushed. She laughs some more.

I still wait for the shuttle every morning, which comes around only once a hour but drops me off so close to work. I drive all around the city, sometimes purposely muting the GPS to get off track, just a little. I haven't changed that much. There are still isles of stores in the Galleria I only peek into. I see my old self in all the old places, in every person running around the outer loop. I smile at her, and smile at myself because there are still so much of her inside me.

How appropriate, I'm reading The Time Traveler's Wife. It gets me thinking of the time traveling I do these days.

I boiled so much hot water for the past few days I broke the electric kettle. Now I use the coffee maker and pretend it doens't have old coffee taste. I haven't done anything for the past week except drink, eat, sleep, and putting lip gloss on my dry, chapped lips (St louis is the driest city on Earth). I shall power through and blog on.

At this very minute, my mom is packing away bits and pieces of this house and moving it all to Atlanta. This will be last holiday I spend in St Louis, after 2.5 years of calling it home. I have trouble grasping the idea that some people spend their whole lives in one place, that one house could hold ALL the memories of a lifetime. As far as I'm concerned, "home" can be many places at the same time. I have moved so many times by now that beside the hassles of packing, no lament or sadness comes with this move. There is only the excitment of seeing a new city, and hope that maybe this time we will stay put for awhile.

August 2007 was a good month.

I don't have any pictures to remind me of the truly memorable moments in BR, like how my roomate picked me up off the floor and threw me into bed to sleep, all because I refused to take a nap postcall and used that as an excuse not to go out. That night at Tsunami's turned out to be one of the most fun, the yummiest sushi I've had in a long time and chocolate cake so warm and soft I didn't know whether to chew or purr. I lost the snapshot of the six donut men that represented Team C -- I had a leg, Anne had an arm, and Tati a body or two. And then there were the bedtime giggles, so very contagious, about nothing at all... Delirium, some may call it. I miss it so.

August ended so soon, in between my hurrying along some moments, and lamenting every other. If only it were possible to skip hours and days, but never seeing the end of the month. We departed, my happy roomates and I, while still believing that we can never grow tired of each other. I can't, and shouldn't, ask for more.