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a random walk down 55th street

While walking to Starbucks, I passed a sign for JavaPop (the "healthy alternative to coffee"), a small white dog whose hair had been dyed blue, and a man selling his poetry on the street corner. I'm back!

A pints a pound the world around...

...except when you're in London. Then a pint is at least 3 pounds.

Wachau

There were no flaxen-haired children singing and dancing in the hills to the sound of music, but this may be because the Wachau half marathon had no hills! Boh. I guess I'll have to head to Tyrol next time.

On the bus to the starting line, I sat next to a 46-year old highschool history/Latin teacher. His marathon PR was 2:28; however, due to an illness earlier in the week, he was hoping to finish the half in under 1:20. He had never run outside of Austria. I wonder what the German-version of "Ubaldo" is.

The course was beautiful. To the left were hills, vineyards, and sometimes castles. To the right was the Donau River. Alongside a water station, one of the wineries offered runners Riesling to sample.

On the train ride back, I fell asleep and must have dropped my book, pen, and jacket, because when I woke up someone benevolent put them in a neat pile next to me.

MQ and a tangent to Knedliki

That [pop] you heard was my head imploding during today’s visit to the MUMOK, Vienna’s modern art museum in the MuseumsQuartier. The lower floors were outside of my “envelope of comfort” in a way more extreme than even the Kunsthalle’s “Tram and Trama” (Dream and Trauma”) exhibit. There were just too many deformed babies and naked people in mud for one afternoon.

On my way out, I stopped by the designform, which had an exhibit on the “stuff” people use in every day around the world. It was quite progressive (it emphasized similarities rather than differences) and had a little section on cooking. (Yes, you knew I’d get to food somehow). I think I spent a good fifteen minutes marveling at the different spoons of Japan and watching a video of ladies making dumplings (“Xina – Ravioli”).

Speaking of dumplings, it dawned on me the other day that Austria, the land of meat and potatoes, is actually the perfect place for making gnocchi. I don’t love them, but Georgia does, so I dug up my notes from Italy and went to the kitchen.

Gnocchi – Put whole potatoes in cold water and bring to a boil. Cook until they are fork mashable, drain, and put into an ice-water bath. Peel potatoes and mash until smooth. Add flour (Marco used Type 00, I used Type W480, you should use All-Purpose), a little at a time, and knead. You’ll have added enough flour once the dough stops sticking to your hands. Cut off a bit of dough and roll into a snake on a floured surface. Cut into nickel or quarter-sized pieces. Add grooves by pressing the sticky end of the gnocchi (i.e. the interior of the snake) onto the tines of a fork. Let gnocchi rest on a plate of flour. To cook, add to boiling salted water until they float.
Fresh gnocchi don’t keep long, so I think it’s better to shape them right before you plan to boil them. If you decide to keep extra dough in the fridge, you’ll have to add more flour before shaping them again.

Gnocchi are good in rich sauces and small quantities. Kind of like post-modern art.

This is kind of gross if you think about it. . .

This does not include chocolate...

Pope, Soap, Rope

The Pope was in town visiting this weekend, which meant that all the churches put up yellow and white flags (to show support? to help him get through the city? to demonstrate the diversity of God’s real estate portfolio?). Georgia and I were walking through Stephansplatz and we came across a gospel concert.

The performance was broadcast on telescreens throughout the city center. A young man in black was directing an Austrian choir, singing things like Glory, Glory, Glory and Praise the Lord, Lord Jesus Christ. Their diction was excellent, their songs all in English, and their enthusiasm terrifying. Some of the audience were quite moved by the music—they stood up, danced, clapped to the beat, sang along, shouted back. I wanted to run away. It began to rain. The choir director finished a passionate solo.

“Well,” said Georgia, “he does do a good job of trying to be a black woman.”