Gluten-free dreaming, Part I: The Cracker

I had a dream last night about crackers.

While walking back to lab through the infinite, I looked down at the piece of cheese I was munching on and discovered a half-eaten cracker beneath it.

"Aw man! I'm eating a cracker!" I thought, and spit out the crumbs into a nearby trashcan.

Five minutes later, I found something crunchy in my mouth again.

"God dammit!" I thought, "I just ate another cracker!!"

title fail

A book of poetry and prose by Native American women, published in 1983:

Tricked-out Barbie Dreamhouse

Of all her gifts, my five-year old cousin Alexis was most excited about this one:

Chillin' in the second story salon (with cameo audio appearance by Alexis herself):

 

My fourth floor apartment doesn't even have a working elevator!! Or a TV!!

Seasons Greetings from Minnesnowta

Snow storm landing

Sub-optimal driving conditions

Snowbanks impede visibility

Two and a half feet accumulation translates to about mid-thigh

Icicles on the Eves

Have a homemade cinnamon bun!

Farewell!

An Ode to Artemis

After three years of subjecting my beloved Artemis [1] to some of the worst conditions that a bicycle could possibly expect to endure, I finally brought her in for her first Cambridge tune-up: new tires (exchanged mountains for hybrids), new chain, new cassette, and a general sprucing up (though in Cambridge I prefer my bikes decidedly unspruced - less tempting to thiefs). I have ridden Artemis in snow, heavy rain (including an eight-foot-high semi-truck puddle tidal wave!), wind and hail (the ice chunks were bouncing off my helmet like ping pong balls). She has been locked up all over Cambridge, inside, outside, often overnight, and is scrappy enough to never get stolen.

I must admit, my reluctance to bring her in earlier was mostly due to a disdain for (and slight intimidation by) the type of snooty hipster fixie fanatics who work places like Cambridge Bicycle. Artemis is a modest bike - a light blue Specialized Hard Rock mountain bike with a tiny frame that my dad bought for me for my twelfth birthday. She has traversed nearly every bike path in Minnesota (plus quite a few country roads to boot), gave me the freedom to explore my adopted city, and kept me close to one of the most amazing people in the world (my dad). But, those shiny high-class road bikes and oh-so-hip lime green fixies staring out the windows of most bike shops don't know this. They look down at Artemis and only see her chubby tires, too-high seat, and think "what a loser." (No I am NOT being paranoid! I can see it in those judgemental handlebars . . . )

But, things were getting desperate. The mesh around the rim of the rear tire was disintegrating, the tube pushing through and deforming the wheel like a tumor. I could feel it as I rode, little speed bumps. Biking home at 2 AM in the 20 F windy Cambridge weather with the clunky chain was turning into an exercise in endurance. My friend Nicole suggested a small bike repair shop in East Cambridge called HubBicycle, which is run by a nice woman named Emily and her one assistant. Emily was listening to "Wait Wait Don't Tell Me" when I walked in, and declared it her favorite show (okay, that is still hipster, but NERDY hipster - my homies!) and her assistant recognized my Minnesotan area code and had a Minnesota cow (not a Minnesotan but married to one - more homies!)

Mug shots: before and after

 My bike was not judged by hipster fixies, I was not forced to buy random junk, and now I have her back, shiny and better than ever. As I pushed down on the pedal to pull away from the shop, I said, under my breath, "These gears feel like butter."

I took a bike ride for fun today, in the 20 F cold. Oh yeah, I am just that hard core.

[1] My bicycle, named after Artemis (the Romans called her Diana), greek goddess of the hunt. Her symbol is the stag. Statues of her were some of my favorite during my visit to the Louvre last November:

Experts at RLP

I stumbled upon this excellent quote while re-watching old episodes of Newsradio (my favorite show in junior high school and still highly recommended - at least until it jumps the shark midway through Season 3):

Lisa: I - I can do it sir, though it does seem completely hypocritical and illogical - I can do it.
Mr. James: Sorry, I'm used to working with Dave, see he's got a true gift for RLP.
Lisa: What?
Mr. James: Reconciling Logical Paradoxes.

Now, it struck me that a gift for RLP is probably one of the most useful talents a graduate student can have. Who among us is not faced with contradictory or nonsensical situations on a nearly daily basis? ("Please complete this experiment which to all intents and purposes is impossible", "Please write this report even though it was due three days ago," "Please start a new experiment even though you already have five underway". And of course, the biggest logical paradox of all: "What I am still doing in grad school?")

It is not therefore not surprising that students (especially in science!) have such a hard time adjusting to the demands of graduate school: we were (educationally speaking) raised in a world of problem sets and lab reports, right and wrong answers, yes or no - with no middle ground (or "higher ground", where the solutions to RLPs are usually found). 

But survival in this world is dependent on RLP - you wouldn't want to be pray to Logic Bombs like a mere android, would you?!?

So, next time you find yourself wondering why on Earth you are throwing away your twenties on an experiment that will never work, just remind yourself: "I am becoming an expert at RLP". (See! I just reconciled a logical paradox! I'm getting good)

P.S. Speaking of logical paradoxes, how is this not cheating?

Kara v. Book #1: November 2010

Nick Hornby writes a column for "The Believer" in which he lists all the books he's bought and all the books he's books read in a given month. It is subtitled "A hilarious and true account of one man's struggle with the monthly tide of the books he's bought and the books he's been meaning to read". Now, I know I am not nearly so awesome as Nick Hornby [1], but I am surely not a stranger to the battle of the books (as anyone who ever seen me flip out in a bookstore can attest to). And so, though I know my book reading habits are not nearly as intriguing as those of a nationally known author, I thought it might be fun to give this a go. Anyone with a violent opposition to literature or reading-related auto-immune disorder is advised to turn back now.

Barley Bear protects (and sometimes samples) my Rilke

I would like to start off by pointing out one key aspect of my book buying strategy, which is this: If I think I will read a book quickly and never look at it again (for example: fantasy novels, mysteries, bestsellers, etc.), I will generally get it from the library. If, however, I believe I will read a book slowly and refer back to certain passages in the future (for example: philosophy, "literature", poetry), I will generally buy it. This leads to an automatic (and somewhat unfair) disparity between the books I buy and those I "complete" - because "completing" a 300 page book of collected poems or a 500 page philosophy anthology in less than one month is paramount to mental suicide, and, in my opinion, ruins the experience of an art form that must at times be savored slowly. So, please have mercy on me for the all the glaring discrepancies - they are there for a reason.

So, with no further ado, here are my lists:

Books Bought:

• Kierkegaard, a very short introduction, by Patrick Gardiner [2] 
• Swann's Way, by Marcel Proust (translated by Lydia Davis)
• Consider the Lobster, by David Foster Wallace
• The Myth of Sisyphus and Other Essays, by Albert Camus [Used]

I bought the 1991 Vintage edition of Sisyphus particularly for it's cover

Books Completed:

• Darkness Visible, by William Styron
• Gathering Blue, by Louis Lowry
• The Eyre Affair, by Jasper Fforde [Library]

Darkness Visible is currently loaned out to a friend

 Books Read in Part: Kierkegaard: A Short Introduction (30 pages), Swann's Way (10 pages), Considering the Lobster (60 pages), The Myth of Sisyphus (60 pages), A Kierkegaard Anthology (30 pages), and The Elegance of the Hedgehog (30 pages).

Yes, it has happened! Grad school has turned me existential! In the words of Camus: "If I see a man armed only with a sword attack a group of machine guns, I shall consider his act to be absurd." [3, pg. 29] And who, as a graduate student, has not felt exactly like a lone man battling a barrage of machine fire with nought but a dull machete? - if you don't believe me, just imagine your last meeting with your advisor!

Whether or not I am in an "existential crisis", whatever that means, I have been finding a great deal of comfort in Camus and Keirkegaard. These two philosophers double as authors, and so bring their thoughts closer to real life then some of the big boys like Hegel or Kant. For example, a quote by Camus:

"At the final stage you teach me that this wondrous and multicolored universe can be reduced to an atom and that the atom can be reduced to the electron. All this is good and I wait for you to continue. But you tell me of an invisible planetary system in which electrons gravitate around a nucleus. You explain this worl...d to me with an image. I realize then that you have been reduced to poetry: I shall never know" [3, pg 20]

I started this entry too late - I must be getting to bed. But if you would like to know my thoughts on any of the books I mentioned, please let me know in the comments section. I am happy to discuss books at length with anyone with the patience to put up with me.

Cheers!

Notes:

[1] In case you are not familiar with Nick Hornby, he wrote "High Fidelity" and "About a Boy", which have been made into Hollywood films starring John Cusack and Hugh Grant, respectively. He has written a number of other novels, which in my experience are quick and breezy yet still well-written and intelligent - in other words, perfect novels to help you take your mind off of grad school or a depressing job. You should check him out!

[2] I actually bought this book on October 31st, Halloween night, at the Harvard Coop while dressed in my costume! See, I took a picture:

[3] Camus, Albert. The Myth of Sisyphus and Other Essays.Vintage International Edition, New York: 1991.

Toilet seat etiquette, straight from the source

(Taken on an undisclosed bathroom wall somewhere in Cambridge)

Winter brings its small consolations

Finding hope amid the great darkness! (Also, the first post of the Bitter Boston Bicyclist to actually feature bicycling).

The absence of leaves creates thoroughly unexpected view of the Boston skyline from my bedroom window! While decidedly not spectacular, the sight of the city lights at night is quite thrilling.

Despite the cold dry air, the grass plant (for cat munching) manages to create it's own dew each morning.

Biker Balaclava Ninja!!

The employees at Toscanini's decided to string polar bears from the ceiling. I took the liberty of naming them. Avalanche is my favorite.

Coffee is, of course, always a consolation. Cheers!

A Bread-less Boston Thanksgiving

It is evening before Thanksgiving, and I am gearing up for my first turkey-day with friends rather than family and, also, without bread. That's right, no more bread for me! At least, not of the wheat-containing variety (ie, the good kind). A couple months ago, during a none-so-pleasant stomach flu that was persisting into it's third week, I received a positive blood test for Celiac disease, an autoimmune disease in which eating gluten destroys the lining of the small intestine, resulting in malnutrition and stomach pain. It requires a genetic predisposition ("Hey baby, I'm genetically predisposed to you . . .") but can manifest itself anytime during one's life, and is often triggered by stress (uuhhhh, as a fourth year phd student I have no idea where I'd get that from).

There is no cure. The only treatment: a lifetime ban on gluten. (Good job MIT. In addition to taking away my pride and my sanity, you have now also succeeded in taking away my ability to eat BREAD!)

I was actually incredibly relieved to have the diagnosis. I have been struggling for months with unexplained fatigue (I asked my doctor for a mono test at the beginning of the summer. She said it was allergies and handed me some Zyrtec. And a pregnancy test - because at MIT medical, all ailments are a result of pregnancy. Seriously, dudes, I dare you to go to the clinic complaining of nausea and fatigue - someone will ask you when your last period was) and it was nice to finally know the cause.

And, somehow, maybe not by accident, I have just never really liked bread that much. Rolls? Nah, I'll stick with mashed potatoes. Donuts? Rather have a Twizzler (Ooops, they are also made of wheat. Uh, I'll take some chocolate then). Pasta? I'll go with the tacos instead.

Finally, one more reason not to feel too sorry for me (though, some pity is always appreciated): I live in Cambridge, MA. There are two Whole Foods, two health food co-ops, and one Trader Joes within walking distance of my house. A pizza place that makes it's entire menu using gluten-free dough (i.e., with rice and sorghum flour rather than wheat). A bakery/cafe with freakin' gluten-free take-out dinner options. Not to mention, tacos - with corn tortillas - are always gluten-free (and lord knows how easily I could live on nothing but tacos).

Anyhow, this Thanksgiving I'll have to skip the rolls and pass on the mac and cheese, but I'm cooking a wild rice side dish, mashed potatoes, and some gravy with corn starch rather than flour - and lord knows as long as there are mashed potatoes and gravy, something is going right in the world.

For those who are curious, and to clear up some misconceptions:

Gluten-y foods: Anything containing wheat, rye, and barley. This includes bread, cereal, pasta, baked goods, and beer (nooooooo!), plus just about every processed food made in America (beware of "vegetable thickener"!) and also just about every restaurant item made in America (as I've discovered from a couple highly disappointing "gluten-free" dining experiences)

Gluten-free foods: All kinds of rice, beans, quinoa, potatoes, corn, sorghum wheat, and buckwheat.

Cheers!

An Honest Question from an Honest Bum

"Can I ask a question? Why do kids these days always think they're younger than they are!? This is killing me!"

Any thoughts?

Dude, I'm trying to write a blog post here!

And you are TOTALLY not helping.

I can haz interwebs?

On being 25, feeling both old and young

Hello all. I know it has been awhile since my last posting. I returned from Corsica and life hit like a monsoon (I have learned, in my fledgling adult years, that stress, when it comes, often comes in buckets). And, as anyone who has ever tried to keep one of these silly blog things knows, when life attacks, online writing is generally the first to go.

Speaking of "fledgling adult years" - I have been more than three years on my own now, and still I am so overwhelmed with questions. Questions, questions, everyday more questions, every minute more questions. What do I want to eat today? Or, more importantly (though less often asked) what can I afford to eat today? Should I wear the green shoes or the pink shoes? Where on EARTH did I lock my bike? Am I forgetting something?  Aren't I due for my next dentist appointment? OH SHOOT it was last week - will they let me reschedule?

And that's just the easy stuff. We haven't even gotten to:

Did I do my taxes right? Wait, wasn't there a student loan payment due at some point? Is [such-and-such friend] doing okay? Am I being supportive enough of [such-and-such friend] as s/he struggles with [such-and-such problem]? Do I want to be in a relationship right now?! Am I on the right career path?! Oh god, I am of childbearing age?!?!?!

And then the little questions start to bleed into the big questions, and the big questions infiltrate the little questions, and I want to grab that 40-something woman next to me on the subway and scream "How have you not yet been crushed by the weight of life?!" (I must say: no wonder so many of us 20-somethings find refuge in the warm and fuzzy embrace of our beer jackets [or, take your pick: vodka coats, rum mittens, wine scarves, margarita balaclavas?])

In celebration of his 25th birthday, my friend Raoul was sent a rack of ribs (fedexed, overnight, on dry ice) from his uncle, and early one Saturday afternoon a few of us gathered at his house to enjoy a nice barbeque lunch. And while the meal-time conversation was decidedly "adult" (no, not in that way you perv) - centering on such issues as "who's ready for marriage?" and "what are you favorite kitchen appliances?" - somehow we afterwards all gathered in the bedroom, where we spent a long afternoon lazing on the bed, playing silly games on an ipad, and giggling like little girls.

Amid the hailstorm of Big and Little Questions, it was nice to spend a few hours feeling like a kid again.

Relationships in Black and White

Despite the urgings of many a friend (and mom - though, I only have one mom), I had to leave little Anderson Chaussette behind in Cargese. Not to worry, he will be cared for - he wore a little white collar (though, without a label) and one night I saw a woman in the neighboring apartment feeding him and a larger but otherwise identical version of him (the mother, I presume?)

I however, am not doing so well. I thought I could handle a little kitty-dating, a little casual kitty hook-up. Mr. Romeo, my balcon chaton, slipping through the window in the dead of night and curling up beside me, disappearing just as quickly in the morning. But, as you have probably guessed, I couldn't help getting my feelings involved, and now I miss him terribly.

Luckily, fate has brought me a older, wiser man to help me get over my little kitty vacation fling. A week after I returned from France my roommate Michelle adopted a 2 year old, as yet unnamed kitty. He is large, muscular, with the blackest of black fur and big green eyes (whatever his official name, I will nick-name him "bear", because that is what he is). Though he usually sleeps with her, during the day he sometimes curls up in my bed, and I can pretend I have my little Anderson back again.

Kitteh in ma bed: Anderson and Bear.

Of course, like all men, big Bear requires some training. He's already developed the habit of jumping on my desk while I try to work. Perhaps a southern accent will discourage him? (Please watch the link, it is hilarious)

However, I will always have a special place in my heart for Anderson, the voleur chaussette.

Cargese: of Towers and Churches

A brief  history lesson, with stories and photos.

The island of Corsica is located in the Mediterranean sea just west of Italy and south of France, and, as such, has long been desired by neighboring lands as a strategic military and trading base. The Greeks were there, the Romans were there, the Vandals and Visigoths and even Pepin the Short (third Carolingian king of the Frankish realm!) were there!

For five centuries (1347 - 1729) it was held by the Republic of Genoa, a small Catholic nation based on the southern coast of what is now Italy. During the time of the Genoese Empire, three watchtowers were built  in the vicinity of what is now Cargese, where I was staying during the conference.

The bay at sunset, from the town of Cargese

On our day off from lectures, Pablo (a friend I met at the conference) and I hiked out to one of the towers. It was about an hour and a half long walk from the village, along a fairly well tread trail through the scrub - though I must point out that all trails in Corsica, no matter how well tread, feature little miniature lizards that scurry out of your path as you walk, like the grasshoppers that fly up before your feet in the prairie, or pigeons that alight in advance of you in the city. I found them hopelessly adorable, and tried many times in vain to catch a picture.

The tower, now much closer.

From the top! We played charades with a nice French couple to get the photo taken.

Inside the tower. Pablo objects to stairways.

Captain Morganing it with history!

Following it's occupation by Genoa, Corsica enjoyed a brief period of independence before becoming a part of France in 1769. There is, incidentally, still a high level of national pride in Corsica, which leads to a particularly strong locally-based economy (I understand this might also be a result of the tourism). In Cargese, a town of ~1500 people, there were two grocery stores,one general and one which sold only Corsican products (cheese, chips, beer - you name it, they got it!). We were served only Corsican labeled bottle water and Corsican labeled sugar packets at the conference (though we questioned where in Corsica they grew the sugar cane to produce the sugar . . . ) And, unlike what is often the case in the US, the local products were much cheaper than imports (yay for proper reflection of fuel prices! A Planet Money story about how locally grown tomatoes in Haiti have 2-3 times the cost of imports - Haiti, my heart bleeds for you!)

This post is getting quite long, so please bear with me through one more historical story. During the nineteenth century, Greeks started to migrate to Corsica to escape the Ottoman Turkish rule, and so, when the town of Cargese was founded, it was necessary to build two churches in the town, one Greek Orthodox and the other Catholic. They were both small but breathtaking, and it was fun to compare the two styles.

Greek Orthodox

Roman Catholic - darker?

After two weeks with mostly boys, I found Joan of Arc very inspiring.

You made it! Take care!

What to do when you bought too many goodies in Paris and you can't zip your suitcase

Poster-tube cookie carrier!

An innocent poster tube? Just wait . . .

Surprise! Cookies!

I fit some fancy french tea in there also.

I had a fun time explaining to the French airport security why my "poster" weighed five pounds and made clunking noises when it moved back and forth.

My original plan was to purchase some French wine post-security and also stash it in the tube, but the woman at the duty-free shop reminded me that, since I was doing customs at JFK, I would have to pass through a second security screen and they would make me throw it away. Oh well, only two-buck chuck for me.

Introducing: Anderson voleur Chausette!

The origins are as follows:

The first name "Anderson" was inspired, not by Anderson Cooper (despite his striking resemblance to my kitten) but by the phenomenon of Anderson Localization, which occurs when scattering events off of disordered media lead to wave localization rather than diffusion (In case you are curious, here is the Anderson localization wiki). As "Son et Lumiere" is primarily concerned with the behavior of sound waves, this topic has been thoroughly discussed. My kitten was, believe it or not, the (partial) inspiration for a slide at the end of Prof. John Page's talk, which described the phenomenon of Anderson localization of a cat: said cat becomes localized, rather than diffusive, when it is encounters a high density of randomly ordered scattering events: dogs, cat-haters, waitresses, cars etc. Just you wait: one day, Anderson's cat will hold a place as highly esteemed in the symbolism of science as Schrodinger's cat, and my little Anderson started it all.

Anderson versus Anderson

The middle and last names, suggested by John, mean "sock thief" in French - very fitting for my little laundry rooting kitten. Anderson v. Chaussette - it just rolls off your tongue, doesn't it? I was considering "underwear thief", but "sous-vetements" just does not have the right ring to it.

And, because I know all you guys really care about, here are some more photos:

But before you fall into a coma of cuteness, consider this: my little Anderson jumped on my face at 2:30 this morning, waking me up and tracking mud all over my bed. Silly cat.

I will post about something not related to kittens sometime in the near future. Cheers!

Creatures of Corsica: or, the cat that tried to steal my underpants

Some of the things I very much enjoy about Corsica, or at least Cargese, are the animals. As the town is very compact, there is clearly no room for yards, and so people's dogs and cats are allowed to roam free. I like this mode of operation very much - the dogs I have met are all calm (probably because they can run where ever they like), well socialized, and smart enough to avoid traffic (I should add they are all wearing collars, so I know they are not strays!)

A dog nap at the institute.

The institute appears to be a favorite hangout for about six dogs from the village, which has created some funny moments at the school. Most notably, the dogs seem very intent on entering the lecture hall during talks, and so it is not uncommon to have speakers interrupted by a dog who just wants to be part of the action. It doesn't help that the pointer is actually just a giant stick.

My advisor, petting a dog in the middle of a talk.

 

Me giving my flash presentation. Notice the large stick - very tempting to dogs.

Every night I leave the doors to my balcony open while I sleep. On my second morning here, I woke up to find a little white kitten looking up at me from beside my bed. It looked at me cutely for a few seconds before viciously attacking my feet. I played with it for a few minutes and put it on the porch so I could shower.

Wake up!!

That night the cat returned before bedtime, and since then he (I checked -  it's a boy) has been a frequent visitor to my room. One night after a long hiking trip I was dozing on the bed when he came in, jumped on my chest, and proceeded to take a nap with me, nuzzling my neck. More often, however, he is in full-on kitten mode - running in circles, attacking anything that moves, and rearranging my laundry (last night he made it to the balcony carrying my underpants - I luckily caught him before he could get any farther, though I do believe now I am missing  a red sock!)

During a rare calm moment

I want to name my little Corsican vacation kitten. Any ideas?

Son et Lumiere

 For anyone who didn't already know, I am participating in a two-week long scientific summer school in Corsica titled "Son et Lumiere" (sound and light), which very accurately describes what we are learning here (photo-acoustics). The school is being held at a small scientific institute about a 5 minute drive (or 25 minute walk) from the village of Cargese, a small tourist town located on the coast of the Mediterranean sea.

The view from my balcony at dusk

On my walk to the institute each morning.

Each day we have 3 and a half hours of lectures in the morning, a long lunch provided by the institute, a two hour break in the afternoon (for going to the beach, of course!), a coffee break following the beach break (because laying in the sun can be very tiring indeed!), and then another 3 hours of lectures. After the last talk a group of students usually walks up the village for dinner, which in the french style is often 2 + hours long, and then we sometimes head to the local bar for a couple of beers. Go to bed, wake up, repeat. To quote my dad: "That counts as work?". I repeat: yeah, it's pretty awesome.

Our welcome to the institute included detailed directions for how to get to the beach, as well as the locations of the showers and where it was acceptable to hang towels and suits to dry.

Au Bon Accueil: where all the hip kids hang.

There are approximately 45 graduate students, post-docs, and professors attending the conference (5 of which are women). Of these, Keith, Jeremy, and I are the only Americans (not including David, our labmate, who is originally from France). Besides us there are only a few other native English speakers from Great Britain and Canada, and everyone else is from various countries scattered throughout the world. Luckily, everyone speaks English and is very friendly (I had a long discussion with a German, and Irishman, a Frenchman, and an Argentinian about the standards for friendliness around the world - turns out Minnesota is, relatively speaking, not that friendly, a fact I will have to work to change.)

One more photo to make everyone jealous -

Sunset

 - and I am off to the beach! Cheers.