District of Funk

So the title of this post has little to do with the following content, but sounds like a sweet band name, right? At least for DC street music.

I've been living in Washington, D.C. for three months now, but it took a few touristy friend visits for me to fully appreciate the city's offerings. The last few weekends have been a test of my Metro and hostess skills, and wonderful, sunny (except for last Friday -- ugh) expeditions. So I thought I would do a little pseudo-travelogue to point out some highlights:

SULU DC
Abstract poetry verses frustrate me, and if I don't get the gist of a poem on third try, I'm going to pick up some chick lit. I told my friend this as we settled into SULU DC, a showcase of underground Asian-American performance art held at the Ethiopian restaurant Almaz.
But then Michelle Myers from Yellow Rage came to stage and taught me how to get angry -- fists-clenched-teeth-gritted pissed off by listening to poem about a wronged immigrant or stereotyped women.
And after that, it was Sahra Nguyen, a woman whose heartfull, touching poetry delightfully pervades an cute, funny image. Example: describing her tiny, fierce Chinese mother in a poem "My Momma's So Gangsta".
Conclusion: My friend leaned over to me and said, "Now do you get poetry?"
I did.

Good Stuff Eatery
A crowded fast-food restaurant of Top Chef fame -- Imagine my surprise when one of my favorite vegetarian meals in DC took place at a burger joint. But when your "Vegetarians Are People Too" burger is actually a stuffed portabello mushroom with fresh cheese, flash-fried in Panko bread crumbs, well yeah, it's pretty freaking delicious.
Top that off with my first milkshake in about five years and an end to the grumbling tummy after a Capitol Hill tour, and we've got a winner.

A Loop Around the Mall
Even if you hate running, walking down the straight line from the Capitol, amid the Smithsonians, around the Washington Monument (WashMon, if you will -- I won't), through the World War II memorial and right up to Lincoln's lap will make you wish you were a DC jogger.
Springtime in DC is savory, and the Kite Flying Festival dotted our horizon like mass confetti. The famed Cherry Blossoms bow gracefully into the Potomac, and everyone's cutests dogs and children stroll around the mall. Tourist or not, it's a worthwhile walk.

Capitol Hill Books
Unlike what the name suggests, this rowhouse-turned-bookstore is an allergy-inducing mish-mash of stacked books, organized vaguely with post-it notes and rooms, and narrow enough for one person at a time on the stairwell (which is lined with World War II books).
So basically, it's perfect.
I read a couple of chapters of a novel, and looked up to find two of my UF creative writing teachers' names (Padgett Powell, David Leavitt) on the bindings in front of me.
If that doesn't call you name, browsing the surrounding Eastern Market's local crafts, hippie imports and fish counters, will.

Slooowww Fooood

My roommates and I were living steps from Santa Croce in Florence, Italy, when we saw a circle of red and white tents pop up in the piazza. Our excitement peaked when we realized the tents housed samples of the freshest mozzarella, warm bread and pastries.

The big sign advertising Slow Food was quickly passed by -- I didn't know at the time that this was a movement greater than a few free bites. I figured it referred to the Italian way of waiting hours for meals to arrive at your table, and even more hours spent enjoying each sip of Chianti and bit of tagliatelli. Even my cooking teacher in Italy said the reason the population was so healthy was because they ate good food, real food.

Nowadays, it scares the heck out of me when people haven't heard about Slow Food -- a non-profit concept that counters fast, tasteless, traditionless morsels that we've gotten so used to. Instead, over 100,000 people and 130 countries are advocating the return of the responsible and delicious palate.

And while the Slow Food movement speaks to all of my ideals and values and economic views, it speaks even more to my stomach. That mozzarella was the best I've ever had, and the thought of eating the shredded kind in a Sargento ziploc bag is not even an option. What I like about Slow Food is that instead of hitting people over the head with guilt, it plays up to our simplest fantasy.

So eat and cook on, friends. But do it slowly.

Simmerin'

I'm sitting on the periphery of my kitchen watching a pot of channa masala bubble on the stove, scared to touch it lest it becomes any worse. This is the only Indian dish I know how to make without a recipe book, and now that my family dinner is looking pretty weak, I might have to take it off the short list (pasta, omelette, grilled cheese).

And then I start wondering (because it has rained for four days and what else can you do?) if this is the channa masala metaphor of my life. By my age my mom was seeing suitors, taking care of her sister's children, and making several much more elaborate dishes by hand. Now she can feed an army (seriously...and if it's a family of four, the same amount of food will be made) in such a way that every heaping teaspoon of turmeric or coriander seed is perfect down to the grain. And even if she's a fellow vegetarian, her chicken biryani rivals the pit stops in Charminar.

Not that I want to feed the troops. Or get married by 23, or cook any more than my future husband will.

But is this diluted version of the delectable favorite a sign that my generation is destined to be just as watered down with culture? If my Hindi is, excuse me for this, "ghetto", will my kids be pronouncing their own names wrong? And while I can recite a few mantras and do pooja, my grandfather can recite scriptures for four hours without glancing down at a book.

This is what happens when it rains, and remains grey and the clouds are so burdened they almost touchdown to the river -- you hypothesize and dramatize all sorts of worldly things that are so irrelevant in Tarpon Springs.

In just a few weeks I'll be strapping on my Tevas and backpack and coursing through villages in North India without internet, cell phone or shaved legs. I will grow vegetables, treat sick children and touch the soil of villages my parents haven't even heard of before. And then, maybe, I will tell you, whether the channa masala metaphor stands.