Miss Syracuse

The following will appear on my good friend Geoff’s blog.  He’s a DJ for a Syracuse radio station, as well a writer and mix-CD maker extraordinaire.  He bet me, a few weeks back, that I couldn’t take a bad picture.  That was a silly bet, because I am not fond of 98% of photos taken of me.  But I sent him a terrible photo (He sneakily posted it on his blog, here.  All I’ll say is that it was a bad angle.), therefore losing the bet.  The stakes were so that I was given the honor of guest-blogging on his Hot 107.9 page if I lost.  If I won, meaning I never took a picture in which I looked ugly, neither of us would get anything or have to do anything.  Maybe I don’t really understand how bets work.  Anyway, here’s a little something I like to call “Writing for Geoff’s Blog.”

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I’ve been attending culinary school and living in New York City for about three months.  Three months is my scary time period; it’s usually when I max out on relationships and grow bored with whatever it is I’m doing with my life at the moment.  It’s also when, away from Syracuse, I begin to feel the first pangs of homesickness.
Now, I’m not so much homesick as I hate forking over $22 for a cocktail and paying $15 to have some stranger wash my underwear, but I can’t help feel a certain nostalgia for the place where I’ve lived my entire life. There were a few brief interludes elsewhere: an all-girls school in Virginia, a semester in Rochester, but for the most part, I was born and raised in Syracuse.  It wasn’t until I left the ‘Cuse that I realized how, well, nice it is.  We have good people, good food, good drinks, good schools, and lots and lots of trees.  (It does strike me as funny that to see those here, I have to go to a special park.)  
In fact, the more I think about it, the more I miss that old town.  There’s no Eureka Crafts here, no Blue Tusk, no weird cow sculpture made from butter (that I know of), and definitely no Hot 107.9.  My mother came to visit me last weekend, and I swear to you, I almost cried when she pulled out a bag of apples from Navarino Orchard.  Syracuse apples!  I was so happy, I hugged the fruit to my chest and breathed in the scent of earth, sweet and tart.
I know I should put my culinary school skills to test and use the apples to make a tart or pie, but I can’t bring myself to do anything other than eat them raw and plain, in front of a window.  The simplicity of it all is very nice, and besides, I’m sick of peeling fruit and tossing around a heavy chef’s knife.
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Geoff told you a bit about me in his post yesterday, but he cleverly failed to mention that we actually dated for about a minute last year.  
That’s right; we met at a gay club, flirted over Myspace, and proceeded to spend more time at gay clubs, dancing the night away together.  I didn’t quite make it three months before getting all commitment-phobic, freaking out and breaking things off, but surveying the circumstances at which our relationship developed, it was all probably for the best.  We remain good friends, and I’ve got to tell you – he’s just as funny and endearing in real life as he is on air and online.  Does he look as good in a Speedo?  I’ll never tell.
One of the funny quirks about our short time in monogamy was that I constantly badgered him to spend time in front of a stove.
“Let’s cooook somethiiiiiiing,” I’d whine, eyeing his kitchen.  ”Wouldn’t it be fun to do it togeeeeeether?”
“No way,” he’d respond.  ”I don’t cook.  Why don’t I take you out to eat?”
Because I’m extraordinarily accommodating, I’d let him take me out.  We shared food at The Retreat, at bc, at yes, The Blue Tusk.  Great food.  But I could never get him to cook.
We’ve kept up with one another over the months – the internet makes it easy to do that – and I’ve been tickled pink to hear he’s been experimenting in the kitchen (cooking, presumably) lately.  We share food-related stories every once in a while, and on Thursday of last week, I sent him this text message:
I’m eating an apple from Syracuse, and it is so good, I don’t know why I ever left.

(Okay, I guess I am a little bit homesick.)
He responded by telling me about his favorite hometown sandwich, the Budster.  He touted it the “greatest sub on Earth.” (Yes, he capitalized “Earth.”)
I think that every time I’m in MA, too.  Not about healthy food, though. 
He went on:
The first time I had a Budster, I thought I was going to puke.  That’s how I knew it was love.
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I was planning on tying this piece up with a nice ribbon, ending with a few nice tidbits about our dear Deaf Geoff, but since he had to go and call me a butterface, I’ll be raising the stakes.  
Geoff always claimed he wouldn’t cook, but he never said a thing about baking.  And since I’ve been so enamored with apples as of late, I challenge – yes, challenge – him to bake a tart or pie for me using Syracuse apples.
As for rules: I’ll be in Syracuse the first weekend in October, so I expect to judge his pastry then.  (Geoff, I will hear no complaining about the deadline; I’m given 70 minutes in school to whip one out.)  Geoff is free to practice as many times as he’d like, and he’s also free to use any recipe for an apple tart or pie of his choosing – so long as he makes the dough as well.  I am also more than happy to provide him with a French Culinary School recipe, but he should be aware that I refuse to convert the ingredients from grams and milliliters for him. 
Should he fail in this, there won’t be any real, dire consequences … but remember: I’ve seen him in a Speedo.
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