its a mad mission

One of my favorite places to eat here in Billyburg is Oasis, a mediterranean restaurant. And my favorite menu item is the falafel sandwich. When I saw this recipe on allrecipes.com, I thought it would be probably a distant second to the real thing. Boy was I wrong. The recipe worked fabulously, and Bill said it was better than the restaurant kind. So give it a shot–it’s not a bad way at all to get some extra beans in your diet (seriously, this is a pretty healthy meal to boot–garbanzo beans, olive oil, whole wheat pitas, hummus, tomatoes, lettuce, and if you use canola oil, even the frying isn’t going to kill you). We made tzatziki sauce to go with it, and it has the perfect zip (we used this instead of the sauce listed with the falafel, b/c this sauce used yogurt instead of mayo). The picture above is not our falafel, but it’s what ours looked like, just stuffed in a pita.

During my daily commute I usually end up standing. By the time I get on the L in the morning, it’s been picking up people across the width of Brooklyn, so the odds of a seat aren’t good. When I switch to the 6 train, it’s pretty empty, so I may get a seat. But then again, everyone in Union Square gets on that train with me, and they all have the same idea. It’s like musical chairs and they took away 1/2 the chairs. On the off chance that through strategy and happenstance I get to sit, I’m pretty elated.

When a pregnant woman comes on the train, though, New Yorkers are surprisingly generous to give up their seat for her, and I have made it a habit to do the same (I assume I’ll appreciate the gesture myself someday). But more often than not, it’s not an obviously pregnant woman who stands over me to hold onto the bar. I’ll just sit there, my eye level at her stomach, debating back and forth whether that’s a pregnant belly or otherwise. Do I say, “Here, take my seat,” in the standard NY-love-of-pregnant-ladies-way, and insult an unpregnant lady? Or do I stay in my seat and let her think I’m a jerk for making her stand there with such severe pregnancy-induced varicose veins? Compound the problem by adding heavy winter coats that camoflage questionable women, and I’m at a loss what to do. Compound my peril again with the fact that I’m genetically predisposed to making an incorrect assessment. Legend has it that, years ago, my father was at a party and asked a friend’s wife when she was due. “I’m not,” she said.

So I remain in my seat, more miserable than if I had just stayed standing, and wishing for 33rd street to miraculously appear 2 stops early.

We had this mini-meatball soup last night, and it was awesome! Bill had a snow day from teaching, so he whipped it up before dinner, and I schlepped home through the blizzard to a house full of its delightful aroma. Even better: there is plenty leftover for another dinner and lunches.