The Comfy Corner

I'm a Southern boy through and through (with a touch of Sriracha, of course) and thus I have done my darndest to avoid the New England traditions for as long as possible. Ne'er have I stood 'pon yonder Hampshire white peak proclaiming myself a Yankee doodle dandy, but I did, as of last week, partake in the one fall tradition that all New York parents drag their children out of the concrete jungle to enjoy: apple picking. But, in true Chang fashion, I performed this tradition of traditions in the most non-traditional way possible.

I recently befriended a middle aged man from Bangladesh. And for our purposes, let us say his name is Sumon. Sumon and I became friends at work and one day some co-workers left to go apple picking for the day. I sighed with jealousy and casually mentioned that this was an activity that I have sadly never partaken in. He turned to me and admitted that he too had never been apple picking and, with a fervor that only Bangladeshi people possess, asked if I would take him. I was taken aback by this request. So few people ask me on such romantic dates, I was not prepared. As I usually do when I'm caught off guard or afraid, I said yes (It's a dangerous habit, I realize). I learned over the next few days that Bangladeshi people do not share the American people's reputation for broken promises. They are a people of persistence. Thus he kept reminding me of our impending apple picking excursion and insisted that I set a date, so I eventually gave in and said, "YES, Sumon, Wednesday morning, we will go." Feeling the need for a buffer of some sort I invited some other coworkers and friends so that I could have a full car for the journey. But when I mentioned to Sumon that I was bringing some friends he looked at me perplexed and said, "But there is no room in the car!" I said, "Yes, Sumon, I have plenty of room in my car, what do you mean?" To which he casually responded, "Well, there's me, my wife, my daughter, my mom, my dad... no room, full car!"

My jaw dropped. I admit that in the heat of the moment, I was not happy that Sumon had invited his entire Bangladeshi family without asking. So I put my foot down, "No, Sumon. It is my car, I decide who goes. Only you, not your whole family." But then one by one each of my friends canceled so I thought, "YOLO!" and I told him he could bring his whole family. What the heck, at least Bangladeshi people are reliable. So Wednesday morning I overestimated the drive to the Bronx and arrived at Sumon's residence - half an hour early. I sat in his living room and ate oranges and mangos that Sumon had peeled for me while his amazing old, amazingly tiny father stared at me smiling his very-few-teeth smile. Then, when the whole family was ready, we all piled into my tiny Honda Civic (2 door). Sumon and I in the front. His wife, his one year old daughter, his mother, and his father in the back seat. How did they fit you ask? Well, his ancient, tiny father essentially sat on his mother's lap for the entire hour and a half journey. It was a sitcom episode y'all. You can't write a scene like this. None of them spoke a word of English except Sumon. So I listened to them talk and talk in a language I did not understand as I drove them through the beautiful land of New Jersey. As I drove, I thought to myself, as I often think to myself, "What events in my life led me to this moment?" And then we arrived at the apple orchard.

We all exited the tiny car like clowns in a circus. The waspy, manhattanite families stared at me (the clear outlier in the group) in confused judgement as we made our way to the counter to get our apple bags. But when we got to the orchard everything clicked for me. I saw the incredible smiles on Sumon's parent's faces. I saw his daughter running through the orchard. I saw his wife eating the apples with pure joy. I saw myself running through the orchard and tasting, for the first time, the beauty of a fresh picked apple. I later learned that this was the first time Sumon and his family had ever seen an apple tree. And, for his parents, it was the first time since they moved to America that they had ever left New York City. I watched Sumon lift his daughter up to pick apples from the trees and an incredible feeling of pure joy flooded through me.

I've been living in Manhattan with blinders on. Just laser focus on myself and complete ignorance to the reality that surrounds me. Bangladesh, I learned, is just east of India. If New York were India, Bangladesh would be like Long Island. And Sumon won some sort of immigration lottery that allowed him to move to America on a working visa. For him, it was the opportunity of a lifetime. And he has worked so hard to bring his family here. One person at a time. And what have I done? I write blogs, make silly videos, sing songs and complain about my family. But this tiny gesture of taking Sumon's family to an apple orchard meant the world to them. His wife cooked me an incredible picnic lunch of tandoori chicken, hard boiled eggs, and basmati rice. She made it "not too spicy" just for me and even brought me a fork to use (they ate with their hands, a tradition that didn't necessarily warm my heart). She even apologized for not making me a salad (which you better believe I was furious about). The kindest and gratitude they expressed toward me for doing this for them was not a kindest that I've ever experienced. And I can't help but thank him for taking away my blinders and helping me to see that I'm not the only person in this world. It was an experience I will not soon forget. And now I always have a Bangladeshi family that I can have dinner with. And you better believe, I'm bringing a set of utensils. Stay comfy y'all.

So, I'm waiting tables again! This means long, exhausting evenings for me, and more great stories about stupid guests for you! But now, we are dealing with New Yorkers instead of Bostonians. No real difference except that New Yorkers are much more willing to shell out lots of money for a dinner than Bostonians are. But there is one thing that remains the same. Foreigners still don't tip. A big clue I have realized is that if anyone at the table asks for "no ice in their water" then you will get no tip. No ice? No ice. Get it? So get comfy, cause here we go again on a magical journey of food serving fun!

Summer is a time for refreshing cold drinks and outdoor adventures. It's a time for iced coffee and sun glasses. It's a time for... smoothies! And today I experienced one of the best, strangest smoothie places ever.

Over the past semester I developed a slight addiction to the TV series, "The Biggest Loser." I watched every episode religiously and I even did some of Jillian's "Last Chance Workouts" on my Comcast OnDemand (she knows just what to say to me). In short, I developed a sort of obsession with watching people lose weight. My roommate, Vanessa, and I would always make lots of snacks (because you can't watch the show without eating, right?) and we'd watch it before going to bed because watching them workout made us tired. The embarrassing truth of the matter is that...well... I cried, without fail, every single episode. Every episode would have an emotional arc and 3/4 of the way through the show, someone would inevitably have some incredible revelation and start crying and that's when I would lose it. I'm not ashamed, though! These people are making huge changes in their lives! They are losing more than just weight, they are losing years and years of emotional baggage and they are fighting to win back their lives. They all gained weight for someone emotional/psychological reason and that show just cuts right to the heart of the problem and transforms not only their bodies, but the way they view the world!

Every time my parents come to visit Boston, I inevitably end up consuming a lot more Chinese food than I care to. We don't have the best Chinese food back in North Carolina, so their first stop is Chinatown; specifically dim sum and dumplings. It's atrocious, really, because I can afford to eat Chinese food. What they should be doing is taking me to eat in the North End or other places that have food that I can't afford to eat on a regular basis. I give them hell for this.

Have you ever found yourself with a large, American-sized portion of really delicious food and you get halfway through it and realize that you are so full and should probably stop eating it but you don't want to stop eating it because it's so good? So you find yourself asking the question - do I finish it now or should I save the rest for later? This, my comfy friends, is what I like to call, "The Chipotle Dilemma." I call it this because this always happens to me when I am eating a huge burrito from Chipotle. I get halfway through it and realize that I've literally eaten a pound of food, and so I consider, even if for only a moment, wrapping it up and saving it for later. But I always finish it and ya know why? Because maybe there won't be a "later." Maybe I'll be walking out the door with my half eaten burrito and a brick will fall on my head or something and the burrito will splatter all over the sidewalk for some stupid squirrel to eat. If I finish the burrito then at least I can die saying I lived my life to the fullest (literally).

And that is how I'm looking at life right now. Full steam ahead, man. Why wait? Why let yourself get blown around like a dry leaf waiting for the right role or the right lover or the right time to do this or say that? As my great math teacher in high school always said, "It's Nike time... Just do it." So that is what I'm gonna do this semester. No more hemmin' and hawin'. I'm gonna finish the burrito. No stupid squirrel is gonna eat my leftovers! I'm throwin' down the pencil and grabbin' a pen. If things don't happen for me, I'm gonna make something happen for me. No more waiting for Guffman. No more Mr. Nice Chang. If my corner ain't comfy, why then, I'm gonna buy some new pillows. It's our time folks. It's your time. No more Chipotle dilemmas. Carpe diem!

I often ponder how some phrases get coined and passed through the generations until we have things like "easy as pie" or "cold feet" or to "rub someone the wrong way." Like, these phrases make as much sense as Taylor Swift dating Jake Gyllenhaal (that is to say, not much sense...at all...he's like thirty). But I was recently witness to the coining of a brilliant new phrase that is definitely going to catch on a) because of its simplicity and b) because of its non-sensical nature. It all starts (as so many of my stories do) at the "Gourmet Dumpling House" or as I like to call it "the GDH."

Some cast mates and I decided to go to the GDH after a performance for beer and appetizers and beer. We were actually being the most obnoxious people in the world. We started playing this game where every ten minutes someone tells a ridiculous punch line (my favorite was "and then he said, those aren't horns, they're rocks") and we all burst out in uproarious laughter (alla how every Olive Garden commercial starts). We were just having a great time, but the manager was not so much. So as soon as the last dumpling left the plate, he rushed over with the bill. We all threw in our cash, but it didn't quite add up to what it should have been (as always) so my friend Brittany pulls a dollar out of her wallet slams it on the table and says "Make it a venti!" I thought for a moment that this was some cool, new phrase, but then I realized that it definitely wasn't, so I asked her about it.

Apparently, she had told my friend Anthony that he could just buy her a Starbucks coffee at some point in the future because she paid for his beer, and when she had to throw in another dollar, she just said "make it a venti." So now I know how these crazy phrases get started. Some third party hears something the wrong way, or misinterprets it and the misinterpretation catches fire. So now, every time I have to throw in an extra dollar, I'm gonna say "MAKE IT A VENTI!" (cue uproarious laughter).

It happens every year I suppose, but for some reason, I feel like the pumpkin-flavor craze is especially palpable this year. Everywhere I look I see pumpkin flavored this, pumpkin flavored that; everyone I talk to is saying something along the lines of "Oh my god, I LOVE pumpkin cheesecake."; and Dunkin Donuts is getting the most business it has ever gotten because of their take-me-to-heaven-and-bathe-me-in-pumpkin-syrup-because-you-are-so-good pumpkin doughnut and their own brand new version of the pumpkin latte (TAKE THAT STARBUCKS).

I talk as if I am an observer looking in...but in fact I am part of the craze. I LOVE IT!! Nothing is comfier than a pumpkin spice latte and my big hoodie. I am the reason why Dunkin runs out of their pumpkin doughnuts by noon. Perhaps that's why the craze seems so apparent to me? What doesn't help is that I work at a restaurant that purportedly serves the most heavenly pumpkin cheesecake in town. I have yet to try it (I fear for my metabolism, gotta keep up that Broadway body - and pumpkin doughnuts don't count). The moral of the story: we crave anything that tells us that the season is changing. We do not like to get stuck in ruts. When it's summer we long for snow, when it's snowing we long for just one summery day. We are in a constant state of discontent, so when pumpkin flavor comes around it is a signal of change. It means sweaters again, long pants, Halloween, gaining weight, holidays, and pretty leaves. Tis the season ya'll, eat up that artificial flavoring while it's here.

I have a bit of a confession to make. I used to pride myself on leading a very healthy lifestyle. I stayed away from caffeine, I got eight hours of sleep every night, I cleaned my room semi-regularly, I would go on random little diets just to test my will power (no bread this month!, No Artificial Sugars for a week!) etc. This summer, however, has proved to turn all of those things upside down. Perhaps being in a relationship has brought out some innate laziness or something, but I have been to the grocery store once this summer (!). The rest of my food was either bought in restaurants, at fast food places or I just ate my employee meal at work (and let's just say - I don't work at the healthiest restaurant).

To add to the unhealthiness, I started to make a habit of getting breakfast at Starbucks every morning, to the point where I no longer have to pay for my venti (that's right, venti), sweetened (that right, sweetened) iced coffee (with half and half) and I no longer actually have to order. The other day though I ordered my venti and the woman who knows me all too well looked at me and said, "Would you like to try our new, bigger size, the Trenta." And out of nowhere she pulled out this mammoth cup that made the venti look like a tall. My mouth dropped when she showed me the cup. It was like a "double gulp" at 7-11. Thank god I said no. But this is what America has come to. America is a big, fat distracted baby, and venti is no longer big enough. Sad day, America, sad day.

Alright comfy cornerers - now, those of you who know me know that I am a pretty patient, nice person, and it takes a great deal to really make me crack. The ladies at 27 last night crossed that line. Not only did they cross the line, they crossed two and a half hours of line (after closing time) and then they boxed up some line to go, and then they had 18 glasses of line and asked for refills of line after we had already shut down the line. I've tried to keep my posts funny and ironic, but this one is going to get ugly. Parental advisory - Prepare yourselves as I pay tribute to "the bitchy waiter." On the millionth chance that either of you ladies is reading this, take this as a hint and never come back.

Things I wanted to say to the ladies at 27:

1. This booth was made for normal sized people. You're both so fat that your entrees came with two sides of boobs.
2. No you can't have that six person booth just because you "have a lot of bags."
3. Yes, our small cravings appetizers are small, that's why they have small in the title.
4. The small cravings are clearly all too small for your fat asses so get a regular appetizer and stop making me describe the portion size of each one.
5. Don't make me stand around for 5 MINUTES while you finally decide you'd like "a Diet Coke" (Diet Pepsi better be fine, cause I'm not even gonna ask, cause I don't have another 5 minutes).
6. Too fucking bad your appetizer "didn't have enough avocado in it." It was probably for the best.
7. No I can't give you a half order of another appetizer for free, you ate the whole THING! You didn't even leave proof that anything was wrong with it!
8. No, we only allow guests to have a couple pieces of bread, not a couple loaves (Not exaggerating, wish I was).
9. Yes, the pastas are all good, fucking DECIDE ALREADY! I HAVE OTHER TABLES!! I DON'T WANNA HEAR ABOUT YOUR THEORIES AND EXPERIENCES WITH PESTO!!!
10. No, we don't do free desserts on birthdays (actually, yes we do, but you don't deserve a free dessert)
11. I don't care that PF Chang's does free desserts, we don't
12. I don't care why your other daughter wasn't able to make it or that she's in finals or that she doesn't like goat cheese or that she was in The Music Man or that she just saw American Idiot (p.s. you only "absolutely loved " American Idiot because you are both American idiots.)
13. Stop asking me for more bread!!!
14. We start charging for refills after number 8.
15. Don't call me over to hand me your empty plate, I'll get it without your prompting.
16. We closed 45 minutes ago ...IHAVESHITTODOANDIWANNAGOHOMESOLEAVE!
17. Have a terrible evening and never come back. You made me physically and mentally exhausted and tipped 10 percent. Just...go...die...
18. Oh yeah, and, your chain smoker voice was like a chainsaw to my eardrums. Stop smoking 7 packs a day.

Things I actually said to table 27:

1. What can I get for you ladies today?
2. Yes, of course.
3. Oh, happy birthday!
4. Have a lovely evening!

So this post is two-fold. I just finished a two day, 17 hour solo drive from NC to Boston (it was actually quite enjoyable because of my handy book on tape which kept me occupied, I highly recommend "The Magicians" by Lev Grossman. It's like Harry Potter with sex scenes. hehehe). Along the journey I made it a goal to find a Chic-fil-A because that was the one Southern luxury I had yet to enjoy on my trip home. As I was passing through West Virginia, I found one, and to my delight (and by delight I mean horror) it was family night with magician Michael T. (FAMILY NIGHT AT CHIC-FIL-A!!). He was a very rotund man in a blue plaid outfit.

Now, in my attempt to find out more about "Michael T" I did a little Google search. I'm a little ADD, so I left my computer after a failed search attempt. A couple hours later I came back to my computer to do a little Facebook stalking when I saw this in the corner of my browser.


That is what I decided to throw into Google to find this man! (on the one billionth chance that you are reading, Michael T...I apologize) Now, this happens to me quite often so I thought it would be worth writing about. People often borrow my computer and there are embarrassing searches in my search bar. I am the type of person that Googles everything so there are often very strange things up there. So if you ever borrow my computer and find that I searched for something really weird or gross, DON'T JUDGE! You probably Google weird things too. You don't know the circumstances. As a result, I never judge what searches are remembered by other people's computers.

Anywho, I found the man and I found his website. The website says it all I think. Not only does he do magic, he also does motivational speaking and motivational magic (Wha?!). This just makes me think of the vastness of our country and how many crazy people there are out there. Why can't more people be normal like me? Guess we'll never know. We'll just never know.

Ladies and gentlemen, blogging to you live from Asheville, North Carolina; a mountainous place where the people are a little older, the traffic moves a little slower, and there is no shortage of Southern hospitality. It is (drum roll please) my hometown (cymbal crash). So Imma gonna be havin' a coupla blogs about da South comin' atcha. This first one right here is gonna be about da food. There are three things I must absolutely have when I leave my Boston cave and visit the land of trees and fresh air: Mexican food, Chic-fil-A and barbecue. (Mexican food because downtown Boston has absolutely zero authentic Mexican restaurants and Chic-fil-A because it's just bomb, nuff said). And the only place east of the Mississippi you can get the best BBQ in the world (figure that out) is 12 Bones, servin' up damn good corn puddin, the best baked beans, mouth waterin mac 'n cheese and a rack of ribs that'll make the staunchest vegetarian drool. Most importantly though, witness below what every restaurant in the world should offer.

That right there is a can of sugar with a hint of black tea and it's the finest beverage your tongue can experience. And folks, your gonna need this icy cold refreshment after you enjoy the most (ful)filling plate of Southern food you'll ever see.

There it is ya'll. From my home to yours. That isn't just any flavoring on those ribs, that's blueberry chipotle. Hold your applause for just a minute. The best thing about 12 Bones is its unique way of blending traditional barbecue with a twist of local flavors.They also have spicy jamaican jerk, strawberry jalepeno, and brown sugar rub (cue applause). The 12 Bones experience is the epitome of Southern living. The food, the service, the customers all adhere to the unspoken rules of Southern comfort and hospitality (they should be paying me right now to write this). If I could inject their barbecue sauce into my bloodstream, I would. As far as comfy corners go, this is one of the comfiest. Stay comfy kids.