Checkered Tablecloth Joint, SoHo

The couple next to me don't know what ravioli is. Can you believe it. Can you. I can't.

A little girl behind is corrected, made to say "yes ma'am" and my heart is filled to bursting.

And I commiserate with a server over a slice of cheesecake and English tourists, not because she knows anything about me and not because I know any of her but because I am wearing black pants, a white shirt and black clogs. She knows because she smiles and winks. Do we all know? And does she know that even though I wear the uniform I also get a good wage, health benefits and vacation time after 3 months? Well. I don't tell her.

Dinner on this very specific night brings back other dinners: feta and figs with lamb, mussels and mess, loads of chimichurri, apple tart with tequila, beef stew Thanksgiving, ravioli and vegetable stacks, brandade, instant ramen enriched, mac and cheese and ham and peas, chicken and dumplings, tortilla. Sexy breakfasts and even some desserts. Meals made significant because of first times, of many times, but not because of last times. Meals shared finally, oh what we've been missing.

I am young and very stupid and I am very stupid and I am very stupid. But I know. These meals cannot be important enough, they are of the utmost. I'm alive because of them. Maybe too alive, maybe too quick to cry, but I'm alive alive alive alive.

I think it's important to point that out.

My server asks how I'm enjoying my food. "It's good, it's what I need," I say.

She winks.

Road trip

"well it's a big, big city and the lights are all out
but it's much as I can do you know to figure you out"

Bob Dylan and Central Park saved my life, while Upper East Side doormen tipped their hats and wished me good day and I gulped down cup after cup of the worst and best coffee I've ever had. Bob Dylan and Central Park saved my life, how cliché. But...it's true. A walk to Little Italy for San Gennaro, a love affair with Queens that I wasn't ready for. Thoughts of a lost boy obscured by my own dusty path home. But home nonetheless, closer than I've had and further away than....

...This is my New York phase 1. Fresh from Chicago crisis, green and hungry. Walk for miles each day and return back different than I was. Crazy with newness, homesick and silly, in love with in love at my new rented place.

"and it's 4 in the morning, and I'm walking along
beside the ghost of every drinker here who has ever done wrong"

The weather got cooler and the outside got darker. A quick jaunt east to a Brooklyn I'd read about, consciously adhering to its spot in history, a secret personal pride about my place in (though always outside of) it. While I constantly check to see who's checking me. But I'll never admit that. So. Shh. Thanksgiving centered around beef stew and store-bought cinnamon rolls and each bite sees a shift in expectation. Bob Dylan gives way to David Bowie who wrote a song for him and several for me. Little boy lost gets found and little girl trips and falls, and trips, and falls.

...This is my second New York phase which establishes me once and for all as a non-entity and which systematically destroys and makes bloated my self-confidence. I agree to tough it out but only because I'm embarassed by failure. Not because I want to and not because I believe that I'll survive.

"so if you're lonely why'd you say you're not lonely"

A winter that sees me stranded, god damn did the blizzard really need to stick me in Park Slope? Long commutes and boiling subways and for the first time I realize I'm happy to stay home at night. Bad delivery pizza and cheap wine from my plexi-glassed local sadden me but there is none more convenient. Lonesome becomes me and music? I don't remember music, but I remember snow and I remember indoors.

...I don't know much of me in winter. I think that I was tired and I quit a job in Queens (I'm very sorry, darling) and I watched a lot of flamenco and must have celebrated some holidays and somewhere I got myself another year older. That can't be all but? Maybe that's the point.

"and I must confess, my hearts all broke in pieces
and my head's a mess"

Tom Waits, scream me a lullaby while I drink my coffee water (ice melted long ago) at a coffeeshop in this scorching city, oh, has all of the wind died? And, oh, where have all the PC's gone? Away, certainly, from this nutjob town where efficiency trumps all and Trump trumps none. Tom Waits, give way to Elvis (well, hello) singing Christmas songs out of season while the crumbs of my almond croissant scatter themselves across the table, butter pastry defenseless against a ceiling fan with an agenda. An agenda of which I have none after two months of nothing but.

...New York phase well, I forget. A rare second of respite at least. I've recently traveled from East to Midwest, back East again and a four-hour turnaround then to Washington DC, itself a confused jumble of architecture and status symbols different from any I've ever seen. Grateful to be back because, my dears, a surprise: I've fallen in love again.

"well it's a big big city and it's always the same"

Home to heat up leftover Indian food, into my room for a documentary when I smell food and smoke, open my door to two new friends who invite me to sit down, eat, play a game of cards. Then settle onto my (our) couch, look at my (our) table and...our...bookshelves and talk 'til it's light. And into bed to hold a hand and smile to sleep. Is this forever, as my eyes close, forever is awful long. But forever, also, is a thing I've never thought and here I am.

(That was yesterday.)

And then was today, when I danced in the rain.

On taking time off

-Perhaps I'm lonesome sometimes I think and look at my Modelo, the last of the night, taken with the herbal sleeping pills, one of the most thoughtful gifts from a man, ever, the other being a trilogy of books about killing god and teenage sex

-I dressed up in what could only be described as "cocktail business casual" and flirted my way to a job but have been wearing a long t-shirt, my dad's, since I got home at 4

-Broken Flowers I finally got around to watching, thinking I had seen it years ago and then I spent an hour researching "road movie" which is actually a genre borne of tales like The Odyssey and drafting my own hero's quest though hitting myself on my forehead with my palm because I actually expect to learn something

-I stare at all of my new furniture which is familiar enough to make me sad for what I don't know how to build

-Reflections on a cancelled promise which is familiar enough to make me sad for what I never tried to build

-The guy across the way looks in and I realize I'm pantsless and man we really need to get some curtains

-The air conditioner wakes me up just as things are getting good

-I'm very angry at grammar. Again.

-I've been here for a year now and still get drunk and ramble on the magic, the serendipity, the parched filthy glamour that is this asshole of a city: Romance that sticks me in the guts when I need a reminder or when I'm feeling complacent.  Oldest train I've ever seen creaking me reliably between burroughs. Exhaustion that's become fundamental to my being and my being here, makes it possible to function in such a way which is the only way. French restaurant that I return to because it really is the best. Vaulting ambition full 'o the milk of human kindness...where else but here, and I mean it, where else but here.

-And this, because it comforted me on the first cool day and I hear it's fall

Boozy Onion Soup

This stuff is warm, it's thick, it's resplendent with onions. And if you're feeling particularly bad for yourself, it's very helpful as it contains both wine and beer, which I'd recommend drinking while waiting for the onions to brown, and afterwards, and well into the night.

2-3 servings

1 tbsp olive oil
1 tbsp butter
2 onions, cut in half and sliced very thin
7 cloves of garlic, chopped fine
A whole mess of thyme leaves (2 tbsp at least)
1/2 cup dark beer (I used Abita Turbodog 'cause I had it)
1 cup red wine
2 1/2 cups chicken or vegetable stock
Salt

Slice of bread per person (I used pita because it was all I could get)
1/2 cup swiss cheese, shredded (gruyere is dandy but just try to find it at my local supermarket...)
Handful of parmesan

Melt butter and olive oil in a large pot over low - medium heat. Add onions and thyme and season with salt, then stir every few minutes until the onions caramelize (this will take awhile and you can step away for a few minutes at the beginning, but once they turn very soft -- after about 15 minutes -- make sure to stir constantly and watch closely. You want them a deep, dark brown but not burnt). Add garlic and stir for about two more minutes, then pour in beer. Let beer evaporate almost completely (you'll be left with a gorgeous, concentrated taste) and add wine and more salt if needed. Let wine come to the boil for about one minute, then add stock and reduce heat to low. Let simmer for about 10 minutes and prepare cheese toasts:

(Butter each slice of bread on both sides. Warm a skillet over medium heat and brown each side slowly. After you've flipped the bread for the first time, sprinkle with equal amounts cheese, reduce the heat to low and cover with lid just until cheese is melted. You could also do this under the broiler or in the oven, but I like it in a pan)

Taste soup for seasoning, ladle into bowls and top with a cheese toast. Sprinkle with parmesan cheese and serve immediately.

Asparagusto

Everyone's gettin' married. Boom. There it is. Everyone's gettin' married and everyone's havin' kids. This past month has seen a sharp increase in the wedded bliss, both imagined and actual, of my friends and family. And tens of little baby buns all warm and toasty and ready for the world. I predict a barrage of petite, flawless squares of paper urging me to "save the date" and even more dedicated to the teeny squinty-eyed perfection of little kiddos and doting mum-and-daddas.

What accounts for the spike in all-around good newses? I was warned about this by my older cousins ("Oh, those years. Those years are just going to be a blur of brides and babies")(I assume they were referring to my 20's and 30's?), but this seems unprecedented. It's like everyone jumped all over poor June's soul and threatened to overtake it with flower arrangements and bassinets.

(Ha. Do bassinets exist anymore?)

Now, I enjoy a good party, don't get me wrong. I'm all for happiness, and babies are awfully cute...but my god! My tearducts! My...wallet! Ack. I know it's summer and this trend isn't new by any means and really, when love and children are all you have to complain about, c'mon...but there's something afoot here and it's freaking me out. I believe I'm approaching the phase in my life otherwise known as Looking Back On. Or maybe it's the Why Didn't I? Or the Never Will I Ever. It's kind of profound in a sort of fluffy way.

So of course I revert back to my very least responsible and most excellent self. I've been thinking an awful lot about college, daring myself to return to the dirt, grime and muck of those few years that were good, so good while they lasted. The intrigue, the sleepovers (in twin beds! I still can't believe that), beer for breakfast which I haven't been able to do since, all the learning, growing, the BOOKS my gosh, and the incredible transformation that happens when you're suspended in a four-years-wide bubble...I wasn't what you'd call "naive," but I was significantly brighter-eyed and bushier-tailed than I am now. In fact, I think that my tail's all but fallen off (we've all gotta lose it sometime).

I also remember the food, and bear with me please. Wash U. had tremendous food. I think that we were ranked higher for our food service than for our academics, which was fine for the students (if not for the endowment). Perhaps the culmination of this stalwart commitment to culinary quality was weekend brunch at Center Court (I still don't know exactly what Center Court was, but I was an ardent fan). We had omelets made to order, kids. French toast, a waffle bar, meats, cheeses...and we'd lug our hungover asses to the cafeteria and pig out. I'm getting sick just thinking about it, both for the sheer volume of food consumed and the idea that our university more resembled a luxury hotel than an institution of higher education. But I ate, and ate well, and don't remember complaining about it while I was there.

One day I was at Center Court with my friend and I decided to reenact a scene from one of my favorite movies, Dangerous Beauty. It's a silly film and I adore it, and there's this one moment where a rather aged but still with-it lady suggestively eats a stalk of asparagus (it's classy! it's...classy.). With the steamed asparagus I'd picked up at the buffet, I attempted the same...and got the end lodged in my throat. About a minute later (and no thanks to my friend, who was laughing and pointing across the table while I turned red, then blue) I managed to pull it out and, scowling, finished my meal.

My relationship with asparagus has never been the same. I don't really get excited when it comes into season. I'm still apprehensive and it might be about my behavior and it might be about the vegetable, but I just don't use it all that much. So I was quite surprised with myself when I picked up a bunch the other day. I'm not going to talk about its gorgeous tender buds or the verdant essence of musk or whatever it is asparagus looks/smells/tastes like. I'm just going to say: that night I fell to sleep in my full-sized bed (!!!) with a newfound respect for the long green stalk. Maybe I'll give asparagus another chance. I am growing up, after all.

Tagliatelle with Asparagus and Pancetta

This wasn't really an inspiration. This was "I have to get everything out of my fridge and NOW." I used SchoolHouse Kitchen's SweetSmoothHot Mustard  because, well, I work for them and it's a fabulous product, but you can use a mixture of honey and mustard with almost identical results. The dish, before adding the pasta, stands alone as well...so if you don't have pasta milling about your cupboard, don't despair...just don't, please, don't overcook the asparagus. And add more pancetta if you'd like, and more cheese if you'd like, and eat it with your fingers, if you'd like. I'm sure I did.

Serves 3-4

One bunch of asparagus, woody ends removed, cut into 1/2-inch pieces
1 tbsp. olive oil
3 tbsp. pancetta, coarsely chopped
2 shallots, chopped fine
4 cloves of garlic, chopped fine
2 tbsp. of SweetSmoothHot Mustard, 1 tbsp. dijon and 1 tbsp. honey (or sub your favorite)
1.5 tsp. butter
Couple glugs leftover dry white wine from lunch 
2-3 cups cooked pasta (from fresh or dry, really, any shape will do), just al dente
1/2 cup (or more) reserved pasta cooking liquid
Salt
2 tbsp. fresh parsley, chopped
2 tbsp. parmesan, grated, plus more for serving
Sprinkle truffle oil (optional)

Simmer about an inch of water in a saute pan over medium heat. Add asparagus, salt and a bit of olive oil. Shake around until water has evaporated, then remove asparagus. Pour in rest of olive oil and saute pancetta until crisp. Remove pancetta to paper towels to drain, leaving the rendered fat in the pan. Add shallots and garlic, and sweat for about 3 minutes until translucent. Add mustard (or honey and mustard), butter and wine, and check for seasoning, adding salt if necessary. Add asparagus and pasta, plus a bit of cooking liquid until sauce is loose enough to just coat pasta -- you don't want a soup so add water sparingly. Stir in parsley and parmesan and remove from heat. Before serving, stir in crisped pancetta and sprinkle on truffle oil and extra parmesan if desired.

Smashed

When the end of the week rolls around, especially if it's been a 15-day week, I don't so much walk home from my job as trudge. That's right, folks, I'm a trudger. I drag my feet, I stomp, I huff and puff. If it's really warm outside, I'm probably sweating. Essentially, at the end of the week I become a crotchety old man, at least on the walk from the Sterling station to my apartment (on the third floor, can you believe it? Oh, the misery). Overall I'd say it's about the dopiest I ever look, and god bless (and god save) the poor soul who finds it appealing in any way.

The rest of my routine is pretty straightforward: I go directly to the cupboard, retrieve a wine glass, fill 'er up, gulp 'er down. Then fill 'er up. Then gulp 'er down. Interspersed with the fill-and-gulp (which sounds rather unfortunately like a new dance craze made perhaps most popular around petrol station convenience stores) is an episode of tv, a chapter of a book, and dinner, which doesn't generally require anything other than a pot, a jaunt through my fridge and a fork. Maybe another episode, possibly another chapter though by this time my eyes have generally glazed over, and to bed, to bed, to bed.

At the end of last work-week, though, I was pleasantly surprised. On my walk from the job to the subway, the lights all turned green for me, which was very polite. I was half-expecting a lamppost to throw down its coat to prevent my dainty feet from touching one of the many puddles on the rainy, dreary day. I also found a penny in the street and then another one on the subway stairs, and I'm proud of my superstition and you'd better believe I picked both of them up and straight into pockets and purse. I passed several games of Double Dutch despite the rain, and you've gotta hand it to those shrill little voices, they've got spirit if nothing else. I think it's even fair to say that my step picked up a bit, edged on by the screams and rhymes, hey, I was nostalgic for the rope I never jumped as a young girl in the suburbs of Chicago.

So I grooved on into my kitchen, tween temporarily overtaking curmudgeon, and rifled around in my refrigerator for some ingredients to compliment my mood, which was almost carefree and helped along by the obligatory wine and extreme gummy bears I practically chugged upon realizing that I still had a stash. I came up with an onion, some lovely grape tomatoes, both yellow and red, garlic, mozzarella, and basil...and decided to make a sauce for the fresh-ish tagliatelle I'd picked up at Eataly earlier in the week. Generally my favorite spaghetti would be enough, but I felt like putting pan to heat on this particular day and I also felt like demolition 'cause young souls can jump rope and yelp and destroy and feel no guilt. So a mass of caramelized onions later, I poured the unsuspecting tomatoes into the mix, let them get soft, and mashed the shit out of them with my tongs. I ended up wearing much of it and burning my arms with the wayward juices of several of the violated fruits, but I suppose I deserved it. I also cut up a radish and dragged it through the melting butter on the onions, sprinkled it with salt and ate it down, followed by a glug of wine. I'm not really sure what's wrong with me.

Smashed Tomato Sauce

This sauce is totally all-purpose. You can throw it on pasta, as I did, or put it on toasted bread, or puree it into a soup, or serve it on top of grilled fish, chicken, beef...it's just brilliant. Caramelizing the onions was kind of a tough decision on my part, because they become a relatively strong presence, but if you think about the beauty of soft, jammy, sweet-as-candy onions up against the acidity of just-seared tomatoes, the bite of torn basil and the slight give of fresh pasta, it makes some sense (maybe I know what I'm doing). The sauce gets better as it sits, so make a bunch and keep it in your refrigerator for a few days. And hey -- tomatoes are good all summer long, so try different varieties.

Serves 2, several times

1 tbsp. olive oil
1 medium-sized onion, sliced into thin half-moons
1 tbsp. butter
5 large cloves garlic, sliced fine
1.5 cups or so of ripe pear, teardrop, cherry, grape (etc) tomatoes
Handful of torn fresh basil
salt to taste

Heat a large skillet, add olive oil and onions. Season with salt and add a splash of water. Over low heat, cook onions, adding more water as necessary so they don't burn (remember to stir!). When they're translucent add butter and garlic, and cook until deep brown and very sweet (adding more water as it evaporates, and keep stirring, please!). Add tomatoes, push them to the bottom of the pan and cover them with onion mixture. Cover pan for about three minutes, until tomato skin starts to blister and tear. Using tongs or the back of a wooden spoon, gently squeeze tomatoes just until they break. Add more salt if needed and stir in the basil.

Serving Suggestions:
-Pour over al dente pasta and cubed mozzarella, stirring until the mozzarella just begins to melt (see below)

-Cut a good ole loaf of bread into slices, put in oven/under broiler/on grill (400 degrees) until charred, rub bread with a garlic clove and drizzle with olive oil (you know the drill), and top with sauce
-Puree mixture, or most of mixture, and add a splash of cream for lovely tomato soup
-Spoon over grilled poultry, steak or fish
-Use as omelet filling, along with some cheese
-Make a sandwich with sauce, spinach, cheese, ciabatta, meats, etc.

It started with a hunch (and was all a game of numbers)

My overtired self tends to assume the worst always, as opposed to my regularly-tired self who is only a slight pessimist in comparison. Maybe starting with the dream I had this morning that wasn't entirely a dream, the time between sleep and wakefulness that in my semi-unconscious state seemed like an hour but was probably five minutes. The dream where I forgot the shirt, missed the train, miscounted the money, fell on the ground, didn't stock up that almost started to materialize as I stumbled out of one station and to the next, to the 4 instead of the 2 because the 2 wasn't coming for 18 minutes at 6 in the morning. Waited for the R to roll around, angry at myself for being too tired to walk the 20 minutes to 3rd and 3rd.

7 hours in the heat but some money to show for it at least. A man with a certain knowledge that could be useful, and anyway he was entertaining. A mushroom sandwich on good sweet bread. Home to sweat that freezes in the air conditioner's cold dry stream. Some dinner and some wine, too tired to read but not to watch, and a supposedly early bedtime. Brush teeth admire self-administered haircut splash face and taste salt.

And then I walk back into my room and even the opaque black shower curtain-cum-windowshade is glowing red, orange, green, blue, red, orange, green all staccato. I say "don't look don't look don't look you dreamed all this last night" but of course I look and there's a cavalcade of police cars, ambulances, fire trucks lining my street and nothing is happening but I know something's about to. First I think it's my building and a disaster but I'm out on the fire escape looking down and my eyes tell me that there's no smoke and my ears tell me that there is no panic. I see other heads straining out of windows and I also see passers-by barely glancing, and both reactions strike me as strange even though I'm of the former.

Finally a stretcher into the building next door...and even though I'm fine, I know I'm fine as I'm of sound mind, I'm scared for what comes out on that stretcher and I think, "I will see blood, there will be tears" and so I keep glued to the spot and what I see finally is no blood, no tears, no scene. Just 16 men in uniform, seven emergency response vehicles and one human on the stretcher.

Now I don't know what happened in that building and I don't want to imagine it, but I do know that the man was wheeled out and he was alone. The good city workers of New York, done for the moment, wipe their brows and exchange some smiles and some words before driving away unceremoniously as if they do this every day as if this is a job and which they do and which it is. And one lone man in the back of an ambulance who is maybe not breathing and his only company are the two whose hands I see fluttering over his body as the vehicle leaves and makes my street black again, almost all black, at least eighty-five percent.

2-18-6-4-20-3-3-7-16-7-

and 1

(and 2)

and 85.

All come to roost in the city tonight between Manhattan and Brooklyn despite construction on the bridge. Hot heat of two islands perspiring onto themselves and each drop that falls is another person crammed into the subway car, another life working all day long, another soul restless for a place of overwhelming exactitude and unbridled excess. Tonight though I know one drop and one drop is a man without any mourners who we shut our windows on when it gets too hot to breathe.

I'm not really sure how to finish this one.

On flying and fennel

For the past few days the monitor on my computer has been out. Nothing, kaput, and although the computer turns on there isn't a shred of communication between the innards of the thing and the screen itself. It's a relationship gone bad and, unfortunately, couples' therapy costs much more than I have banging around in my pocketbook at the moment.* So I've resigned myself to reading in bed before sleep instead of combing the interwebs for this and that. A life less digital, more tactile and present, if I may, because a good story doesn't lend to my escape so much as carry me home.

And I've been reading a good story, friends. A very good story. An epic, even: Jonathan Lethem's The Fortress of Solitude which I've stupidly avoided since my move to Brooklyn over half a year ago (if anyone's counting). I'm not even halfway through and I really didn't like the first 75 pages, but somewhere around page 87 and "this crab runs sideways west/out of the pot/but not out of potluck," my eyes perked up and started relaying words directly to my gut which seems appropriate and which is where I feel this book the very most. This sweeping story of a city I'm still not quite sure about and her reluctant but inevitable son...is a story I've somehow connected to in the basest of ways. The book makes me revere and revel in my Brooklyn, this Brooklyn where I live that seems so much like the Brooklyn of decades past. And it reconfirms a pride in my neighborhood based on absolutely nothing but one I'll take. An acknowledgement of hardship, unwarranted in my case but one that Crown Heights wears like a cape, a superhero cape, one that's shredded and stained but effective nonetheless.

Crown Heights has a colorful history (word choice, Robin, word choice) and I'm glad to live here, against the better judgment of my family and friends who would rather I rent an apartment in Park Slope: an unrelenting baby boom of a neighborhood, lovely (really) but overrun with entitled children and parents who would never live anywhere else. Shops and dining galore, but I have trouble finding the soul of the place.

Now, I haven't abandoned my family's wishes completely. I work in Park Slope, smack dab in the center, and it's a nice place to visit. I walk around and if I can avoid bumping into strollers or stepping on a toy dog, it's quite sweet. Park Slope has a sense of humor about itself, in fact, so I actually respect the neighborhood and some of the people in it. I have friends there, and I'll even visit them sometimes. But for me? Not really....

Except for one not insignificant establishment: Union Market, where I've found the best (and some of the, dear me, most expensive) produce in Brooklyn. I would probably move to 5th avenue just so I could be close to this achingly gorgeous grocery store. I go there after work almost every single day if just to look at the shiny happy produce spilling over itself in an effort to get my attention. It's a bounty in every aisle, a tiny powerhouse of a food shop that calms and charms my aching heart (and, er, wallet) into submission.

The other day from Union Market I picked up: fennel, shallots, tarragon, ricotta salata, grapes. And here is what I done did:

It's a bulked-up Jamie Oliver recipe. He uses only tarragon, ricotta, shallots and grapes and creates, with a splash of vinegar and olive oil, a truly stunning salad. Since I'm god-damn crazy for fennel and thought it would complement the tarragon's licorice notes nicely, I added some, thinly sliced. I also put in radishes because I had them lying around and they didn't overpower the dish at all. In fact, they became a lovely counterpoint to the sweetness of the grapes, tarragon and fennel, echoing the shallots' spice and bite.

(that's another picture because I think that this salad is very very pretty)

One thing Jamie Oliver does, and I do this all the time, is "marinate" the shallots in a bit of vinegar and salt before adding them to the dish. I opted out of this and instead combined all of the ingredients before sprinkling delicately and carefully with salt, olive oil and vinegar. It gave the salad a very clean taste and none of the strong flavors were muted, yet as I ate (and I savored this, slow as honey) they spoke with each other, got cozy and created something different entirely. An orgy of delicious, really, and happening right on my plate. I couldn't ask for more.

Fennel, Grape and Tarragon Salad

Don't be afraid of this. Every single ingredient is confident but humble, asserting itself best in the presence of one of its friends. Eat a grape with some fennel and tarragon, make sure it's all coated in the salata, place a shallot sliver right on top. The second time I made this I used some balsamic vinegar which gave the salad a rich, deep flavor, but I like it best without (you can, of course, experiment). Also make sure to taste before you add the salt, as the ricotta salata is quite stand-up. And add more tarragon than you're comfortable with. Really, you must.

Serves 1

1/3 cup fennel, shaved thin with knife or mandolin
3 tbsp tarragon leaves, picked off of their stem
1/4 cup grapes, halved
2 tbsp ricotta salata, grated, plus more for garnish
1/4 of a medium-sized shallot, sliced very thin
1 radish, sliced into thin half-moons
glug of olive oil
splash of red wine or cider vinegar
sea salt to taste

Combine everything except oil, vinegar and salt. Gently toss with your fingertips. Taste for salt, season accordingly. Add a good glug of olive oil and a bit of vinegar (you'll be surprised at how quickly the salad takes on the acidity, so don't go overboard). Let sit if you'd like, or eat immediately, with extra cheese sprinkled on top.


*The computer's fixed now, for the moment. Thank you for your concern.

Buzz buzz (to the honey)

A minute to breathe, please.

Breathe...breathe...breathe....

Ah. That felt good.

Now to business: I've been swamped. No, in fact, I am swamped. Writing hasn't happened for a few days and to the two or three of you who care: my sincerest apologies. I haven't been busy like this in years and it's exhausting and it's nothing else right now: not even 9:30 and fingers and eyelids alike feel as if weighted by tiny stones. A beer and I'm flat on my face. My college self scoffs and mocks from the sidelines, but I can't help it. A month of up before 7 am, 7 days a week awaits and a week of it has gone by and I'm not (quite) complaining but I can't say I'm in tip-top shape either.

I suppose I can brag a bit though, because I'm the proud owner of a new job. This new job in addition to my other two keeps me up at night and fills the "weekend" days I'd grown accustomed to with such a lot of activity. But again, I'm not (entirely) complaining because I get to work with these cats. It's a bit silly that I was even hired in the first place but I'll happily play along until they realize that I'm really not competent at all. 'Cause I'm slightly smitten. Read their website, read their mission, and understand that they do very fine work with food.

There are two parts to this job: One is very grown-up because I do things like make spreadsheets and I'm held accountable and I have an email address. Good for me, but the other part is that I get to work at farmers' markets around New York and this is the most exciting part (we know it's exciting because I put it in bold text). Two or three times a week I set up shop at markets in the city and sell 'til my throat is sore.

One of my most favorite things to do is watch New York wake up and this job allows me to see this process in its truest sense. It's actually a kind of intimacy and camaraderie I haven't felt with the city before. A reluctant, slow build, nuanced and even slightly joyful. New York and I rub the sleep out of our eyes at 6:30 and dare each other to get on with the day. Hooray, I think.

But let's get down to it, and it in this case is the idea that I'm surrounded by food for eight hours at a time. Real good honest food. At the wonderful New Amsterdam Market on Sunday (I'll be there every week, folks!) I was stationed next to Sullivan St. Bakery and, after snacking on their strecci with roasted tomato and garlic the whole day, I was given three loaves of chunky, salty olive bread to take home. I had a shiny loaf of eggy challah set on my table and how could I refuse? A specialty dairy farm brought me a wheel of blindingly fresh, lip-puckering goats' cheese. After giving away several loaves of bread I still had to make room in my freezer...and that's only the first week. These markets are gathering places for genuine craftspeople who, proud of their hard work, can't wait to bestow it on the public (and give their leftovers to charity...and to me). It already feels like home and I'm just so damn pleased I'm able to exist alongside these people. It makes the early mornings more than bearable and it's thrilling to be busy in a way such as this.

So there I am, and I didn't even (really) complain. I will admit that I haven't been working nonstop -- one free night was spent on a steamy date with a roasted pig's tail. I probably could have just gone home and slept instead, but a pig tail hangover is one that I'll happily subject myself to over, and over, and over again.

Salad days

When I first read Kitchen Confidential a couple years ago, the one quote that stood out to me, more than any other, and in a book full of razor-sharp one liners and fabulous anecdotes, was:

"Vegetarians, and their hezbollah-like splinter-faction, the vegans, are a persistent irritant to any chef worth a damn."

I laughed so hard I snorted (ok, it happens all the time, but only when I find something seriously funny). I high air-fived Anthony Bourdain and, with my free hand, gave myself a hearty pat on the back. Then I probably went out and, to make myself feel extra special good, ate a burger with bacon and duck-fat fries. Or something, and the whole time I'm thinking, "you and me, Bourdain, we're on the saaaame page, baby."

I'm such a hypocrite.

Because for about 15 years there, I was a happy vegetarian and then, for an entire year, I ate no animal products at all. I was a (**shudder**) vegan. I ordered my pizza without cheese and had my first, but not last, encounter with Quorn (**shuddershuddershuddershudder**). I never looked down on my meat-eating peers, but I wasn't one of them. I wasn't a vegetarian for political or health reasons, either. I thought it was (and now I hang my head in utter shame)...cool. Different. Vegetarianism made me a badass, which seems counterintuitive in retrospect, but I guess I was a weird kid.

Around the middle of college I started eating meat again. If I recall correctly I was under some stress of a personal nature, and my friends showed up to my apartment and took me to get a burger. They said it would make me feel better. And, lo and behold, they were right. They were good friends. And 15+ years of veggies-only went sailing away as I tucked into my charred, griddled meat-on-bun at Blueberry Hill in St. Louis, which I still think has the best burgers in the entire universe. I was saved.

I'm now a Carnivore, and proud of it. But here's the thing, and this is why I'm very lucky: I still love vegetables. I adore them. I think that I like them more than I like big hunks of meat, and while I crave a burger every few weeks, I crave fennel always. And right now, when my kitchen is several thousand degrees above fit for human habitation, I want salad. I hunger for it. I desire it, I fall victim to it. Salad lust overtakes me and sends me on almost-daily trips to the grocery stores and farmers' markets to buy fresh veggies that I'll devour the same night, crunching away and filling my cheeks like Bugs Bunny on a carrot binge.


I'm actually not exaggerating.

So...why? Why now, and why so intense? I don't care about "swimsuit season" whatever in the hell that is -- bathing suits elude and terrify me and always have. I'm also not trying to improve my health -- the only thing scarier than a bikini is a diet, and besides, you see how I cook. No, I think that it has to do with balance, that perfect storm of crunch, sweet, salty, tart, that every salad should strive to be. The spray of water as knife cuts through cold lettuce, the gentle give and snap of a radish sliced wafer-thin. The way a simple vinaigrette, applied sparingly, spruces up the produce. The dynamic, bracing way a vegetable perks up when salt is applied...I live for this stuff. Salad isn't just for accompanying a piece of meat. If it's good, salad can be the thing itself.

It was last night, and I chose to make a really simple salad that I think came out of an informal cooking lesson from my Uncle Marc's mother Georgette. She owned a restaurant in New Jersey and is a gorgeous cook, and as soon as she heard that I was interested in food she pulled me into the kitchen to make this:

It's a combination of chopped red onions, romaine lettuce, loads of fresh mint, apple cider vinegar, olive oil and salt, all tossed together. In whatever quantities suit you (some like more onions, some like less mint or, most likely, the other way around). She added avocado but my sorely lacking supermarket was out, so I omitted and instead chose caramelized onions and a bit of diced mozzarella. The vinegar softens the onions if you mix them before adding the other ingredients, especially if you sprinkle in some salt and give them a few minutes to mellow. Then the mint, just tear up haphazardly, and use more than you think you should. It becomes a beautiful note of "what is that?" Let the salad sit for a minute or two after you combine it all, and serve it on its own with some bread and nothing else, because this beauty demands attention.

Don't let 'em

I'm going to preface this preface with: what a lovely weekend. What a goddamn lovely weekend. Really. I'm a lucky bastard.

But. On Sunday evening after a 2.5 hour train ride from JFK we got home and then I found a bug in our bed. And then I found another. And quickly the sheets were stripped and in the garbage, the internets were blazing full force for pictures and information, and we shed our clothes and screamed like children. Well, I screamed like a child. I'm not proud of it...it's a hideous sound that maybe a hysterical chimpanzee would make, were she in grave danger, and is usually accompanied by a none-too-graceful hop from foot to foot. But I did it, and I'm telling all of you, because I think that you deserve to know.

We're infested, and thank you very much, New York. These creatures have taken over our bedroom (or, please please please, just our bed). And I'm really slightly beside myself.

Several of the articles that I read about bed bugs claim that, while they're a minor physical irritant (their bites usually cause small, red, itchy bumps very similar to mosquito bites), the real damage is psychological. This is slightly horrifying. We have new sheets and pillows, and the bed and boxspring are both safe with protective covers. Our laundry's done, our room is practically saturated with rubbing alcohol and spray, we're taking all of the necessary precautions. But it's still disturbing and rather terrible, how these bugs can reduce the most even-keeled (I usually fancy myself even-keeled) adult into a shivering, blubbering mess who screams at a piece of fuzz on the floor that slightly resembles an insect and suddenly develops phantom itches all over when there's no bite to speak of.

Paranoia and how. It's I suppose an inevitable something that happens in this city, like termites or roaches or car alarms at 2 am...but it's the latest in a string of, which include: my camera's up and quit, the internet connection is fuzzy, my roommates have recently acquired a Yappy Dog whose sole purpose, it seems, is to guarantee sleepless nights...and it's hot here, so hot that I get out of the shower and I can't dry off, no matter how hard I try. Enough to drive me crazy? Yes. I have a very low tolerance for most things. And this is a day off. Spent cleaning and freaking out. When all I really want is a burger.

But. This weekend I went to a wedding in Florida. My cousin Rachel married her longtime love, a superb woman named Tiffany. I'd never seen the two of them dressed up like this before -- long white gowns, hair done up, glitter and glitz. The ceremony was lovely and touching, and although matrimony and its customs generally elude me, this particular union is one that I endorse and celebrate. The actual day was all a flurry of catch-up and sunburns and Gatorade and Fritos' Honey Barbecue Flavor Twists (divine, ok?). And then the gussy up, where I found out that my dress was far too short but it's all ok in Florida, and then the wedding. Ah, the wedding. The first without my Uncle Steve, who had acted as officiant for his other two children. His brother Danny bravely and beautifully conducted the ceremony, and "bittersweet" seems too trite a term, but it's the only one that readily comes to mind. We cried, we laughed, and then we danced for long hours and spent the remainder of the evening in the Hospitality Suite (a, well, suite at the hotel, fortified with snacks and booze, that spurs such creations as the "Zombie Killer," a pungent and vile mixture of every single alcohol and mixer on the bar. Thank you, cousin Gunnison, for introducing us. And thank you for the subsequent hangover.)...and then the pool, and then the balcony, and then maybe, for a few minutes, the bed.

And then home: train rides longer than necessary and ruby red sunburns. Homemade pizza at 1:30 am when everywhere else is closed, a short rest on the couch after the dreaded bugs rendered our room uninhabitable, and a day of work. A totally rad movie...some cheese and bread, a gin and soda, and tapenade that I made because cutting food with a sharp knife helps to bring the world into focus and always puts an only mildly irritating day into perspective...Not  unlike this weekend, the culmination of so very much joy and trauma, that helped remind us what it's all about. Tonight as I try and sleep on my brand new clean sheets, I choose to ignore the visions of tiny beasts playing behind my closed eyelids, and instead pay my respects to the extraordinary women who committed themselves to each other and to an Uncle who I'm lucky to have known. Thank you, Rach and Tiff, for hanging in there and throwing this grand party. Thank you, Steve, for lending us your spirit. And thank you, New York, for reminding me that I'm tough enough to put up with your shit.

Tapenade

I actually taught myself to like olives when I entered culinary school. I'm glad I did, because this stuff jazzes up my life in a very big way. This is briny, edgy, salty, musty, funky. I like to keep it relatively simple so the good olive and garlic dominate. I also don't care for anchovies (and yes, I could be shot for saying this), so I leave them out...but you can put them in. Some versions call for a very smooth paste and you could certainly do this in the food processor, but I love to leave it slightly chunky and, again, the knife through the olives with their little bit of give is really quite satisfactory. It's also a pleasure to chop up all of the solid ingredients on the cutting board, so when you're done, you've only got to scoop the gorgeous mess into a serving bowl, douse it with olive oil and balsamic, and eat. It's also very good kept for a few days in the refrigerator, so olive and garlic and shallot are barely distinguishable and it lovingly stays with you for hours. 

1/2 cup olives, pitted  (use what's on hand, but picholine or kalamata, or a combination of the two, work best)
1 large clove garlic
2 medium sized shallots
1/4 cup parsley
1/4 cup capers
1/2 cup olive oil, maybe more
splash of balsamic
pinch of red pepper flakes
pinch of black pepper (fresh ground is best)

Easy peasy: On a cutting board, making sure that pits are removed, finely dice olives, garlic, shallots, parsley, and capers, so all ingredients are quite combined but there's still some good texture, like this:

Put mixture into a bowl and mix with olive oil, balsamic, red pepper flakes and black pepper. Taste for seasoning (probably won't need salt, but add as much pepper as you'd like!), cover, let stand for a few minutes and serve.

Waves and waves and waves of it

Oh, New York. I've heard stories about your summers. About the fire hydrants, the steaming asphalt, the drugged, dogged people floating through your streets like zombies. Your heat inspires sonnets, novels, love songs, bedtime stories. Yes, I've heard tell, and have often dreamt of the sweet sweat pouring off of your loving denizens, uniting them in a salty ocean embrace. A summer of plenty, of romance. A summer to end all summers.

But now. The summer is almost upon us. And it's hot. And we don't have an air conditioner. And it's only May.

Help.

I really don't like summer, actually. I hate sweating. I could care less about skirts and sundresses. I burn badly and it never manages to turn into a tan.  My hair goes silly, and somehow my makeup runs even if I don't have any on. And while there's something admittedly enticing about hot, hot heat, I don't need it.

So, perhaps in defiance of our next (impending, unavoidable) season, I made soup. Mushroom soup. HOT mushroom soup. Soup that required me to stand over a hot stove, stirring, stirring, stirring. Ha! In your FACE, summer!

Mushroom soup is good. My mother used to make it, that terrific stuff from a can, with milk and a bit of sherry to finish. While I've gussied this version up a bit, it took me back to my childhood dinners while, over a bowl of the steamy stuff and a slice of buttered wheat toast, we'd talk about our days. These memories are some of my favorites, and almost totally distracted me from the fact that I had to keep shedding clothes in order to survive in the increasingly tropical, balmy kitchen, so that by the time the soup was ready, I was wearing practically nothing at all with my hair a mess and my face bright red, but oh my, I'd do it all again for this soup, I really would. 

My Mushroom Soup

The key here is to caramelize the mushrooms, garlic, onion and parsnip mixture very well. You don't want it burned, but it should be dark, dark brown and practically sticky. It gives the soup a rich, musky flavor, complex and earthy. The cheese rind is optional, but believe me, if you use it you'll appreciate that sharp, salty bite. You also don't have to puree the mixture, but I like the textural magic that happens when you do. Almost makes the soup creamy, which is pretty wonderful, considering you've added no cream at all. You could even substitute vegetable stock for the chicken, and you've got a deeply satisfying vegetarian dish. Or you could use beef stock. Or crisp up some pancetta and sprinkle on top. Quite versatile for a one-pot meal. 

Butter and olive oil

1 onion, sliced very thin

6 cloves of garlic, chopped

1/2 parsnip, peeled and coarsely chopped

4 cups mushrooms, coarsely chopped or sliced

1-2 tsp. fresh thyme leaves 

1 tablespoon flour

1 quart chicken stock, either homemade or low sodium store-brought

Rind of parmesan-type cheese, if you've got it

1/2 cup - 1 cup red wine (make sure it's good enough to drink!)

1 tbsp. sour cream, optional

1 tsp. mint, chiffonade, optional

Drizzle of truffle oil, optional

Add a tablespoon of olive oil and a tablespoon of butter to a medium stock-pot. Over medium heat, saute onion and garlic for five minutes, stirring constantly. Add a splash of water, salt to taste, and the parsnip, and saute mixture for about 10 minutes, or until onion is translucent. Add mushrooms and thyme, and saute for 20 - 30 minutes until deeply brown, like this: 

Add a bit more salt until it tastes like deep, dark mushrooms. Here's the optional bit: If you'd like, transfer mixture to a food processor and process until smooth (or just leave as-is), and transfer back to the pot. Add a bit more butter to the pan, sprinkle in the flour, and stir vigorously (you're making a roux). It's ok to make the roux along with the vegetable mixture...just make sure to keep stirring. Add stock and cheese rind if using, and bring to a boil, whisking or stirring constantly to avoid lumps. Let the soup boil for a minute or two, then add the wine and any salt (or pepper, but I don't generally use it) until it tastes perfect. Boil for two or three more minutes. To serve, ladle into a bowl and top with a dollop of sour cream, a bit of mint and some truffle oil. 

**Truffle oil's been under attack lately. Lay off. I love the stuff. If you hate it, or if it's too cheap for you, or if you don't have any, I assure you, the soup's damn good as is. **

Oh, and look what happened to the cheese:

This is, what we call in the industry, a bonus. 'Cause you can eat that stuff. And oh my LORD. 

**********

I'm also including, because they're delicious and addictive: 

Chimichurri Chickpeas

Told you I use the stuff in everything. This dish has four ingredients. It's kind of perfect. An awesome snack, great to top salads or, you know, to stir into ice cream (just kidding...mostly). Despite the cooking, these little lovelies scream "summer" to me and will, I think, become a staple at any barbecue I attend. Chimichurri is served in Argentina alongside parrillada, a gorgeous, almost blinding array of meats, and these chickpeas will feel right at home with a burger, steak or sausage right off the grill, that beacon of summer and holy of holies.


1 tsp. olive oil
2 cups canned chickpeas, rinsed twice in fresh water and laid out on paper towels to dry

1 tbsp. chimichurri

Add olive oil to a hot pan. Pour in chickpeas, add a pinch of salt and toss constantly until chickpeas are slightly brown in spots. Essentially, you're toasting them...so you don't want them to burn, but a few dark spots are a very good thing. Remove from heat, stir in chimichurri (add more if you'd like), toss to coat, and serve. 

Mess

I've really tried to hold off on this.

I've spent hours in therapy and years in denial. The time's come, though, to share this most private of issues in this most public of forums.

I'm a slob. A slob. It's hard to admit, but I can't sweep it under the rug any longer. Got to air my dirty laundry...More? No?

It's ok, I mean, I'm not horrible. I clean up my spills, I refrigerate cheese and milk, and even do the dishes right after cooking and eating (this is a recent development, but I've got four roommates, so). I shower regularly and floss when I remember. It's just that I can make, with or without cause or warning, a marvelous mess of things.

To note: the various rooms I've inhabited have, at one point or another, had a layer of clothing covering the hardwood that I've had to wade through, sometimes for days on end, before I actually do something about it. And that's ok. Somehow I can find most of my life's components, and it's even turned into sort of a game for me -- an expedition, a quest for treasure -- only the "treasure" is, say, a ballpoint pen hidden in a cave of tank tops and towels. Order eludes me, and as long as I can tiptoe through the rubble without breaking anything, I don't mind this one bit.

I'm just as haphazard in the kitchen as I am with my clothes. In culinary school this was a bit of an issue, as cooking is just as much about cleanliness as it is about knowing how much to salt the food. I suffered for two years, cleaning as I went, and you'd think that this practical technique would translate to my real life, as it makes kitchen time so VERY much easier. I don't think I need to tell you, though, that I'm just as much a maniac now as I was before school. It's kind of sexy, I think, all of the mess. Gets me going, and then I'm doubly impressed with myself after I clean it all up. If I'm just tidying up along the way, there's never a grand finale of dirty pots and pans which, when stacked all up and leaning over, give me a profound sense of satisfaction and accomplishment.

Or, well, that's what I tell myself.

In this vein, I slapped together a sandwich the other day. A gooey, oozy, fatty, messy sandwich that doesn't make much sense on paper, but c'mon, LOOK at this cross section:

I'm usually a lot simpler in my approach. But I made this sandwich for a joyous occasion and it had to hold its own. I took a mini ciabatta loaf and slathered one side with chimichurri (just wait until you see how often this condiment fits into my cooking). Next the ham: warmed, in a pan, until the edges just start to crisp. Over the meat: carmelized onion (I sauteed a sliced onion, low and slow with a bit of butter, olive oil and salt, until it was practically jammy and very, very sweet). Then a cheese sauce (a pat of butter sauteed with about a teaspoon of flour to make a roux - make sure to stir constantly - then about a half cup of beer, stir, and a cup or so of whichever cheese you have on-hand, grated, which you stir in until smooth and lovely. I like to add mustard and worcestershire sauce and salt to taste). More chimichurri on the other half of bread. Press it together, heat it in the oven until the bread's slightly crisp and everything's  melted into itself. Take it out and add a few pickled onions (thinly sliced red onions, lime juice and salt) and slivers of pickle (I use a vegetable peeler). Like this:

I took a bite and the juices, oh, the juices. All down my arm, onto my chin, some on my shirt...but that's what this sandwich is meant to be. It seems, for the moment, what my life is meant to be as well...a mishmash, a glorious mess, which I hope I can wade through half as gracefully as I do my room: stumbling, maybe even falling down, but always solid ground beneath it all.

This is about survival.

Friday night I had dinner on my own. New York is very kind to single lady diners, even at a cozy restaurant on the mighty and terrifying "date night."

**Sidenote: I don't really like the idea of "date night" sort of like I dislike Valentine's Day and also Brunch (with a capital B) and certain babies/puppies (and if we're being honest, the word "hubby" and its slightly nauseating offshoot "hubs"). It's all very twee and silly, or maybe I'm just a cynical jerk which is certainly possible, but anyway, back to it. **

I was happy to be a single lady diner this evening. I'd been to an awesome benefit for these guys, chock full of celebrities. My head was spinning, and it took me most of the train ride home to figure out that I was starving as well as star-struck. So a stop-in at Franny's, a couple of glasses of wine, some food. The pizza had a super, heavily charred crust but was just too damn salty. Slightly disappointing, as I'm stupid for Bklyn Larder and was expecting similar quality. But, again, two glasses of fairly good wine and I'm a relatively happy girl.

I tend to avoid books and newspapers when I'm eating on my own, as I feel more in-tune with the pulse of the restaurant, the other diners, society, the world and universe etc. I'm slightly tipsy towards the end of my meal and then, it might be the wine or the famous people or the still evening after a week of rain, but BOOM, there's suddenly a deep and abiding connection with most everyone in the restaurant and the whole entire city and I am having this experience and it's terrific even though I wonder a bit if my wine was spiked with something stronger and then I realize that I don't care. I'm sort of ecstatic in this really mellow way, totally delighted, aware and present. It's momentary, but it's intense, and I'm grateful.  This is me: I tend to favor short bursts of high-stakes connection, like that instant when you realize that you've got something arbitrary and quirky in common with a stranger, and you scream inside for a few seconds, then walk away, not looking back, but a tiny wave of nostalgia every time you think of it. It's something that occurs, and I don't have to work too hard for it, which is kind of nice.

--------------------
I'm different around my family. There's nothing fleeting about my relationship with them. My parents are divorced and re-married, and my "step" family is just as dear to me as anyone I'm connected to by blood. I've got a bevy of cousins, all close in age, and four living grandparents. It's absurd, really, because we actually enjoy each other, and for years I stayed in on Friday and Saturday nights, content to spend time with relatives. Sometime in college I learned how to make friends, and good friends at that, but it's not, never will be, the same.

It gets sad now for a bit, ok. Because, just as I was wrapping up at college, my family got sick. All in one house, three people with life-threatening and vastly different conditions. It didn't all happen simultaneously, but six months out of college and I'm the only healthy person (whatever that means) at home. It was a bizarre time, one that I don't really remember. I found out about terror and relief, and how one mustn't overwhelm the other. I learned that one tiny mutated cell can multiply rapidly and turn a beautiful body into a warzone. That a beating heart can stop and start again. That a cruel, cruel condition can batter away at the gentlest soul I've ever known. That a good, strong martini does in fact help, if taken every day and straight up.

And that, a year after the first wave of danger has passed, two others whom I love dearly are stricken and taken away. There is suffering, and death, and we see all of it. This time, two different incarnations of the same disease run the full ugly course and it's deliberate, we think, and this world is really mean, we think, and there is anger and there is pain and there is very little hope and there are very few bright spots. And there are lasting implications. And a caution and hesitancy, and "it all happens for a reason" is, for the most, complete bullshit. That it never gets easier, you just get used to it being hard.
--------------------

Two years later, now, and I'm in New York for better or worse. Speaking of: there's a family wedding this weekend, between two ladies who have been through it all and deserve, very much, to be extremely happy. I'm going to see my sister Anna after too many months and I think that I might cry when I do, and I think that I might cry at the wedding. I don't plan on being very cynical this weekend, even if someone tells a story about eating Brunch with her hubby on Valentine's Day. I will eat and drink and kiss too much, and celebrate the people who are, those who were, and those who have just become. And I promise, when I get back, that I'll start writing about food again, because I know that a sentence about an overly salted pizza doesn't really cut it.

Away it takes me

A few days ago I was at a conference, having a drink with someone, sort of a makeshift friend. We were asking the requisite questions that people have to ask when a certain dress code is observed and the ambient noise never reaches quite above a very low din, and once we had finally exhausted most of them, he looked at me, and right out of his mouth, without irony or judgment: "so why food?"

Uh.

So I thought, and probably played with my glass and I think I spilled some of my Negroni and then fumbled and wiped it up and this all took maybe about 12 seconds.

And then I gave some convoluted answer about it sustains us, it's a common thread, connecting humans across the world and through generations. He nodded politely and I think that he'd expected me to say something like that. It was a very correct answer. Like, er, like "sensible shoes" are correct, which believe me I know nothing about, and furthermore is certainly not how I think about food. So finally, to my new friend: "you know what? I like food because it's goddamn sexy."

I don't exactly know what this means, but I know it to be true. You sweat garlic. Beets dye your hands for days. I mean. Food changes the makeup of your body, outside and in. Food's gotten me into trouble a few times with a few different people. A well-made meal makes me feel good, so good. I'm pretty sure I won a special guy over with preserved lemons and empanadas. And when I want to relax, in that secret way that feels sinful because you should really be doing something else, I go into the kitchen and make myself known. When I'm cooking food I'm a pinup and a sex object, and I like that very much and I think that everybody should have this feeling once or more than once.

There were some things that happened (this, and then I went to here, and watched this), and I had a hard time reconciling food's role in my life. World events, which are so important, taking place all around me and I needed to figure out why food still held my interest in such a steadfast way. So I took a moment, fell out of love for a few days, and decided to re-examine my relationship (why I can do this with food and not with humans is beyond me). What I came away with was this: Food's generous, it's good, it's kind, it's forgiving. Food won't screw me over. Food gives as much as I do.Which is a lot, it really is. It's such a lot.

And when the grease is dripping down my arms and my face is red from a night over the stove, and I've got a plate of roasted beets in butter right in front of me and just waiting, and the romance is palpable...I don't know if I've found a greater love than that. Night after night I'll go back, wanting the excitement, the novelty, (but mostly?) the protection. It's a commitment and vows and everyone's looking on, and I don't care, because I'm proud of it.

In order to further my inane attempt at narcissism

A look into my refrigerator:

Cheeses: Le Grand Mogol, and two from Cato Corner Farm: Brigid's Abbey and Rappleree. Also queso blanco. Also cheddar.
Produce/herbs: A bunch of radishes, a head of broccoli, bunch of cilantro, parsley, onions and tomatoes (in the pantry), six lemons, three leeks, four mushrooms, packet of thyme, four celery stalks, five oranges, two parsnips, half of a cucumber
Meats: Prosciutto
Homemade Pickles: Green bean, red onion, cabbage, Thai carrot, Thai cucumber
Bread: Seven corn tortillas, two halves of two different baguettes (in the freezer)
Sauces/condiments: Chimichurri, romesco, mushroom-leek-wine, sour cream, orange-cumin (masterminded by my favorite roommate), mustard (two kinds), mayo, fish sauce, chili-garlic sauce
Leftovers and etc: Bean salad, collard greens, brisket, charoset, roasted potatoes (from Passover), 10 eggs, La Salamandra Dulce de Leche, leftover beet spaghetti, 3/4 jar of San Marzano tomatoes

Oh...no. Even I wasn't expecting that.

The best acting advice I ever got was to "do less." I don't remember what exactly it was in regards to, or even when I first heard it, but it became an oft-repeated phrase and the bane of my existence for most of my  professional career (I define "professional" very loosely here, for two reasons: 1. I've included my children's community theatre days, in which I portrayed, among other things, a magic singing sorceress and a sloppy mermaid; and 2. if we're going to assume that "professional" means "getting paid," all but about 4 of my 50+ shows would be considered "amateur," and I did not spend 26 years of my life as an amateur, not, most certainly, by my standards). "Pare it down, Robin, you're working too hard" or "just let the text speak" or "pick one goddamn objective and a few goddamn tactics and just do the goddamn play" were all variations of "do less." So, I did. Or at least I tried.

This is how it went: If I was cast, I'd lock myself up and study, analyze, research the play for days. Then I'd do the same with my character. I'd probably memorize my lines, or most of them, and I'd come away with a pretty good understanding of what my character wanted and how she'd go about getting it. I'd get really jazzed and amped up because, by god, I was an actor and I fully understood the human condition. Then I'd go to rehearsal, sit down and read through the play with the rest of the cast, stage manager and director. I'm good at readthroughs, so "I am the best actor in the world" is probably what I thought that night, and I'd have a beer.

The next day at rehearsal we'd get up on our feet. And I would fall apart. Badly. Suddenly acting was really difficult, and to overcompensate I'd try to justify my actions onstage with absurd psychological reasoning. I'll give you an example from our production of Winnie The Pooh, in which I played Kanga (and my little sister, oddly enough, was cast as Roo):  "Obviously, Kanga is shielding Roo from Eeyore because he represents, you know, Kanga's childhood insecurity about waking up one day with a pathetic gnarly tail pinned to her backside which is stated, of course, in the subtext of her speech to Piglet in Act I, Scene 4." The director, ever-patient, would look at me and say, "do you think it might have anything to do with Eeyore's surprise birthday party? And Roo's big mouth? Maybe you should revisit the text...?" With that, I'd become as morose as the donkey I was allegedly trying to protect.

Ok. Why do I tell you this. Because I'm trying to do a thing in my life right now. I'm trying to simplify, uh, everything. I have three jobs, too many high school sweatshirts that I don't wear anymore, an unbelievable collection of old newspaper clippings, six journals, three jewelry boxes filled with I don't know what, two contact lens cases...not to mention the seven boxes of books still sitting at my parents' house in Chicago (condensed from FIFTEEN, which almost ended me, I think). And it's too much. It's overwhelming.

I think I fill my life with things because I'm afraid to commit (which comes as a surprise to no one, but it's refreshing to state it out in bloggo land (different from Blago land, which is where I lived for years)). I could provide a laundry list of all (careers, people, relationships) I've walked out on, but I'll spare you another one. I leave, or change, when it gets too sticky. Not complicated, mind you. Sticky. When I feel a thing sticking to me I throw it away, or kiss it goodbye, or stuff it in a file folder somewhere, and promptly replace it with something else. It's becoming messy, it's interfering with my writing, with my experience here, with my confidence I think, even, and that's not what I want. My soul's become cluttered, not to mention my apartment, and space here is, as we all know, at a premium.

My refrigerator is bursting open because it's hard for me to commit to similar flavors two nights in a row. While my varied food life fills the pages of this blog and keeps me (more than) sated, it's time to admit that I have a problem and, after I do that, it's time for an intervention. I need to be happy with less, and focus on two or three key areas of my life and myself. Filling these few areas to capacity will, I think, make me feel richer than spreading myself so thin I can't excel in any one. I want to be full, my gosh, it's what I want most of all.

But first things first. Tonight? I feast on leftovers. And dulce de leche. With a spoon.

"Death," she says,

"in every moment, death by the millions is being averted. For this reason, every party must be of the highest quality." - Brian Francis Slattery, from Spaceman Blues: A Love Song

On Sunday afternoon I took this photo:

This is my picture of something happy. Two beers, two shots, two notebooks. A boy who I think is worth it. A chilly, windy afternoon but the wind left us alone in our outdoor garden, either out of consideration or because it couldn't be bothered. Our outside was calm. It was warm and still.

Usually there's a welcome storm after, sometimes one that I create myself, because you can avert death for awhile, but I've learned that  it can't be avoided. Some of us are lucky and cheat it for an awfully long time...but sometimes a car comes too fast, a plane goes down. Sometimes you find a tumor that doesn't take your clean lungs and daily yoga class into account. And what, then, the hell can you do. Death's a persistent asshole.

So we celebrate, and often. Those of us who survive: we drink, eat, kiss, hug, love. There's nothing else. We're not dead, so we'd better live, damnit, because there's a big "who knows" that looms large, larger these days, larger still at night when an able, powerful man makes an announcement that changes everything, even if we only remember it for a few weeks.

People followed this advice wholeheartedly on Sunday night: dancing in the street until well after midnight, getting too drunk and toasting a new beginning, a new era, the end of a monster. Jubilation, I mean, pure joy, streamers streaming and revelers screaming. Applause, applause, a standing ovation and pats on the back. Have another drink. Buy another round.

Usually this kind of thing is right up my alley. I can't get behind it, though, not this time, not in this way. I just can't. It's not natural, it feels like steroids, it's still too damn scary. I didn't sleep for a second on Sunday night. This is big, brazen, weighty news and maybe it's my constitution but happy is not what I feel. Relief, a bit. Anxious...oh yeah. Solemn, conflicted, confused, angry (still angry, ten years ago angry). But not happy. There's no "joy." Maybe I'm making it more complicated than it has to be. It's sort of my way.

Sometime I'll tell you about the six years between college and my move to New York. The world went crazy, my little charmed world that I used to, without prompting, thank goodness for every day as a child. As things finally settled down and I started to get my bearings, I vowed to celebrate everything. I threw parties, cooked lavish dinners that I couldn't afford, organized a birthday bar night for myself (I'd never done). I drank margaritas at lunch. I bought myself clothes. I stayed out too late.

I've since calmed down a bit. I still try to celebrate, even when it doesn't seem necessary. But it's been tempered by the acceptance and worry that come with great loss or almost-loss, and the subsequent revised expectations. I try now more to appreciate, be grateful for, love the people in my life.

I will love you, all of you, you who are still here and you who have moved on, for as long as I'm able to and even when reason's left me. I'll love you when I'm lying awake in bed with only my insomnia to keep me company, I'll love you as I'm frying eggs and making coffee in the morning, I'll love you through lunch and dinner, a beer and a shot. I'll love you as world leaders fall and others rise, as death is averted and succumbed to, death by the millions or death of one.

Of course I'll continue to have parties, because they're important. We'll have celebrations of the highest quality. I've learned, though, over the years and through the times: It's not as much about the party as who I'm there with.

Saucy

One's from Argentina, one's from Spain. One is green, one is red. I'm head-over-heels in love with both of them. I encourage you to try. Please, please try. They'll become your ketchup.

Chimichurri
This is roughly how my grandma makes it. She's Argentinian and a brilliant cook, and among the many dishes she's introduced me to, this is my favorite. Some add other herbs, but I prefer the clean, unadulterated taste of parsley only. I slather way too much of this on my steak, dip my bread in, stir it into salad dressings, drizzle it over eggs. It's verdant and bright and smacks of garlic, and more is never enough.

Several servings

1 bunch of parsley, chopped fine
2 cloves garlic, minced
Pinch of red pepper flakes, or more
1/2 cup olive oil
Splash of rice or apple cider vinegar
Salt to taste

Mix it all up. Take a whiff. Let it sit for an hour or a few days, and use on everything.

This stuff stores really well, as long as everything's submerged in the olive oil.

Romesco sauce

Again, this is my riff on a classic Spanish recipe. It's not entirely "authentic," but I think it's damn good. Thick and totally luxurious and ready in just a second. I've seen recipes that use a few different kinds of nuts, but almonds have always worked for me. Serve with meat, on eggs, on bread, or right off the spoon. 

Several servings

1 cup almonds (raw or roasted, unsalted)
2-3 cloves garlic
Large, ripe tomato, blanched with skin removed, and seeded
1 roasted red pepper, skin and seeds removed
1/2 cup olive oil
1 tbsp cider vinegar
Salt to taste

Pulse almonds and garlic in food processor/blender until very finely chopped. Add other ingredients, blend until combined and smooth. That's it!

Here it's served with good bread and my farmers' market scallions, which I charred directly over an open flame and peeled (you can also roast or grill them). Just drag 'em through the sauce like I saw Anthony Bourdain do on his "Spain" episode of "No Reservations," let the excess drip onto the bread, and drink with lots of wine. The Spanish get it right so often.

My way with spaghetti

Pasta's gotten awfully fancy lately: agnolotti (which is, at its heart, glorified ravioli) took us by storm a few years ago, and chefs can charge upwards of $25 for a serving of lobster and truffle mac 'n cheese. Despite all of these boutique offerings, I always come back to the goodness of toothsome, substantial spaghetti. Recently I've had a spaghetti "boom," that is to say, I've eaten it in some form or another for the past three days. The next two recipes are easy and quick but slightly unusual, sure to satisfy any pasta connoisseur in your life...and they're a hell of a lot cheaper than going out. Barilla is my choice for spaghetti and dried pasta of all sorts, but you can use your favorite.

Spaghetti with Beets
I had several beets lying around, as I often do. Beets are the most wonderful. They're sexy and bloody, unapologetically screaming color and staining the kitchen in their not-so-secret quest to take over the winter vegetable world. I'd seen them in ravioli before, but I wanted a take-notice bowl of red that left itself all over my chin as I slurped happily.

2 or more servings

1/4 box dried spaghetti
Tablespoon of olive oil
Big pat of butter
3-4 medium sized beets, grated by hand or in a food processor
Splash of balsamic vinegar
1/4 cup creamy cheese (brie or goat work well)

Bring a large pot of copiously salted water to a boil and add pasta, stirring so pasta doesn't stick. While it's cooking, melt the butter along with the olive oil in a large pan over medium heat, and add beets. Salt to taste. Stir beet mixture constantly, and after about five minutes, add the balsamic. Cook for one minute. Add cheese, stir until well incorporated. At this point, the pasta should be almost al dente. Move pasta into the beet mixture with tongs and turn the heat to high, saving the pasta's cooking liquid. Add one or two ladlefuls of the pasta water and boil until all liquid is absorbed and pasta is al dente (add more if necessary). Taste for seasoning and add more salt if necessary. Dish it up:

It's real pretty. My cheapo camera doesn't at all do it justice.

My favorite spaghetti
A classic combination for good reason. This has been done before, and done well, and this is my version. The sauce is pungent but mellows as soon as the hot pasta hits and begins to cook it on-contact. There will be some liquid at the bottom of your bowl which is lovely sopped up with bread, tossed with a salad or drunk straight from the bowl. I also make a pasta fritatta with leftovers: just add a couple of beaten eggs and cook in a nonstick pan with a splash of olive oil for about five minutes, moving the mass aside every so often to let uncooked egg to the bottom. Throw into in a 350 degree oven until just set. 


1 serving

Small handful of dried spaghetti
1 clove of garlic, minced (or smashed to a paste with salt)
1 or two good glugs of olive oil (1 tbsp, about?)
Splash of balsamic
1 medium-sized ripe tomato, roughly chopped
1/4 cup of mozzarella, roughly chopped
4 or 5 basil leaves, chiffonade

Boil heavily salted water and add spaghetti, stirring well. While it cooks, combine remaining ingredients in bowl, seasoning to taste with salt. When spaghetti's done to your liking, remove with tongs and add directly to tomato mixture. Let the hot spaghetti melt the cheese and wilt the basil slightly, then mix up the whole mess.

 That's a salad alongside, in case you're wondering. I like them almost as much as I like spaghetti.