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.

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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.
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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.

Endless summer

When I was younger I spent 8 summers at Interlochen Arts Camp in Michigan. I was a theatre major, which means that I got to explore acting among the very best, and in doing so found a group of truly great friends, even though we've all grown up, even though we're only rarely in touch. Perfect summers, really, that I chose to spend in uniform, following a strict and intensive study schedule, alongside some of the craziest sons of bitches I've ever met.

Our outdoor auditorium was called Kresge, and tattooed right above the stage were the words "Music is the universal language."

Walking home from the Grand Army Plaza farmers' market today, with armfuls of leeks, onions and the most gorgeous scallions (in a mood, I guess), I turn on my music. This time it's The New Pornographers and David Bowie, and by god, it speaks to me in a language no human's been able to even approximate. I'm reminded of the all-encompassing sound as I walked among classes for so many summers and so many summers ago: campers practicing their instruments, Yo-Yo Ma doing a sound check, Itzhak Perlman conducting a masters' class, or the musical theatre kids spontaneously breaking into a fully realized and choreographed number on Main Camp. Those were youthful, useful summers...I learned to be part of a great, big, weird community and to love what came along with it. I'm trying to find that in New York, and for a moment today, it comes. It's gone just as soon but I'm left with the taste, rich and full. It carries me home and my mouth is watering, my hands are itching, and my kitchen is waiting for me to wreak havoc with all of those superlative members of the lily family.