Leap

Status update.

Sometimes science works.

Science for me is working for now. I'm 15 weeks 2 days pregnant from my first round of ivf and as of my last scan 1.5 weeks ago I have a thing with a beating heart in a place inside of me that was empty for several years. First trimester was easy, now clothes are starting to get snug and I'm buying things like "nipple cream" and a "pregnancy pillow" and Matt and I are having conversations about "names" etc. I'm not "connected" to this thing but that's common in regular pregnancies as well as in pregnancies conceived via ivf after years of infertility and loss. I can't summon up any "excitement" about this but I do feel thankful and I do not believe how stupid lucky I am that one go at ivf is so far working, first birth control pill in September and pregnancy confirmed in December, I don't know how that happened, well yes I know how that happened but I don't know how that and this happened to US.

I'm terrified that this won't stick, at my first ultrasound at 6 weeks I couldn't breathe and at each subsequent ultrasound I go numb about an hour before and can't form a sentence until I see the heartbeat but I think that's common too.

For now I'm pregnant though, and there are lots and lots of complicated fucking emotions rolling around but this is my reality for now and it seems pretty damn similar to other realities and that, for now, for me, is ok.

IVFlipping Out

I've been absent, and this is long.

We got 2 normal embryos. omg. 

I started my transfer cycle. Birth control, estrogen pills, and two types of progesterone therapy: The first, a needle that I fill with Progesterone In Oil (PIO), and the other a tampon-like insert containing a gel that I push into myself each night. If I get pregnant, I will continue to take the progesterone(s) until well into the first trimester, when the placenta takes over and begins to produce the hormone on its own. 

1.5 inches of pure happiness

A few days ago I went in for my Frozen Embryo (Blastocyst) Transfer. It's goddamn sorcery: a doctor inserts the recently thawed, beautiful, perfect blast directly into the uterus, where it has a chance to hatch (if not hatched already) and implant. Implantation is the big big deal here, it's the main attraction, it's what means you're pregnant and what starts producing hcg (which turns that second line pink).

I transferred a week ago. Tomorrow I take a blood test to find out whether it took, and whether I'm pregnant. 

And my right now is unlike any reality or dream I've ever experienced.

Over the years, this is what I've done to get pregnant:

1. Every single morning, I've taken my basal body temperature and a (pee) test that tells a woman whether she's gearing up to ovulate. I've monitored and analyzed the consistency of my cervical fluid, and for a couple years, I checked the position and texture (firm? soft? medium?) of my cervix.

2. Lost weight, gained weight, maintained weight. I've increased and decreased physical activity. I've added soy, cut out soy, eaten pineapple core, drunk pomegranate juice, tried Atkins, tried Keto, tried Whole 30, cut out drinking, drunk excessively, cut out gluten, stopped eating sugar, gone vegan, gone vegetarian, gone raw, gone high protein. 

3. Taken Chinese herbs, Pregnitude, baby aspirin, CoQ10, Ubiquinol, 5 or 6 different types of prenatals, and then the heavy hitters: letrozole, estrogen tablets, progesterone suppositories, and the trigger shot. I've had one miscarriage, one ectopic, six chemicals, 2 IUI's. I've had hundreds of blood draws, dozens of ultrasounds, weekly monitoring and daily monitoring. 

4. Seen five to seven different obgyn's: some of them good, some of them bad, some of them irresponsible hacks

5. Been to acupuncture, a psychic, and a shaman. I did reiki once. 

6. Insisted on mandated timed intercourse, every month, for years, which is, if you can't imagine, one of the least romantic and intimate acts a couple can engage in.

7. Looked into adoption (SO DON'T ASK), surrogacy (DO NOT ASK), egg donation, sperm donation (don't ask don't ask PLEASE don't ask). 

8. Stayed home from baby showers and bridal showers, I've left early from plays and parties and events, I've become better friends with The Real Housewives than any human person, all because I am a drag right now. I am such an incredible drag. And I don't want to subject the people around me to my misery. And I can't handle abundant happiness right now, and I haven't been able to for years. 

9. Missed out on my friend's and my family's major life events because I am reminded, constantly, of my child-less state and it destroys me, friends. It destroys me.

10. Broken down because of diapers, pictures of ultrasounds (oh god), a baby's cry, pregnancy photos, women complaining about morning sickness (or insomnia/swollen ankles/hormones/etc)...Hanukkah, Christmas, Thanksgiving...social media can suck it, too. 

And then I did IVF. Which you know all about. I've been sick since I started my transfer cycle, in one way or another, and I can't lay or sleep on my side and I have uncomfortable gunk coming out of me all day. 

Infertility, especially prolonged infertility, is not a once-a-month thing. It's not a something I think about every so often. It is every second of every day. My infertility has become my identity, and before you tell me that I just need to alter my mindset, please spend a couple of years losing pregnancies and drugging yourself with mind and mood-altering hormones. 

This is why I get bristly when people tell me to relax or think positively or "hope for the best" (thoughts and prayers are worthless everywhere and here). It's why I cannot stand, CANNOT STAND, when people make recommendations to "improve my chances." It's why I prefer a strictly science-based approach, and it's why I've resorted to the most sophisticated biological process that currently exists to get me pregnant. I am obsessed with my infertility and obsessed with overcoming my infertility, and if you recommend a new study or treatment, at this point in my process, I'm likely to lose my everloving shit. 

I'm a mess, folks.

Tomorrow, she's almost here.

And here we go. 

IVWTF

Today I found out: Of my 14 eggs retrieved, 8 were fertilized, and one…just one…made it to freeze and genetic testing. Which is to say, I had bonkers bang up amazing results for the first step and the second step, and today some very real fears were confirmed. We'll find out tomorrow if any other embryos catch up and make it to freeze, it’s certainly happened before, but I'm not banking on it. 

And here, right here, is the quiet steady torture of IVF. This is why I need to exist constantly, always, just shy of cautiously optimistic. No, I don’t like sticking myself with needles and I don’t like all of my bruises and it’s not nice to be roughly 1.5 times my normal size and hobbling around with two bowling ball-sized ovaries, and my clothes don’t really fit and I’ve had to wear stretch pants for three weeks straight. That’s not FUN. But the real pain lies in its many nuances:

• 8 transvaginal ultrasounds in 12 days that got increasingly uncomfortable as at least 23 follicles popped up and grew 
• 9 blood draws in 12 days that resulted in my veins collapsing and a mad rush to find a portal for the anesthesia needle at retrieval
• a kerfuffle with the specialty pharmacy on day 12 that almost cost me my cycle and resulted in a near-breakdown
• 10 nights of almost no sleep at all (first from the estrogen, then nerves for retrieval, then anxiety over whether any of my embryos will “make it”). I will not sleep tonight, I'm sure of that.
• the waiting: wait in the doctor's office. wait to hear about med increases. wait for the refills to arrive on time. wait to hear how many follicles I have. wait for the estrogen results. wait to see if the trigger worked. Or if it worked too well. Waiting to see whether I'd develop OHSS (I didn't, thank goodness). Waiting, and waiting, and waiting until day 5 and then day 6, then waiting for the pgs results if we even elect to go that route instead of trying another stim cycle. 
• The looking at myself in the mirror every morning and night, taking a deep breath, pushing the needles in, and knowing that this could result in a baby...or not. 

Last night of stims: Lupron (trigger), Follistim, Menopur, and my trusty sharps container (aka my bff's)

IVF is isolating. It is traumatic. It’s all I talk about on social media and really in-person, and it’s caused me to voluntarily cut myself off from so many of my friends and family, to spare them the redundancy of just a constant steady stream of bad news. It’s why I don’t smile for real and can’t let myself get excited about much at all. I’m constantly steadying my hand, managing my expectations. This little embryo that could might be my take-home baby and might be another dud, and I might have to repeat this process again, and I have to hold all of the possible scenarios with equal care and consideration. IVF took my fertility woes and catapulted them through the stratosphere, where crashing back down to earth gets progressively more and more and more damaging. So I have to keep balance as best I can.

I am strong, I really believe that, and I also believe that I will fight until I get what I want. I'm not going to stop and I'm letting Hope rear its beautiful dangerous head because I am lucky to get just one embryo. But I'm constantly trying to play catch up here, and the things that I was worried about before I actually started seem so trite now. I feel like I'm in the battle of my life. The inside of my head would make a great movie.

I'm fixated, I'm hurt, I'm terrified, I'm obsessed, I'm on the verge...but I'm doing this and I guess I've proven that I'm determined enough to clumsily find my way through it. Thanks in no small part to my universe of support, I'm gonna find my way through it. 

Retrieval day, on no sleep, looking forward to a sweeeeet medicated nap

Until tomorrow, babes. 

Race ya

Here's what this feels like to me (on my bad days, which is sometimes every day):

You break your toes. All of your toes, your big toe and little toe and the ones that went to market and the ones that stayed home, and you break them randomly, cruelly, really painfully, and you're just dumbfounded. You can't understand why you keep on breaking toes, you look where you're going and step so carefully, you spend thousands on good shoes with ankle support and you read every last book on toe-break prevention, but you can't help it, the toes just snap no matter what you do. You get tiny little toe casts which give you momentary relief, but as soon as one of them comes off the toe breaks again, and I don't have to tell you that it hurts more the second time around. 

And then just when you can't take it anymore a magic genie doctor appears and tells you about a potion that he promises will make your feet "good as new," but it's halfway across the world and you have to walk miles and miles to get this stuff and there aren't any buses or trains that will take you even a block or two and this is the only thing you can take to heal (ha), this is the only way. 

So you start walking. I mean, what choice do you have. 

As you hobble towards your salvation, people are just sprinting past you. Running circles around your dilapidated depleted self, slapping you on the back and yelling "you can do it!" "just think good things!" "at least you're still alive!!" into the wind as they pass you up one, two, three times and without any effort. 

You're walking by the most gorgeous scenery in the world, these perfect idyllic towns, but you don't pay attention because you can't stop focusing on your stupid ugly feet and then you realize that you're focusing only on your stupid ugly feet and feel even worse about yourself because you can't even smell the flowers or feel the sunshine.

And months or years later, when you're almost there, almost to the finish line, you learn that this potion will probably help but oops, magic doc forgot to tell you that it isn't actually a guarantee, just a possibility, and sometimes people who take this medication develop bizarre side effects like maybe they grow an extra arm or can't ever blink again. And you've forgotten where you live and who you know and who you are, you can probably remember your name but everything else you just left on the long long road you've been walking on forever towards this one measly possible chance at comfort. And you're not looking good, you're gross and sweaty and hoarse, and eeeeeveryone can see you. Everyone. And they're all wearing sandals and their pedicures are perfect. 

This metaphor is completely on the nose (or the toes), I realize. I thought it was clever at first but now I'm not so sure. 

ivf ftw

The psychologist at my RE's office told me that if my transfer fails, it will be awful...but she's more worried about me if it's a success.

She talked about our baby making it to 6 weeks, heartbeat, then 8 weeks, then 9 weeks when I can stop the PIO shots, then 12 weeks when I'll be returned to the care of my OB, then 20 weeks, then 24...and so on and so on and I couldn't stop crying, and eventually I said, "I just can't imagine ever getting that far." And she said, "I know."

Three years of trying, two of absolutely perfect timing, 8 months of letrozole/trigger, and 2 IUI's resulting in: one miscarriage, one ectopic and removal of right tube, and five chemicals...and I'm ready to admit that something's not working. There's a thing that's wrong with me or there's a thing that's wrong with our embryos but there's a thing that's wrong. We have killer insurance and I'm at my wits' end and broken from the inside out and well, it's time to give it our all and our best shot so we're doing in vitro fucking fertilization. Starting in October.

Even though I researched this I didn't know what it entails, and what it entails is this, best-case scenario: self-administered shots to the abdomen for several days to plump up your ovaries and produce lots and lots of beautiful follicles, most of which hopefully contain a perfect maturing egg. You give yourself another shot that triggers your ovaries to release all of those eggies, then roughly 34-36 hours later it's to the doctor's office for Egg Retrieval Day, where they make a little incision and suck out the eggs and fertilize them in a lab using technology that I am grateful for and which makes my head spin, then they age the "embabies" (I am fond of this term) to three days, then to five, then they freeze them and biopsy them and send them for genetic testing. I get a little rest. THEN I start taking estrogen pills and injecting myself with a truly terrifying needle, right in my butt, which is all supposed to prime my body for Transfer Day, where they put the thing back in me and hopefully it implants and bam, I'm pregnant. Scary butt shots until 9 weeks but I'm pregnant so I do not fucking care.

Best case scenario.

Worst case scenario is that I don't respond to the medication and if I do respond maybe I ovulate too early and the whole thing is a bust, and maybe I ovulate on time but they aren't able to retrieve any mature eggs and maybe none of our embryos make it to three days or five days and maybe none of them test genetically "normal" and maybe they don't survive the freeze or maybe they don't survive the thaw or maybe somebody sneezes in the petri dish or maybe I get OHSS and have to stay in bed for five weeks or maybe I get pregnant and it's another chemical or maybe I get pregnant and miscarry in my second or third trimester or maybe the birth hurts or kills me and maybe I never get to take a baby, MY baby, home from the hospital and I don't ever have children and don't ever recover from the trauma of these last several years but most specifically from the trauma of my failed ivf cycles.

I am completely overwhelmed, I am so excited, and I am beyond terrified. I have isolated myself to an astonishing extent and I mostly speak to my husband, my mother and sister, and a few friends who persist in contacting me for some reason.

I'm going to write all about my ivf experience. Some who read might not agree with this crazy science (I am open to discussion but not to ignorance), some might gain insight, some might stop after the first paragraph because it's just too boring, but I'm documenting all of it here because this process affects so many of us and it is kept silent and the lead-up to this is the worst hardest most inexplicable thing I've ever been through. Maybe this starts or continues a conversation or something, maybe it's purely gratuitous self-indulgence but at this point and in this pain and with this renewed hope I do not care.

Been on birth control pills for a couple of weeks, hysteroscopy last Friday, slated for baseline ultrasound and bloodwork on October 2nd and will start injections (stimming) on October 4th.

Here we go.

The month that is

I came up with the name for this post when I thought that I was "just" having another miscarriage. We had been advised to take some "time off" after our fifth loss in one year. My reproductive endocrinologist wanted to do an hysteroscopy to see if there was something in my uterus preventing full implantation -- some reason why all of these little fertilized eggs fail to "stick." So he suggested we take a month off and I started crying in his office. It was embarrassing. but he's seen it before and reacted kindly.

At 5 weeks, hcg had dropped but a week later shot up, and that's a problem. I went to the ER where they confirmed ectopic and removed my right tube.

That's the short story.

The longer story is that I was coming off of another chemical cycle, then got pregnant. hcg started very low and rose very slowly, but I diligently went for my blood draws every other day even though I knew this wasn't going to be viable.

My arm after following betas down from the chemical and up for the "pregnancy" -- a rich hue of shit-colored with an afterthought of purple

I didn't feel right, and I know my body too well to ignore that.  I didn't *feel* right. So I was not entirely surprised that my nurse called and told me that hcg rose swiftly a week after it started dropping or when the ER team confirmed that the little embryo had attached itself in or right next to my right Fallopian tube, missing my uterus by essentially the equivalent of a football field.

Matt was able to leave work and meet me at Northwestern, and after just a couple of hours we got a room. Spent the next 8? 9? hours laying down and trying not to breathe because, as scary as this was, it would be worse if the pregnancy ruptured and destroyed my tube, ovary, worse...and Matt watched and waited, watched and waited: watched them take blood from my hand with a big needle and watched them give me 2, 3, or 4 pelvic exams and waited through the longest ultrasound ever and watched me break down when talking to the ob on-call and then watched me on hardcore valium and then waited for the surgery to be over at 12:30, then 1, then 1:30am all alone in the room where we got the first unofficial diagnosis of Dad's GBM.

And then the fucking badass team of women at Northwestern laparoscopically removed my right tube and I came back to the room sore but alive, and then I peed and came home and we ate leftover pizza and thai at 5:30 in the morning. And then I couldn't really move for a couple of days was very sore but then the incisions healed nicely, and today I got my dressings taken off.

But the REAL long story is that my sister and two friends came over to watch our dog while we were in the hospital. And my sister and my mom came over every day that weekend to watch me while Matt went to work. That two beautiful friends, who I was supposed to sing karaoke with the same night I had surgery, instead came over and listened to me and sat by me and held me. That I was able to take 2 days off of work to recover and still get paid. That my best friends, who have very big things happening in their lives right now, showed me incredible grace when I whined and cried about my crummy lot and gave me strength and gave me hope and sent us flowers. That my guardian angel advised me through it, from beginning to end. That the internet support group I've come to be closer to than many real-life people followed the whole thing, whispering gentle encouragements and allowing me to wallow, wallow, wallow in the stink of it all.

That my sweet puppy continues to save me without even knowing it.

That my husband still wants to be married to me...after this:

Acne from months of hormones plus valium = sexpot

That is the long story and this has been the longest story of my life.

Long story short, though:

My luck is terrible and my people are the best.

And, also, fuck this stupid-ass shit.

Loss

I'm writing this because I'm desperate. I'm writing this because I've alienated myself from so many of you, because you've been able to do something that I've been trying to do for years and years...and I'm lost, and I'm lonely, and I'm terrified.

I had a miscarriage that lasted from May-July 2017. I had two more early losses, one in Sept. 2017 and one in November 2017.

Also in 2017:

• We started renovations on our house. Big-time renovations that will make our space beautiful and bright and more of our own.
• We got the most incredible dog who lives through everything with us. He's real cute, too.
• I got an insane promotion at work. Living my career dream, quite literally.
• We ate really well, drank really well, and continued to be married which I think deserves a fucking medal in and of itself because when you're trying to conceive and you're not able to...holy FUCK the toll it takes.

But none of that matters to me. Not really. Because I'm empty and I continue to be empty, and this isn't a something that comes up every so often, no no no, this has consumed me and inhabits me and takes the place of any growing life inside of me. It's bigger than I am and bigger than life is and I never expected this, never, ever, ever, ever, ever.

Women should build each other up. Women should support each other and give to each other and be there for each other because the world isn't there for us. I believe this so completely...but when the women in my life (all of the women in my world, it seems) started to get pregnant, right after my loss, I felt betrayed and abandoned and angry. I felt jealous, for the first time in my life, of my friends...and I continue to be jealous of my friends, and I continue to hurt and it is *excruciating*. Because I don't want to feel this. I want to be there with my women, in their joy and fear and overwhelmed and excitement...but instead, I'm anxious about my next cycle, wigging out on hormones to try and get me to a place where I'm even able to attempt to conceive a child, seemingly ignoring the needs of my husband, my family, my friends (those that I have left)...I'm there with myself, alone, and I've put myself there, and it's ugly and it's tragic. I've been through some shit...but this is Fucking. Tragic.

I wanted to wait until I was pregnant again to write something, but I'm not pregnant, and so many others are, and I keep on blocking people on social media and cutting people out of my life who have any association with anyone I know who is pregnant, and I avoid speaking with women who could potentially possibly even remotely be trying to get pregnant, and the word pregnant sends white-hot searing pain down my spine, but it keeps on going through my head. Over, over, over again. And I'm desperate.

And I'm sorry.

In Which You Are Here At Thanksgiving

We show up at the door shaking the cold from our hair. You open up and let us in, and a kiss then a hug that's a little awkward because neither of us is sure when to let go and so it's stilted and strange, but I'm expecting this. You're probably wearing a bright yellow apron and I say something sarcastic and affectionate which you grin at.

"Come in, come in. Happy Thanksgiving."

Right to the kitchen, controlled chaos, and to cooking. Sweet potato gnocchi? Green bean casserole with deep fried shallots and homemade mushroom sauce that's twice as expensive but half as good as the original? Maybe both. You stand above the turkey with an electric knife and I chuckle at the gender role that you've assumed for years and are actually quite convincing at, despite the fact that you've never watched a Sunday football game in its entirety and you're still in that silly yellow apron. I'm really amused and forget that I'm chopping with a sharp knife and I cut myself, and although it doesn't hurt there's a lot of blood. I calmly run my finger under water and apply pressure while you lose your shit. You are in crisis mode: you run through the house frantically looking for a band-aid and talking yourself down which I laugh at more. I let you put the bandage on and I am irreparably touched by your tenderness and your concern and your kindness, because I am still your baby after all these 31 years.

The meal is fast and plentiful, and before we know it it's dessert which we somehow find room for, and then we sit and smile and finish our wine and then it's time to go.

So we hug goodbye and this time it's a little more natural because we shared a meal, and I give you a kiss and leave you to do the dishes. I drive off and go home and go to sleep.

If you were here.

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.