Another Year Older & Quite Possibly Wiser...Maybe

I have control issues. If you know me well, you are probably nodding your head. I know how I got them (ahem, Dad) but I don't know how to get rid of them. They manifest most obviously when Mike tries to plan something. (I am imagining more nodding from close friends). You see, I am nothing if not a planner. I research meticulously. I leave no stone unturned. I make sure every detail has been attended to. Whether it is a big vacation or just dinner plans, I want to make sure that we have a perfect experience. Logically I know that there is no such thing as perfection, after all, even the best laid plans, blah, blah, blah. But that doesn't stop me from trying. And who am I doing it for? Do you think Mike is going to be let down if the food didn't make him see fireworks or the hotel's complimentary breakfast didn't actually have waffles? Nope, it's me that is disappointed when something minor goes awry. When you spend so much time reading up on a destination, reviewing, comparing, and in general, daydreaming about what you'll do, you've already created this unattainable, in all likelihood, expectation of how things will play out. I really don't know how to kick this compulsion for coordination, this dependence on deliberate preparation, so we have learned to deal with it through trial and error. Mike would say I've gotten better at going with the flow and at just enjoying the moment, but I still fall off the wagon every now and then. And like any family that has dealt with addiction knows, it's usually the supportive loved ones who suffer the most. I in no way mean to diminish true addiction, just intend to highlight Mike's saintliness for putting up with what is sometimes impossible behavior on my part.

Birthdays are never easy for him and I'm sure I don't need to explain why. We have recently come to the agreement that for special days it's okay for me to just tell him what I want to do and it's okay for him to just do it. While it may lack romance, pomp and circumstance, we both know I am getting what I want and he doesn't have to try to decode let alone choreograph my idealized vision of how things should play out. This was our first time putting the new agreement into action and since my birthday fell on a Saturday, we decided that I could plan my ultimate day in Manhattan and that would be that. No compromising about where to go, what to eat, what to drink, basically the perfect gift for me because not only did I get to plan, but I was the only person I had to consider when making choices. (If you are cringing at my blatant selfishness and boorish behavior, I can only say in my defense that the vast majority of the time, I am not a monster, just on special occasions that will be forever remembered...and tainted). My plans were fairly simple, a relaxed day doing the things I enjoyed, a little eating, a little shopping, and a little cooking. We kicked off the day around 11 with my favorite pain au chocolat (chocolate croissant) at Amy's Bread on Bleecker. We wandered around and out of the Village into SoHo about an hour early for our afternoon lunch reservations at Mercer Kitchen. So we meandered a little more until we came upon Lusso, a contemporary Italian cafe that had an interesting Italian craft beer menu. We shared a bottle of Baladin Nora, a refreshing brew with a floral aroma and a juicy citrus flavor. As our server delivered the check, she also placed a small tray of crostini topped with chicken liver pate, frisee and a drizzle of honey in front of us, just because. The pate was delicious, but there was WAY too much of it. They could have used about a third of what was on there and it would've been perfectly balanced with the other elements. It reminded me of when you eat a bagel that has so much cream cheese on it that it squirts out the sides and through the center when you bite into it. What is with the tendency to pile cream cheese on bagels? Are we in a cream cheese surplus? I don't know about you, but I like my bagel to be flavored with cream cheese, not my cream cheese to have a hint of bagel. Regardless, it was a nice little treat and with that, we were ready to eat for the third time that day.

I was really looking forward to Mercer Kitchen, which is part of the Jean Georges Vongerichten restaurant empire. If you are not an insane foodie, Vongerichten is arguably one of the world's most famous chefs and successful restaurateurs. We ate at another of his restaurants, JoJo, for our anniversary and were very pleased. I could go into extreme detail about our experience there, but I won't bore you. The food was good (spring pea soup and a tuna wasabi pizza for me, soft shell crab and a lamb sandwich for Mike), but I wasn't impressed. The service was less attentive than I would've expected for a Jean Georges enterprise and the food was good, but didn't blow me away. I was disappointed in the sense that it didn't live up to the hype, but not in the sense that it ruined my day, it was still a great meal. (See, I am not a total beast and people CAN change).

After lunch, we walked the few blocks to my school where I took Mike on a brief tour, and we ran into Chef Nic, who I think took a minute to recognize me in street clothes. I guess when you are used to seeing someone with hair tucked away, no makeup and drenched in sweat, it's difficult to make the association right away. From there we headed to the Bowery, which is the restaurant and kitchen supply district. I had a great time stocking my kitchen with fun new tools: a mandoline for precise slicing and cutting, a fine mesh chinois for straining stocks and sauces, a new saute pan, a candy/deep frying thermometer, plus some rings and squeeze bottles for creating fancy plates. If you are in the market for quality kitchen gear, I urge you to find a restaurant supply store in your city (any major city will have one). The quality is comparable to what you would find at Williams Sonoma and it is a fraction of the price. Granted, there are no pretty colors and beautiful displays, but you are saving a ton of money.

From there, we made a few stops for provisions for dinner and then headed home to prepare homemade gnocchi and a caprese salad. We spent part of the evening in Washington Square people watching and then tucked ourselves in pretty early for the surprise Mike had planned for me on Sunday. I imagine some of you are scratching your heads wondering why Mike would even attempt to plan something for me when we agreed that it was not necessary and knowing the potential for Emily the Barbarian to rear her ugly head. Some of you might even be trying to warn him against it even though you know it's too late and he can't hear you. Believe me, I tried. I told him that I loved him and that he really didn't have to do anything because I know how difficult I can be. But he insisted. I'm not sure if it was because I had already had my day or because I had no idea what we were doing, but I was relaxed about it. I know some of you have got to be thinking "Really?! Wow, good for you being relaxed about someone doing something really nice for you. You should get an award for your efforts". But I know you are probably just as crazy in some other way that I'm not, so be nice.

Anyway, Mike had packed our wine backpack (you know the one with the plates, wine glasses, blanket all conveniently rolled into a backpack?) with quite a spread. He then told me he needed to run a quick errand and that he would call me when he was ready. When he called I should bring the backpack with me and meet him downstairs. I figured we were probably going to Central Park to catch a free concert or something like that. A few minutes later, I get the call and I head downstairs to meet him. I am waiting on the sidewalk in front of our door and he is nowhere to be found. A few cabs pass by and I begin to wonder if he is hiding somewhere watching me. As I'm staring up the street, I hear a horn honk behind me and I turn around and there is Mike in a Mini Cooper. Being a rocket scientist, I realize we are heading out of town and I think I know where. I clap my hands in glee and jump in beaming. He looks at me and says, ready to do some wine tasting? YES!!! We are headed to Long Island's North Fork to sample some of the local wines and have a picnic. I am so excited and surprised, I just keep looking at him smiling. He is smiling, I am smiling, we are one big smile on wheels. He knows he nailed it and he knows I will never underestimate his planning ability again. It's like he slayed a freakin' dragon or at the very least that monkey on his back. He recounts the entire planning process for me: the pitfalls, the triumphs and we smile some more. I know this may sound ridiculous to some of you, but this was huge for me. You know how they say (whoever they are) that people show love in the way they want to receive it? Well, when I plan a secret surprise tour of all your favorite breweries and all your friends are in on it and I stay up all night making lunchboxes for everyone, well maybe I want you to do something like that for me. And he did. Everything was flawless. The drive was gorgeous. The weather was a perfect 78 degrees with brilliant blue skies. We never got lost, everything we went to was open for business and the winery we picnicked at even had a band that was playing all of our favorite songs, like some strange soundtrack just for us.



We stopped at a farm stand for some corn, squash and green beans then drove down a country road to a white sand beach and waded in the very warm waters of Little Peconic Bay.



When I realized that the day Mike had planned completely topped the day I'd planned, I learned a valuable lesson. Perfection is possible, but it can't always be achieved by calculated design. It comes when you embrace the adventure and see the bumps and hiccups as part of the beauty of the fabric instead of as flaws. Mike may argue that the design of the day was very calculated which led to its success. But I think the most important thing I realized was that it's okay to let go and let someone else take the reins. Apparently, he still has some tricks in his bag.

Me + Food = Happy

After every successful dinner party, baby or bridal shower, and holiday soiree that I've thrown, I always got the inevitable "Why don't you do this for a living?" or "You really should think about being a party planner/chef/caterer/etc.". And of course, I privately basked in those kind of compliments, who doesn't like a good ego stroking? Ego aside though, the praise led me to question why I was putting so much time and effort into (supposedly) simple gatherings of friends. Why did I spend hours, sometimes days creating a perfect menu? Why did I blow two weeks worth of grocery money on flowers, new place settings and whatever other item I deemed vital to the self-inflicted theme of the affair? Was I doing it for the glory, the recognition by my friends and family that I was good at something? I didn't think so. I am not a hard worker by nature and mere flattery is just not enough of a motivator to push me to spend hours making sure every detail is perfect. The answer was quite simple, at least on the surface. I just really, really liked doing it. I already knew I liked cooking, but I discovered that I really enjoyed creating these fleeting moments in time where everything is perfect and you look around the room and see that everyone is connected with a singular emotion and a collective energy. The moment when each guest's plate is full and the only sounds are of utensils scraping. Or the peak of the party when the music is going, glasses are clinking and everyone is talking just a little too loudly, but the air itself seems to be smiling. Or when old friends are trading stories with someone who was a stranger just an hour earlier, but now feels like a familiar pal. I adore those moments. Thinking about them now is like flipping through the happiest photo album ever.

In retrospect, I see now that the way I always answered that question asked by my friends, my guests, my family, was a crock of shit, to be blunt. I used to tell people that I loved cooking so much, I didn't want to ruin it by doing it for a living. Or that I enjoyed my leisure time too much, I didn't want to work nights and weekends. And so after the high of a great party with great company, I would come back down to earth, and try to figure out how to find a job I actually enjoyed. I probably would have been better off just slamming my head in an oven door several hundred times. People were literally telling me on a weekly basis to pursue what I clearly had a knack and a passion for and I was dismissing it because it didn't really fit with my idea of what our life should be.

Fast forward to the present. I would like to thank every single person who told me I should pursue a career in food and cumulatively chipped away at the hard shell surrounding the area of my brain that houses common sense. I like to imagine that Mike actually drove in the spike that cracked it open when he asked me "If you could go back to school, what would you study?" and I answered (without pause) "Culinary school, but I don't want to work chefs hours". No sooner had the words left my mouth I realized I could no longer dismiss a (much desired) career because it didn't jive with my 5 year plan. Which, if I am being honest, pretty much consisted of us buying a house, maybe, and getting season tickets to the Chargers games, definitely. I know, rock solid, but that kind of change is a leap and maybe I needed the time and several more dinner parties to be ready to make it. I couldn't be happier that I did, with a heaping dose of help from Mike, of course and several nudges, pushes and reassuring talks from friends and family. The point is that I love food in the way that if given the choice between being locked in the same room for the rest of my life with an ever changing menu of well prepared meals or being able to wander the earth freely eating only rice, I would walk willingly into that room.

I love what can be created with food and what food can create between people. I have warm fuzzy childhood memories associated with my mom's oven fried chicken, my dad's Bolognese sauce and my Grandma J's icebox cookies. Food has been there at every turn in my life: weddings, funerals, family meals, ice cream socials, picnics, barbecues, and special dinners celebrated in fancy restaurants. But before I dig too deep into this food as life as emotion metaphor, I will cut to the chase. Being in culinary school and learning to cook really well has not "ruined it" for me. It has inspired and excited me and most importantly reminded me everyday of the things that I cherish most in life: my family, my friends and always having good food to share with them. So I am going to go help myself to another bowl of wild mushroom orrechiette that I made lovingly for myself, since Mike is out for the evening, and I will savor every bite.

A Reformed Procrastinator Turned Celebrity Stalker

The stack of index cards was about the size of a new box of bank checks and I must have gone through it a hundred times. I had my first test this week and I was hell bent on doing well. I have always been a casual student. I've never studied hard and certainly never worried about tests. I usually finish them quickly and don't bother to check my answers. I learned early that in most subjects I could show up in class (or sometimes not at all as was the case with my San Diego State days), do a minimal review of the material and still average low B's on most of my tests, although there was the occasional C and rare D (gasp!). Truth be told, I just didn't care too much for school and I was satisfied with lower grades if it meant less work. I was your typical procrastinator: wait until the night before (or sometimes even the morning of) and try to memorize as much as possible right before the test. But I am no longer at SDSU where C's (and even a D+ in Natural Disasters) get degrees. I am not kidding, when I was there, it was a slogan: D's get degrees! Regardless of my current program's requirement that all students maintain a B average, I don't want to eek by or just coast. For the first time in my scholastic career, I actually care. I want to learn as much as possible. I want to understand each technique thoroughly. I want to master each skill. I am actually putting effort into school and I'm enjoying it. Obviously this is validating because it indicates that I have chosen the correct career path, but it's also terrifying and sometimes nerve-wracking. Now that I am not just trying, but trying hard, to be good at something, there is this realization that I could fail. Of course, I don't expect to fail and my ego allows to me think that I will be successful, but the possibility is there, lurking in each additional hour I devote to practicing my knife skills, reviewing index cards and writing out recipes for my next lesson. The nerves at the beginning of each class, wondering if I will be able to complete each recipe in the allotted time, the small anxieties that surface during the race to get my station set up before the demo. All of these feelings are new to me. There is no room to have an off night or be unfocused. Cooking well is all in the details. One small error in calculation can be disastrous which many of us have learned in class. I am decidedly up to the challenge though. If anything I have an new awareness that maybe I didn't put much effort in before, not just because I didn't really care, but because I didn't want to have to worry about failing. It's easy to be happy with C's when you didn't lift a finger to earn them. But what if I got C's and worked hard for them? That would be devastating. So maybe I was lazy or maybe it was a self defense mechanism or maybe I've never studied anything that motivated me to excel. All I know now is that I want to do well. Really well. And if it means reviewing the same index cards over and over until I am dreaming about the clarification process for a consomme and my hands are unconsciously cutting carrots julienne like a puppy whose paws move while dreaming of chasing cars, then so be it. Okay, my hands may not be slicing and dicing in my sleep, but I did find some carrot peels in the shower the other day.

I was nervous on test day even though I knew my index cards inside and out. I could recite ingredients and procedures, definitions of french terms, precise measurements and draw diagrams when needed. But what if there were things on the test that I hadn't studied? Any why did my notes have different cooking times for stocks than our text? What if I needed to know the exact proportions for a sauce espagnole instead of just its components? All of my worries were unfounded, there was not a question on the test that I was unsure of. I could have written an essay to answer each question and actually attempted to for some but ran out of time and room on the paper. And though my worries may have been for naught, I learned a valuable lesson. It is the ever present possibility, however small and unlikely, of failure that pushes people to be their best. I don't know of anyone who got to the top of their game (and stayed there) by accepting that they had done enough or knew enough or were good enough to rest on their laurels. To paraphrase the expression, you're only as good as your last dish. Now, I am nowhere close to the top of my game and I know I can do better, but I am finally walking a path that leads that way and it may take years of walking this path, but I know the journey will be fantastic.

Putting aside the self-reflection and motivational speaking, we've been having a lot of fun, enjoying summer in the city. A few things we have seen, done or noticed recently:

On any given day, you see film crews around Manhattan with the accompanying gawkers and paparazzi. Until yesterday, I had yet to see any actors actually being filmed. It's usually painstaking hours of setup, shots with stand ins and so on. I stumbled onto a Gossip Girl shoot yesterday in SoHo and spent about an hour watching them film. If you are a fan (which means you are either 15 or like me, have the maturity of a 15 year old), I saw a scene with Serena & Blair shopping and then one later in the afternoon with a typical Blair and Chuck exchange (where they are half arguing, half flirting, falling in love and deciding they are ill-fated). They shot the same scene more times than I could count all the while having to pretend like there weren't hundreds of stalker fans and photographers ogling them. It gave me a new appreciation for the tedium that is involved in filming and gave me a small understanding of the price of fame. Not that I will it will stop me from gawking at celebrities when I see them and sneaking pictures on my cell phone. I mean, it's not like we are ever going to be friends and besides, they can always go console themselves with a $7,000 handbag after a rough day of being recognized. (A classmate took some great pictures which I will post when he sends them to me).

We finally figured out that the insanely loud music we heard on night one in our apartment is actually our upstairs neighbor. SERIOUSLY? Who puts on music at that volume at midnight on a Wednesday or 2 am on a Saturday? Given the accompanying creaking noises, I think it may be a courtesy to a roommate trying to drown out other sounds that no one wants to hear. After several minutes of door pounding by Mike, they got the hint.

I attended a demonstration yesterday by Chef Fortunato Nicotra of Felidia here in Manhattan. He made some really interesting and playful pasta dishes including an Italian take on sushi and a dessert dish that looked like spaghetti, but was actually fried fresh angel hair pasta over ice cream, raspberry sauce (marinara), a drizzle of honey, and shaved white chocolate (parmigiano reggiano), which I will be attempting at home when our good friends, Nate & Melissa visit in a few weeks.



Have a great weekend & Bon Appetit!

Expressions of Little Known Origin, But Mostly Summer Fun

Summer is, hands down, my favorite time of year. (Did you know that this expression originated from horse racing, when jockeys drop their hands down and relax their grip at the moment they are sure to win? Neither did I until I googled it 60 seconds ago.) But seriously, I do love so many things about summer. I love wearing sundresses and flip flops and never having to carry a sweater with you because the nights are that perfect temperature where you don't feel heat and you don't feel cold, you feel just right. I love cooking outdoors at the beach, at a park, or in someones backyard and the taste of char from the grill on my burger. I love the piles and mountains of bright red tomatoes, so juicy you could eat them like an apple in one hand with a salt shaker in the other. I love the perfume of ripe fruit: peaches, apricots, nectarines, berries and turning them into a buttery, crispy cobbler like my mom used to make, and having all of my friends demand the recipe. And corn, don't even get me started on sweet, buttery corn. I think the thing I enjoy most though is the collective awareness that seems to be present all around that we must enjoy these days right now because the weather is warm, the sun is shining, and it's time to play. (I am sure my San Diego friends are reading this and thinking "Uh, we have that year round", but even in the land of perfect weather, the summer mentality still can be found.)

We had one of those matchless kick-off-the-summer weekends over the 4th and quite frankly, I don't think we could have waited much longer. It rained nearly every day in June and I have said it a number of times, but if I hadn't just come off a classic San Diego winter of brilliant sun and beach days, I would have been to be precise, pissed. After a week of rain and thunder, we boarded a morning train out of Penn Station headed to Providence, RI to visit friends (an old colleague and very good friend of mine, Monique & her husband, Jeff). They live near the coast of Rhode Island in a quaint little country town on the border of Massachusetts. It was just the kind of getaway we were looking for: quiet (no taxis honking, no NYU kids partying, no rumbling of subways) and wide open spaces. I have never been to this part of the country before and I must say, it was the postcard perfect New England that I had imagined. Charming shingled homes, bucolic tree lined lanes and wide green meadows, picturesque harbors and boats filled with LL Bean & J Crew types (i.e. white folks), parking lots paved with crushed clam shells. We spent our time hanging out on the porch or in the grass (and more than once at the local winery and brewery), cooking, talking, drinking wine and occasionally creating ridiculous competitions that involved crab walking and if Jeff had his way, which he didn't, trying to hold onto some sort of weird electrical shocking device for more than 30 seconds. To continue the Norman Rockwell affair, on the 4th, we headed over to some friends of Monique & Jeff's for a big Independence Day bash. This consisted of partying on a lake front with about 60 - 80 people and watching all the lake houses try to compete for best pyrotechnic display by setting off literally thousands of dollars of fireworks. I have to say, I think our party took the cake, but it could have just been the front row seat we had. (This expression, by the way, originated in the 19th century having something to do with cake walks, but I got bored after not getting a quick written equivalent of a soundbite). The party also included a clam boil, canoeing, and a bonfire that may have stolen the ends of my eyebrows. We wrapped up the weekend with lunchtime lobstah rolls and a stop for some locally made ice cream before heading to the train station. Is this just screaming postcard to anyone else?

I guess the point of me sharing this perfect summer weekend is to ask everyone to raise a glass with me and toast the arrival of the season of leisure. Here is to whiling away time with good company, good food and a cold drink. Cheers to the festivals, county fairs and carnivals with their bounty of funnel cake and corn dogs. Give it up for shoulders tinged pink, new freckles, and the crunch of your hair when it dries with saltwater. To sand between your toes, to pool parties and to whatever song will inundate the radio waves so that 15 years from now when you hear it it will bring back a rush of memories and emotions for the Summer of '09. Make it a good one worth recalling fondly.

PS I would love to hear your favorite things about summer, if you care to share, please post a comment!