Smiling Through the Stench

I just got the new issue of Time Out New York magazine (TONY for short) and the cover in bold typeface screams:

THE COOLEST JOBS (AND HOW TO GET THEM)

I tossed it, along with my knife kit, on the kitchen counter, locked our old, heavy door behind me and opened the fridge. I found a half full bottle (ahhh...optimism) of Sauvignon Blanc that I brought home from work and dumped its entire contents into a very large glass and kicked off my flip flops. I took a swig, set the glass on the bathroom sink and turned on the shower. I peeled of my sweaty, smudgy, flour dusted clothes and stepped in. It was only then, with the cool water raining on my face, washing away the days work, did I realize that I had been smiling the whole time.

Before I terrorize you anymore with images of me alone and grinning creepily in the shower, let me explain. Or at least wax poetic. Standing here, looking back at the past 9 years in which I searched and struggled and talked myself into jobs or career paths that I hoped would work out, trying to make square pegs fit in round holes, wishing I had that certainty that I was doing the right thing, it all makes sense now. I can identify those defining moments that led me to this point. I can see all of the choices, that at the time seemed like an exercise in futility, as key experiences that I needed to arrive at this moment. It's funny because some of the worst of the lot ended up yielding the biggest opportunities in the end.

I'll stop romanticizing now and just say I feel like a lucky girl who is getting what I want. And it only took me 9 years of looking to find it. I can use that TONY issue to line the proverbial bird cage because I'm finally working a full-time schedule for the first time in (cringe) three years. I'll be working 2 - 3 days each week at Food & Wine and 2 -3 days each week cooking a market driven, seasonal menu for the staff of Etsy. (If you aren't familiar with Etsy, you have to check out the website). For a better idea of the job, check out this article in the Wall Street Journal about the really cool chick (and chef) that I am working for. So, in short, I get to immerse myself in wine a few days each week and then I get to cook great food on the other days. Even better, I get to work week days and have a normal schedule and free evenings and weekends to spend with Mike.

Okay, I'm now convinced that a piano is going to fall on me as I walk down the street whistling happily. Or I've made everyone ill with my gushy bliss. Don't worry, I'm sure I'll be back to cursing out strangers and complaining about bad smells on the subway any second now. Oh seriously, speaking of, yesterday was like a game of "What the hell IS that?" - picture me looking like someone just farted in my face, which I do think was one round of the game on the C train. Other rounds included "I haven't brushed my teeth ever and you're stuck next to me on the F train", "Standing water that may be raw sewage", and "This actually burns". See? Back to my old self.

On another note, Mike's been taking really cool pictures lately with the Hipstamatic for iPhone app, so I am going to post some every now and then. The two here are of an evening walk across the Brooklyn Bridge. Enjoy!

The Honeymoon is Over.

I knew when we moved to New York that there would come a time when I was homesick. I figured it would happen early on when we had no friends and were in unfamiliar territory. I waited for the loneliness to set in but we were so busy exploring the city that it never came. I expected bouts of frustration at not knowing my way around and irritation with navigating foreign grocery aisles, but I was so busy marveling at the volume and variety of exotic and interesting food that it never came either. I figured our honeymoon period would come to a screeching halt when the bad weather set in and leave me longing for 75 degree November days in San Diego. That too has not happened because the fall here has been absolutely gorgeous. And yet, slowly but surely, the Big Apple is losing its shine. For the first time since we've lived here, aside from the occasional fleeting thought, I find my mind wandering back to California and wondering what our friends are doing at that exact moment. When I realized that I was having recurring thoughts of life back in the Golden State, I had to ask myself "Why?!". I am still loving school. I've met some really fabulous people and made some wonderful friends. New York is an amazing city and there are endless opportunities to sate my inner gourmand. So why are visions of palm trees and gridlocked freeways dancing in my head?

It took some self analysis and reflection, but I think I've figured it out. It's true that this city offers more food, art, culture, diversity and nightlife than any other city in the country, but when you walk into a market and begrudgingly hand over $50 to pay for the makings of one meal, you feel a little beaten down. When you spend more in quarters on laundry each month than you did on your entire gas & electric bill in San Diego (which included the washer and dryer that was conveniently located in your apartment and not down three flights of stairs and around the corner), you start to think about what you would do if that money was still in your pocket. The bottom line is well...the bottom line of my bank account. The Big Apple is the most expensive damn apple I've ever eaten.

When you eat an expensive apple, the natural progression of thought is to ask yourself how good that apple really is and if it justifies the cost. Let's say that the apple is one of the best that you've ever tasted. I'll go with Honey Crisp because they are my favorite. The rosy pink and lemon yellow skin is gleaming. When your teeth break through to the fruit, sweet and tart juiciness hits your tongue and zings the back of your cheeks. The texture and flavor is a revelation of the origin of its name. When you eat this apple, you understand what tempted Eve and you know you will come back again and again. Oh, there's one more thing, you now have to pay for your apple and it costs $100. So I could beat this analogy to death a little more, but I think you understand where I'm at. I want the apple but I have buyers remorse after eating it.

This doesn't mean I intend to pack up and head back to California as soon as I graduate. (I need to interrupt myself for a second and say that if a few years back someone had told me that I would want to move back to San Diego or the Bay Area in order to save money I would have rolled my eyes and rattled off all the reasons why California living doesn't come cheap. And it doesn't. It just happens to feel that way when you are afraid to walk into a swanky bar for fear of paying $20 for a martini.) I digress, we have no plans to leave Manhattan any time soon. We plan to squeeze as much out of this city as we can...and then we will turn tail and run back to sanctuary of the sunshine and the slightly less horrifying cost of living. So now that the novelty of New York has worn off and the cold reality of being a Manhattanite has set in, Sinatra's words mean a lot more. If I can make it here, I'll make it anywhere...I'll just have a much happier bank account. Now, excuse me while I go blow an entire paycheck on a carton of eggs and my dry cleaning.

Best. Weekend. Ever.

I had the type of weekend that caused me to spend the last 45 minutes trying to think of when I've had a better one, which had me silently smiling at the wall as I recalled vacations, our wedding, and good times spent with friends. But putting aside the big life events and trips when you really plan to live it up, I can't remember the last time I had a weekend where I unexpectedly had the best time ever. Unlike my dear husband who told me on a trip to Toronto several years ago that taking a picture with the Stanley Cup at the Hockey Hall of Fame was "the best day of my life", I put those special days in a separate and more cherished category. Apparently, our wedding was a close second to putting his arm around Lord Stanley's Mug like it was his junior prom date. Whatever.

The point is that I had a fantastic weekend and it started with my Level 2 final and the end of the Chef Nic era. We took our exam, watched a ridiculously old video that was entirely in French and consisted of several frenchmen yelling in a kitchen during lunch service (shrugging), and then completed our practical final, which involved making creme anglaise (a stirred custard) and demonstrating knife skills on unsuspecting potatoes and oranges. It went very well and I almost teared up when we said our goodbyes to Chef Nic. It's time to move on and graduate to Level 3, where time management, organization and cleanliness are key. Or so Chef Phil, our new chef-instructor for Levels 3 & 4 has told us. I don't know much about him other than that he looks like a really friendly bear and by his own admission, doesn't hand out many A's. We'll see about that.

After class, several of us went out for beers to celebrate and after a few hours, the group had whittled down to four of us, who I managed to convince to come with me to a karaoke bar so I could meet up with my good friend, Chris and his lovely girlfriend Sam, who were in town from San Diego (although they are originally from Boston and are about as obnoxious as you would expect people from Boston to be). Now, I love karaoke. I can barely carry a tune, but it doesn't stop me. There is something about belting out songs with a bunch of friends that makes me want to keep going all night...which is pretty much what we did. The best part was that my classmate, who I call a la Grecque (because she is Greek and in French cuisine there is a method of preparing vegetables in the Greek style or a la Grecque), claimed that she did not do karaoke, but interestingly enough once we got our own private karaoke suite, we couldn't keep her off the mike. And she was good. Back to the karaoke suite. Whoever came up with this concept should get one of those Real Men of Genius Budweiser commercials. A dedicated room where you can go with your friends (and a strange group of Europeans that nobody was sure who invited but turned out to be harmless and kind of fun) and sing your heart out and hog the mike. I am turning my living room into a karaoke suite. And I think I just heard Mike groan. It was a fantastic night.

Saturday was no less perfect. I spent the morning with Mike before jumping on the D train to Yankee Stadium to meet up with my Boston friends for a Red Sox - Yankees matchup. My ticket was an extra courtesy of the Silver Fox, which is what a la Grecque and I nicknamed Sam's dad who is silver haired and well, a fox, much to Sam's dismay. So it was the four of us, 3 raging Red Sox lunatics and me, a hater of both the Sox and the Yanks, sitting 10 rows back from the Red Sox dugout, in seats that were more comfortable than my own sofa. I didn't know how much I would enjoy the game given my contempt of both teams, but I certainly wasn't going to pass up a luxury seat at new Yankee Stadium watching the greatest rivalry in baseball. It turned out to be one of my personal favorite sports moments. Even though the game didn't mean much and nothing was on the line for me personally, I loved every minute of it. I felt for a minute what it must be like to be a fan of these two storied teams. I am an Oakland A's fan and while we have had our shining moments, we've never had the legions of fans or the money that these two teams do. And let's be honest, Boston and New York sports coverage is overinflated and often obnoxiously so, much like the ego's of the teams respective fans. So as an A's fan, whose team gets little coverage and respect, it's a thorn in my side. But I tried to put that aside for the night and just root for good baseball. And there was some good baseball. I found myself shouting "YOOOOOOOOUUUUUK! YOOOOOOOUUUUK!" when Youklis was up in the 9th in a do or die situation. I found myself cheering when Johnny Damon singled and gave the Yanks a 3 run lead. I loved the playful smack talking between my Beantown friends and the New Yorkers in front of us. I loved the stadium, I loved that Supreme Court Justice Sotomayor threw out the first pitch, I loved the chanting, booing and cheering and I got it. I get that it's such a fun thing to be a part of: the marquis players, the history, the rivalry, the swagger of a winning team. And it was fun to be a part of it for a day. But now I will go back to last place in the AL West and wonder if next year is the year we regain our late 80's glory. Sigh. At least I have FOOTBALL!



See how close we were?!

Which brings me to Sunday. We were so happy that the Chargers game was being aired in New York, which meant we got to watch from the comfort of our living room (soon to be karaoke suite). We made french toast for breakfast (using the creme anglaise I made for my final), we snacked on football food, and most importantly, the Bolts won! I love Sundays with Mike and this one was extra good because we haven't had a lot of time together lately between visitors and school. It was so nice to just hang out at home in our full Charger gear, yelling at the TV and constantly checking fantasy scores. I haven't asked him, but it may have even topped the 2 minutes he spent with the Stanley Cup.

On a final note, I will leave you with this. When I arrived at Yankee Stadium on Saturday, I texted my sister in Washington state to tell her where I was sitting because I figured she would be watching the game, which she was. Given the location of our seats, there was a chance she might catch me on TV. When she told my 5 year old niece that Aunt Emily was at the game they were watching on TV, Brynn's response was "WHAT?! Aunt Emily is THERE?! Is this a movie of our world?".



Mike, Me, Chris, the Silver Fox, & Chris's Mom

Long Hot Days and Ratless Nights

Is it really only Wednesday? I need a weekend badly and I need it right now. But it needs to be one of those weekends where I don't have anything planned and I can lay on a blanket in the park and stare at the sky. I am definitely going to make that happen. Yesterday afternoon, I put my mom in a cab to JFK after a marathon week of cramming as much New York as possible into her visit. I had some concerns about her visit, mainly centered around the fact that she had both knee and shoulder surgery in the past year and we do a lot of walking. We also live in a 4th floor walk up and I could swear that they are the three steepest flights I've ever climbed. And then there's the weather. You know that vent that pumps hot laundry air out of the dryer at your parents house? The one that makes a small part of your backyard smell like hot, windy Bounce? Well, pretend the sky is a dryer vent and instead of Bounce your mom uses a dryer sheet called Rotten Swill, that's what the weather is like right now.

My mom doesn't do well with humidity and I know this firsthand. She came to visit us when we lived in Buffalo back in 2002 and there were a few key similarities between that situation and our current one that alarmed me. 1. We lived in a 3rd floor flat that had steep stairs. 2. It was June and beginning to get warm and a little muggy. Let's just say that our most vivid memory of that visit is my mom fanning herself and acting like she was going to melt. And I say that with love mom. So fast forward 7 years, add a flight of stairs, raise the temperature by about 15 degrees and mix in a pile of garbage. I'm sure you understand why I made sure to remind her in every conversation we've had since she booked her flight that the weather would be awful and that the stairs would be hell. I think it worked because she was a trooper. We walked all over the place, up and down countless sets of stairs all the while drenched in sweat and she did it with a smile. It was the sort of smile that said "See? I'm not complaining!" but it was a smile nonetheless. And to her credit, she actually was melting this time. It was brutally hot and humid, probably the worst weather we've had all summer.

Despite the heat, we had a great time and we did SO much. Perhaps I should have been more concerned about my ability to keep up than hers as I am thoroughly exhausted. We hit the ground running when she arrived Wednesday morning with a sightseeing cruise around Manhattan. I went to class, Mike took her to Arturo's for authentic New York pizza. Thursday started off with a classic New York experience: a trip to Target in Brooklyn. Okay, so it's not in any way a cool NYC thing to do, but we always go to Target together, it's our thing. Some mothers take their daughters to afternoon tea at the Ritz, mine takes me to Target for household goods, cheap sundresses and a bucket of popcorn and I love it. After our popcorn breakfast I took her to my school where we attended a demonstration by Aaron Sanchez, of Food Network's Chopped & Chefs vs. City. He also has two restaurants in Manhattan: Centrico & Paladar, which I will definitely be trying after sampling his cooking at the demo. He's charismatic, engaging and very proud of his Mexican heritage, which made the food even more delicious. We were given small plates of seared scallops with a charred corn salsa, duck breast with a chili and orange infused dulce de leche sauce and some ridiculously good pork belly tacos.



Friday, we slept late,then saw Julie & Julia before I headed off to class. Saturday, we did some shopping at my favorite place in SoHo, The Market NYC. It's a bunch of young designers in a church gym with table after table of cool, unique accessories and clothing. The three of us then headed to Brooklyn to the Botanical Gardens and a stroll through Prospect Park, which I think she loved. We gave her a brief tour of Park Slope that ended with a much needed mani-pedi before we hopped the subway back to the city to get ready for dinner at L'Ecole. L'Ecole is the restaurant at FCI, which I will eventually be cooking at during levels 5 & 6. We had a 5 course meal that was truly delicious.



Sunday, we headed to Times Square hell to pick up tickets for a matinee of "In the Heights", a fantastic musical about life in Washington Heights (the barrio in Manhattan). In the remaining days, we also managed to get her to Ground Zero, took a stroll along the Hudson through Battery Park City, toured Central Park and then lunched at Jean Georges, which deserves its own blog entirely, made a short visit to the Met to find that the three things she really wanted to see were closed, took her to Chinatown for dumplings, ate a Gray's Papaya hot dog and her first falafel. I think the only thing that we didn't get to see that she was disappointed about was a rat. Some people would be delighted to not encounter a rat in New York City, not my mom, she was actually bummed about it.

A week can be a long time with family in close quarters, but there was no (major) bickering or meltdowns. We had a really nice time and I'm happy to have shared our new city with her. It was a week that I will not soon forget and this time my most vivid memory will not be of her fanning herself. Well, maybe of her mopping her brow but doing it with a smile. Love you Mom!

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.

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!

I Will Not Make the Same Mistake Thrice

So my cousin, Erica is in town this weekend, visiting from Oakland - our first official house guest. Unfortunately for her we aren't fully moved in and our sofa bed doesn't arrive until the day after she leaves, so she is occupying an air mattress next to the problem boxes in our tiny living room and being a trooper about it. Actually, she has been a trooper all weekend. Between the near constant rain and the madness of Coney Island, she has had a smile on her face through it all. I, on the other hand, spent the better part of Saturday kicking myself for returning to Coney Island. I clearly learned nothing from our first experience there.

Mike had his sights set on attending the annual Mermaid Parade there, which is a complete spectacle of all things under the sea and/or completely odd. People dress up as sea creatures and mermaids or whatever they feel like, which in many cases was garbage (shrugging) and there is a lot of flesh exposed that was never meant to see the light of day. I am talking to you, guy in the day-glo Borat over the shoulder thong onesie with the dimply bum. (Shuddering). Anyway, we knew it was meant to rain that day, but for some reason still thought it would be worth the trek. Again, did I learn nothing from my last bad weather related Coney Island trip? I mean is there really anything more depressing than a carnival in the rain? Carnies huddled in the ring toss booth trying to stay dry. Empty rides and discarded snow cone cups strewn on the ground. Bad pop music blaring out of cheap speakers for no one in particular. I should have taken it as an omen when the D train whistled loudly like a tea pot the entire 45 minute ride. Despite the terrible weather, there was still quite a turnout for the parade. We spent the first 45 minutes walking the streets and boardwalk searching for a dry place to stand and view the procession. Do you know how difficult it is to walk through a crowd of umbrellas with an umbrella without poking someone in the face, getting poked in the face or getting snagged on another umbrella? It is not possible. I challenge anyone who believes otherwise to try it and enjoy the barrage of face pokes both given and received.

We finally decided that we were stuck in the Great Umbrella Sea and took a spot in front of a giant speaker broadcasting at maximum volume the hokiest announcing of a parade ever. I was literally plugging one ear, peering through a slice of space between two umbrellas, all the while trying discipline my umbrella for it's penchant for pushing other umbrellas and face poking.



After what felt like an eternity, but was probably 15 minutes, I had had enough. Which is putting it mildly because I was on the verge of full blown panic attack: sweating, lightheaded, heart pounding, nauseous. No joke, my brain was screaming for me to get the hell out of Coney Island. I finally bolted leaving Erica and Mike to follow me through the crowd in search of a way back to the subway. After an extensive walk in circles in the rain, we resigned ourselves to the fact that we were indeed trapped in parade hell and would have to wait until the freak show finished before we could head home.



We set off on another extensive walk in circles searching for a safe, dry haven with a rest room. We found a dumpy bar filled with Coney Island memorabilia and confirmed that they had a restroom before ordering. Erica and I eventually made our way over to the bathroom line only to find out that you had to pay a dollar to use the one restroom, for which the line was at least 10 deep. Talk about adding insult to injury (and the injury is umbrella induced). We spent the next 20 minutes sandwiched between a drunk merman and his very irritated girlfriend and really loud trailer trash mermaid Barbie. Once that personal nightmare ended, we finished up our beers and Mike decided it was now time for him to get in line. (Steam coming out of ears). We spent the next 20 minutes receiving complaint texts from Mike about the pregnant lady who cut and his unfortunate position in the middle of a shouting conversation. When he was finished, the parade was finally over and we were able to navigate our way back to the subway. At one point, however, the crowd became so thick that I was secretly sure that I was going to get crushed against a chain link fence soccer stadium style. Mike seeing the panic in my eyes, kept shouting over his shoulder "It's much clearer up here, you're almost there!"

Am I a basket case or what? Regardless, I have never been so happy to be on the subway and we did have a great time ripping that day to shreds on the way home. So the takeaway from this blog should be if you are coming to visit us, don't let us convince you that Coney Island is worth seeing. Under no circumstances should you let us take you there. The weather will be terrible, the atmosphere depressing and the people generally creepy. If you love me or even mildly dislike me but wish me no ill will, please don't let me make this mistake again.

Neurosis, a New Apartment and Other Disjointed Thoughts

We have been all over the place lately. Geographically and mentally. I probably make up 90% of the mentally being all over the place. Okay 100%, we all know Mike is the calm, stable, grounded one in this relationship. But I'm all over the place in a frenetic, lots of exciting change happening kind of way. The excitement is largely centered around our finally securing a place to call home. It has been a long time since we have had a place that we could call our own and we are so ready! But as anyone who has moved knows, a long To Do list accompanies any move. In the past week I have scheduled movers, deliveries and shipments. I have filled out countless change of address forms for bank accounts, credit cards and magazine subscriptions. I've set appointments to install cable, Internet and phone service. I have researched storage solutions, read consumer reviews of products and bookmarked color schemes and design ideas. More frighteningly, I have spent, bought and spent some more on furniture, electronics and decor. Mike has likened my hyper-focused research, planning and execution to his playing with army men as a child.

"You are determined to get everything just right. This guy is shooting this guy and this guy is launching a sneak attack on this guy. And then once it's all set up, you don't know what to do with yourself".

He's completely right. I lay awake at night rearranging furniture and hanging window treatments in my head trying to figure out which set up will be perfect. Crazy, right? But anyone who knows me, knows that I turn into a hyper focused planning monster when I have a project. I was IMing a very dear friend the other day about all my design ideas and color schemes and it wasn't until the second or third time that she said "Wow! You have SO many great ideas. Maybe you should start with one room..." did I get the hint that it may be time to slow down, take a breath and realize that Rome (or a 500 square foot apartment) wasn't built in a day.

But seriously, how great is it to have a friend that can handle several minutes of rapid fire IM's on accent colors, wall decals and decorative storage and still gently tell you that you're crazy while making it sound like a compliment. Love you Jill!

The point is, it made me realize that the reason I am obsessed with making this apartment perfect is because it is sooooo not. We are spending an ungodly amount of money on the tiniest apartment I have ever lived in. It has no dishwasher and no laundry in the building (hello laundry service!). It is a 4th floor walk up (hike up) and 3 of 5 windows look at a concrete wall 2 feet away. The living room is the size of my bathroom in our old apartment in San Diego. When you sit on the toilet in our new bathroom your knees hit the wall in front of you. But...I absolutely love it! It has hardwood floors and high(ish) ceilings with crown molding. The kitchen is big by Manhattan standards and has enough counter space for my beloved food processor and KitchenAid. There is a dining room (unheard of)! The living room is still big enough for our new Jennifer Convertible (the Hyundai of sleeper sofas). The bedroom has a walk in closet, a view of NYU and great morning light. Oh and did I mention it's in Greenwich Freakin' Village? That alone is enough to make me close my eyes and write the rent check. I thought about posting pictures, but it's empty right now and I want to wait until all my army men are set up before I share.

As for being all over the place geographically, when you rely on public transportation and two feet, roaming around the far reaches of Brooklyn, Manhattan and Queens (in Mike's case) feels like all over place. We have been covering some ground lately. Here are a few places we've been and things we've done that are worth mentioning:

Last weekend we stopped by the Bang On a Can Marathon in the Financial District, which was a 12 hour marathon of off the wall, boundary bending musicians. The orchestra that we saw used a combination of normal instruments (i.e. with strings, keys and horns) and pieces of metal and other contraptions. The resulting sound was both beautiful and intense, and at times overwhelming. Plus it was at the Winter Garden at the World Financial Center which I found out is the best place to view the rebuilding of the World Trade Center.

While making the obligatory trip to IKEA in Red Hook, Brooklyn, Mike and I discovered several new favorites. First of all, IKEA seems at odds with the eclectic/artistic/industrial feel of Red Hook, which is located on the East River in South Brooklyn and has killer views of Lower Manhattan and the Statue of Liberty. We stumbled upon the best brownie in history (the Sweet and Salty) at Baked, an adorable little bakery with equally fantastic chocolaty granola. We also enjoyed the fried mac n' cheese fritters and grilled chicken on baguette with fig jam and blue cheese at Hope & Anchor Diner down the street. But what really took the cake was Red Hook Bait & Tackle. It's a kitschy dive bar that's decorated like a hunting lodge and bait shop. They have 2 great pinball machines and Big Buck Hunter, which it turns out I LOVE. If you've never seen it or played it, it's a video game where you shoot antlered animals with a plastic rifle. We liked it so much that when we had to make a return trip to IKEA last weekend, we planned for another round of mild video game violence. After walking the 10 blocks from Big Box Hell, we were completely bummed to see that it hadn't opened yet for the day. It was 1:20 and the bar didn't open until 2. We debated for a few minutes and when the bus didn't arrive right away, we decided to grab a beer at the BBQ joint next door while we waited for RH Bait & Tackle to open. All this for Big Buck Hunter. We walk into the Ice House ready to wait it out and directly in front of us is Big Buck Hunter! We totally dorked out and high fived each other. Apparently in Brooklyn it's hip to pay homage to all things trailer park. $2 cans of PBR and Old Milwaukee abound and there's Big Buck Hunter in every bar. So this just in, crappy beer is cool.

If you know Mike, you know that he does not think crappy beer is cool. I call him a beer snob, he calls himself a craft beer lover, but all I know is the beer he likes does not come in a $2 can. Sunday, we attended The Brooklyn Beer Experiment in Gowanus in a performance space/music venue and it was well worth the hour long-hot sidewalk-sweating everywhere wait. It was an amateur competition featuring local home brewers (Mike's considering entering next year) and cooks preparing recipes made with beer (I'm considering entering the cooking with cheese competition in the fall). You pay $18 and try 1 oz pours of each of the home brews (plus an extra pint from the bar) and taste all of the 26 home cook's dishes and then vote for your favorite. There was a panel of judges (local brewers, restaurateurs and television personalities) who announce their picks (and the prizes) as well as the audience picks at the end of the afternoon. It was a ton of fun and the food and beer were all really interesting. Our favorites were the beer braised short ribs with a spicy potato salad and the s'more bites made with a cherry lambic jam (lambic is a sour fruit beer). It was kind of like acting out my fantasy of being a judge on Top Chef except instead of sitting at a big fancy table with internationally acclaimed chefs and critics, I was crammed into a corner using Mike's back as a writing surface getting beer spilled on my sandals. Clearly another great week in NYC!

Broken Umbrellas and Russian Pastries

So it turns out I am going to blog about the stuff we do, but the inspiration again is a lady with an umbrella.

Mike and I decided that since Saturday was supposed to have the best weather (mid 70's and sunny, maybe a thunderstorm in the evening), we would head over to Coney Island to check it out. Our plan was to wander around, have a hot dog, maybe ride the Cyclone and see where the day took us. We got off the F train right in front of the Nathan's hot dog stand and figured it to be an appropriate place to start. We were looking at the large overhead menus trying to find plain old hot dogs in the long lists of fried seafood, cheese fries, and frogs legs (who knew?) when the girl behind the counter shouted "WELCOME TO NATHAN'S. CAN I TAKE YOUR ORDER PUHLEEASE?"


It was a little startling/unsettling and reminded us both of Bon Qui Qui, which if you haven't seen: www.youtube.com/watch?v=jZkdcYlOn5M, you really should watch. Anyway, we posted up, ate our hot dogs (yum) and drank orangeade, then headed off towards the beach. We hadn't read anything about wind in the forecast but it was seriously gusty as can be witnessed by my hair in most photographs.


Mike had convinced me that I didn't need a sweatshirt, which he will never do again because I irritatingly complained about how cold I was all day long. At one point, I almost bought a $30 Coney Island hoodie that I had convinced myself was cute in a kitschy Urban Outfitters worn out t-shirt way. It wasn't. If it hadn't been so impossibly windy (and if I didn't have the disconcerting feeling that we were actually in a Mexican border town), we definitely would have stuck around longer just to take it all in. Mike wanted to ride the Cyclone which costs $8, by the way. It's a rickety wooden roller coaster that if is anything like it's siblings around the country, will probably give you a headache and some minor neck pain. We passed on the ride mainly because we needed some refuge from the wind. We walked down the boardwalk past stand after stand selling hot buttered corn , funnel cake, knish, jamaican patties and hot dogs, when we decided to sit on a bench for a few minutes to catch our breath. It was seriously strenuous battling the wind.


This is when we saw the umbrella lady. She was a white haired tourist walking with her husband, holding a broken purple umbrella up in front of her face to block the wind. The problem was that the umbrella had collapsed to the point it barely resembled it's former self and looked like a really pointy accident waiting to happen. It looked so ridiculous that Mike and I both cackled out loud and then simultaneously covered our mouths because it was so rude. Luckily, she didn't see or hear us openly mocking her because the wind was whistling so loudly. It probably wouldn't have been so bad if I had a sweatshirt. See, I'm still being irritating about it.

We watched her walk slowly for several minutes, Mike wondering "At what point do you throw in the towel and realize that your umbrella is busted? That can't be easy to carry."

Snickering.

Then me, "Do you think she knows she is actually creating more wind resistance carrying that in front of her? It kind of looks like a kite."

Another round of giggling ensues. We got up to walk so we could keep them in sight and spent the next 5 minutes making up things her husband must be muttering to himself. At one point they stopped next to a garbage can and she handed it to him. We got all excited and thought they were finally going to toss it, but she just rifled through her purse for a second, took the umbrella back and soldiered on.



At this point we had wandered into Brighton Beach, which is sort of a hodge podge of cultures, mostly Eastern European, with sort of Russian/Ukrainian lean to it. It was truly transporting and we forgot about the umbrella lady completely. It looked like no place I had ever been, from the architecture (tall tenenments, brick houses and a few luxury condos) to the gaudy signs on store fronts to the bleached blond women in track suits pushing their little wheely carts along the sidewalk. We ended up at a cafe that featured the cuisine of Uzbekistan's Uighur community, which I know nothing about other than that they make fantastic meat stuffed dumplings and pastries. They were served with a hot sauce that was a milder more tomatoey hot sauce than I am accustomed to, but delicious nonetheless. After we proclaimed ourselves too stuffed to eat another bite, we wandered back toward the subway and straight into a Russian-Jewish bakery. We loaded up on cakes, jam filled pasties, rugelach and something that looked like a meringue but tasted like a marshmallow and spent about $6. And we polished it all off before we even got off the subway.

We will definitely be back to eat and ride the Cyclone. This time I will be bringing a sweatshirt. Or a broken umbrella to keep me warm.