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!

Side Effects May Include Awesomeness

I'm back! And I don't just mean on my blog. I am mentally back to the me I know and love. California (or as I like to call it, Utopia) gave me a new attitude and completely revitalized my mind, body, and Vitamin D levels. When I returned to class last Friday, my classmates kept telling me how refreshed I looked, which maybe isn't that big of a feat considering my previous look was somewhere between downtrodden and inconsolable. So get ready for a great big dose of sunshine because I'm practically tap dancing around my apartment...not that there is room to tap dance in this place, yep, just stubbed a toe. Not even the fact that someone seems to be chiseling their way into my bathroom from the apartment next door can get me down. Not even now when my shower caddy just gave way from all the hammering.

Anyway, I spent 5 days basking in 75 degree, blue skied sunshine and the joy of unadulterated girlfriend time. I rode beach cruisers with my Bestie along the Hermosa Beach strand. I sat out on decks, patios, and sidewalk cafes sipping on whatever beverage seemed appropriate for the moment and remembering how lovely a gentle breeze feels as opposed to how a smack you in the face wind stings. I enjoyed sitting face to face with my friends and catching up and laughing and then missing them again before I was even gone. There were moments when I was sitting with my dearest friends in the sun taking in the palm trees that I was so happy I literally thought I might cry. (I could be a commercial for the side effects of winter). The best part was that it brought things for me in to such sharp focus. Well, maybe not sharp, but a clearer focus, which again, not a huge feat considering my outlook before was like someone had rubbed mud on a pair of scratched up ski goggles. That were tinted orange. And it's nighttime. So my trip helped me turn on the lights, wash off the mud, and just throw away those old goggles. I may still have astigmatism in my right eye, but the view is much better. Wow, I really should lay off these ridiculous analogies and get to the point.

California is home. And it's home in a way that I can't quite identify. My friends that love me, the familiarity, the weather, my favorite spots...they all play a role, but there is just something that feels like it's home for me. Even with all these silly sunlight induced emotional swells, I wasn't worried about getting back on the plane to Frostytown. Being THERE made me realize that I was in no way done with HERE. New York still has so much to offer me and going away made me realize that this experience is far from over. (Plus, the entire time I was in SoCal, I kept thinking about Mike shivering under a blanket waiting for me to return and how he should be with me. He was actually brewing his next batch of beer: a Belgian Wit flavored with orange, coriander, and honey...yummmers, and probably enjoying having the apartment to himself). Anyway, it renewed my excitement and my sense of purpose in being in this great city. Winter is slowly, painfully creaking towards Spring, but it's coming and there are more and more days where we being outdoors isn't an exercise in toughness.

All of this new found zeal comes at a perfect time because we begin the final level of our culinary school program tomorrow. Just six more weeks and this amazing experience will be behind me. (I can't even think about that right now because I can't believe it's almost over). We finished up our final station of the Level 5 rotations and I think Saucier (the meat station) might have been my favorite. It's challenging because you have to cook the meat to specific temperatures and orders to tend to fly in big batches. I love, love, love my team and am sad to have to part with them. We work well together and have had a ton of fun being on the hot line together. Last night as the final plates went out and the graduating Level 6 girls next to us realized that they had just fired their last order in the school kitchen, eyes started to well up. A la Grecque and I couldn't help but look at each other and exchange a "We are so going to be crying like babies 6 weeks from now" look.

So for the next 6 weeks, my plan is to kick ass. Even if it means putting on a happy face for Chef Pastry Grump as I start Level 6 with my new group tomorrow. I am going to squeeze as much as possible out of my final days in L'Ecole and I am going to enjoy every moment of it. No more inconsolable face. No more muttering under my breath. And no more worrying about what the future holds. I'm all in. (This message was brought to you by Vitamin D and the Sun).

Big Grateful Bellyache

I have spent the last 4 days in a perpetual state of gluttony. I vacillate between a kind of euphoria that comes from savoring the bounty of rich foods spread out before me and a state of discomfort and shame for not putting my fork down sooner. Mike and I set out on a walk today motivated by the prospect of getting some air in our lungs and our blood pumping, as well as taking in some of the quintessential New York holiday sights. Before I continue, let me explain how we arrived at the moment when we knew it was time to close the fridge and put on our walking shoes (or knee high suede flat boots, in my case).

I'm now in the throes of Level 4 at FCI, which means we spend two week rotations in Buffet, Family Meal, and Production. Family Meal involves preparing the nightly dinner for the entire school based on a loosely followed, oft interpreted menu, while Production, as the name implies, produces food product (stocks, carefully butchered meats, etc.) to be used in the adjacent restaurant kitchen. Buffet is the most creative, offering students a chance to plan a themed buffet menu to be served to the school's chefs and lucky students on the final night of the two week rotation. My groups theme was a fall harvest menu and the final night landed on Thanksgiving Eve. There were two camps in class in terms of this twist of calendar fate: one that bemoaned the bounty of food on the eve of one of the biggest eating days of the year and the other, glass half full types, that celebrated the opportunity to do a little training (and stomach stretching) for the main event. I fell in between the two camps due to my natural tendency to both complain and look on the bright side depending on who I am talking to.

Our buffet was a success featuring nearly 30 items that ranged from housemade sausage and pates to an array of roasted and braised meats (the favorite being the braised pork cheeks), and also included a variety of autumnal side dishes and desserts (roasted brussel sprouts with bacon and pumpkin chocolate bread pudding, anyone?). Below is a photo of my buffet group and Chef Tim, a favorite chef-instructor known for his hilarious stories about private cheffing for some of Manhattan & Hollywood's elite.



The buffet produced a lot of satisfied customers and an unexpected quantity of leftovers. Being that I cannot stand to see good food go to waste (and that FCI is forbidden by law from donating food to homeless shelters because they are a teaching institution), I singlehandedly tried to rescue much of the food that was destined for the compost bin. I packed container after container of potato and cauliflower puree, corn pudding, turkey roulade, poached pears in red wine, country pate...the list goes on and on. When I volunteered to take home the cornucopia of gourds, pinecones and leaves, my classmates took their usual teasing of my food hoarding ways to new levels.

"SERIOUSLY?! It's a leaf! You can find them on the ground!"

"Can someone get her a box? There is no way she can carry all that home."

"I hope you have a big fridge..."

The last comment actually made me take pause and realize that my fridge was currently filled with the makings of a Thanksgiving feast for 12 even though we were only having 2 others over. What can I say? I have a thing for abundant turkey leftovers. In addition to the remnants I had pilfered from the buffet, the Family Meal group had offered me a pork roast and pork loin that I could not refuse. Oh...and some squab pastrami, the novelty of which I would not pass up. I managed to cart everything home in an oversize cardboard box, armed with a plan to Tetris my fridge into a state of maximum food capacity.

I made it work with some repackaging and tossing of rarely used condiments. By 1am I was tucked in bed with visions of my holiday table dancing in my head. Most people think that given my obsession with food and my enrollment in a prestigious culinary institute that I would put out a spread ready to be photographed by Gourmet (RIP). That assumption could not be further from the truth. While I experiment with exotic flavor combinations at home and I am being trained to plate classically fussy food at school, the sanctity of Thanksgiving tradition is something I don't mess with. My parents are fantastic cooks and there is a rich history of savoring long meals with an over abundance of food in my family. I cannot turn my back on the flavors that make Thanksgiving feel like Thanksgiving to me. I may occasionally be tempted by a chestnut puree or an Indian spiced turkey, but I would so miss the sausage stuffing and simple pan gravy that transport me back to Thanksgivings past.

So while I try to spend the next week walking off the creamy mashed potatoes and kick off the season of giving, I will leave you with a post Thanksgiving list of what I am most thankful for. For Mike for being so wonderfully supportive, hilarious, loving and fun and for being the one I get to come home to every day. For my family for instilling in me the value of the shared meal. For my friends for sharing meals and laughter with me. And for TUMS for mildly masking the pain and discomfort I am currently experiencing. Happy Holidays!

The Ageless Husband and the Joy of Freezing Your Ass Off

Today is Mike's birthday...his 36th to be exact, although everyone thinks he is still in his 20's. As I continue to age, he somehow manages to look younger and younger. I am convinced that 10 years from now people will be whispering "Check out the cougar!" when we walk down the street together. For the record, I am 4 years younger than him, which I remind him every chance I get, pointing out the little strands of silver that are coming in. You're welcome, hon.

Since his birthday falls on a Monday, when I have class, we decided to celebrate the weekend before and I knew that I would have to go big after the homerun he hit this year for mine. We have had so many guests since we've been here that I wanted to do something just the two of us and I knew it would have to involve craft beer, since it is Mike's primary passion in life, after me, of course. So I planned a surprise overnight getaway to Philly to hit some breweries, see the sights and eat the local food. I didn't tell him where we were going until we got to the Amtrak station and I had to print our tickets, which is a huge feat for me. I am terrible with surprises and asked him about 40 times if I he wanted it to be a surprise or not.

I still can't get over how quickly we got there. It's only an hour and 25 minutes from Penn Station, which is only slightly longer than Mike's commute to Queens. Being from California, if you want to be in another major metropolitan area, let alone another state, you are investing a minimum of 3 hours in traffic, but usually more like 4 - 5. And forget about the train, the schedules suck, it's inconvenient and overpriced. Anyway, we love the proximity and access we have to new places here. We were in Philly by 10:30am and spent the day hitting some local beer spots: Monk's Cafe for mussels and rare Belgian and American beers, Yards Brewery for a tour and a weird interaction with a crew from MTV filming some reality dating crapfest and a stop at a home brewing store where Mike picked up supplies to brew up a batch of an Oatmeal Coffee Stout. We ended up tucking into our B&B pretty early, mainly because it was FREEZING cold and one can only stay awake so long after a beer filled day.




We spent Sunday touring Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell:



We compared the cheesesteaks at Pat's & Geno's (they tasted nearly identical to me, but Geno's had a few too many onions for my taste and one of their Hummer's was parked out front with anti-immigrant stickers all over it, including a huge decal on the back window that said "SPEAK ENGLISH OR GO HOME!", so I choose Pat's for not mixing politics with Cheez Whiz soaked meat)





And we spent a bit of time watching football before we caught a train back to the city around 5. It was a lovely weekend, despite the freezing rain and wind, and even better to spend some QT with Mike. I mean, he is getting up there, we don't know how many years the old guy has left.



This man ages like a fine wine.

Given that it's only mid-October and it's already this cold, it got me thinking about the many months that lay ahead and how I am going to deal with it. I've lived in very cold weather before and if I've learned one thing, I cannot dread the cold, so I am going to embrace it. I am making a mental list, well I guess it's about to become an actual list, of the good things that happen when it's cold out. So here is my attempt at positivity in the face of bone chilling winds.
1. Without cold weather, there are so many foods that wouldn't be as enjoyable. Soups, stews, anything from the crockpot, roasts, butternut squash, etc. Just thinking about warming up my kitchen and filling our little apartment with all these delicious smells makes me happy.
2. Hot chocolate. Or hot schnocolate (with peppermint schnaaps).
3. Hats, scarves and gloves. Winter accessories are fun and who doesn't look adorable in a hat?
4. Winter coats. I am all stocked up on winter coats now and I love them. It's a big step from my San Diego winter coats which were either a jean jacket or a hoodie.
5. Rain boots...for splashing in puddles.
6. Being snuggled inside with the rain pattering on the windows.
7. The leaves changing color.
8. Wrapping myself in the quilt my mom made for us to use in this apartment.

That's all I have for now, but I am determined to add to this list regularly in an effort to force myself to like the changing of the seasons and not think about what my pasty skin would look like if I were in San Diego.

My Own Personal Papparazi

As far as friendships go, I am incredibly lucky. I have several amazing girlfriends each of whom brings something different to my life and teaches me something valuable. They are women who have unique and varied opinions, lifestyles and personalities, but the thing I share with each of them is a mutual respect and a willingness to understand and accept differences. Now before you think that this is going to turn into a blog version of a cheesy Lifetime movie about girlfriends, stop right there. I just put my BFF into a cab to JFK and it got me thinking about quality friendships and how much they enrich your life. There is something beautiful about being around a person who knows you and loves you completely, not only understands and relates to your craziness, but truly believes it is what makes you so awesome, and allows you to just be you. I could make this same statement about Mike, although I would have to change "understands your craziness" to "accepts your craziness". And that, my friends, is the root of all problems between men and women.

Moving on, I had a fabulous weekend with Jill and I am grateful that I have a Jill in my life. I am looking through the 6,000 pictures we took this weekend and am loving that I can count on her to provide me with enough facebook profile photos for the next 5 years. She has a ridiculous camera and is constantly taking pictures of us, of strangers, of food, of doors, of garbage and basically anything that she thinks looks cool. And she's good at it. The girl will not pass up a good photo op. Example: Walking back to the subway from the Brooklyn Brewery on Saturday evening, she spotted two very old office chairs in front of a chainlink fence and insisted that we sit in them and have someone take our picture. It did not matter to her that they were covered in dried bird doody. You will notice me looking stiff and posed, trying to keep just one butt cheek on the chair, while she looks gorgeous (and eerily at home) sitting in bird crap.



A short while later, she convinced me to get on a bike chained to a tree and pretend like I was riding it. This shoot yielded some great shots and led to the following exchange:

Jill: "I love taking pictures of you..."
Me: (thinking it's because I am so lovely on film that I must be her muse)"Thanks! Why?"
Jill: "Because you are such a ham and attention hog that you will do anything I ask."

And this is why we are friends. She knows me and that I will do anything for a laugh, but she doesn't think it's annoying. We have cut away all those outer layers that you show to other people and have peeled back to the ones that you hide or try to disguise as something else. Meanwhile, Mike, being the patient man that he is tried not to show his irritation when she and I reviewed, deleted and retook several photos. Again, accepting the craziness does not necessarily mean you understand it.



Me waving to my peeps as I cruise down the street on my bike...that is chained to a tree...next to a minivan.



Insert your own caption.

The photo madness reached new heights when she started taking action shots, which she is fond of. Every time I would look at them, which were usually of me walking, I would think of US Weekly's ridiculous spread called "Stars - They're Just Like Us!", which shows celebrities drinking coffee, feeding a parking meter or shopping. Like this one below:



If I were famous and in US Weekly, it would be captioned something like "Emily Davis on her way to the post office - she's just like us!", which is probably a sign of the apocalypse that our culture has elevated people, most of which don't seem to have any discernible talent, to this status where we need to be reminded that they eat, sleep and poop just like the rest of us. I would love to see a section where they had pictures of misunderstood and discriminated against populations titled "Muslims - They're Just Like Us!" or "Gays - They're Just Like Us!" that showed the same thing. But that's just me. I will now excuse myself for 20 minutes to find out through Perez Hilton if anyone is in rehab and if Jon & Kate are still a trainwreck.

A few other tidbits about this weekend before I head off to class. First, Jill developed a new superpower this weekend which allows her to buy a new sweater, a pair of jeans, some sunglasses...or whatever, then lose it within 2 hours. No joke, she lost a bag of clothes who knows where that she purchased just hours earlier. The following day, she bought a pair of sunglasses from a street vendor, put them in the bag her breakfast pastry was in and then threw it in the trash. She also paid her subway fare 3 times for the same ride. So basically her superpower is incinerating money.

Second, we tend to spend a significant portion of our time together analyzing every aspect of our lives, our friends lives, our behavior and the human condition. I am sure any men reading just noticed blood coming out of their ears just imagining this scenario which I believe is their personal hell, but it's what we do. In our thorough analysis we realized that we are very aware of our mistakes but often make them repeatedly before learning from them, if ever. We decided that we should pen a book called "Learning Nothing From Your Past: A User's Guide". It will be due out in stores as soon as we stop staying out too late and spending too much money and get our acts together.

Finally, I want to leave you with the other running joke of the weekend (besides Mike saying "Don't give that to Jill! We don't want it to disappear mysteriously."), which involved Mike running up walls and jumping off fire hydrants shouting "HARDCORE!" and "EXTREME" a la the Office episode a few weeks back. Here's an action shot by Jill:

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

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.

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!