Seeking Placemats

I just bought my first dining room table.

I have my first dining room, so it seems appropriate. Not appropriate but necessary. Decadent. Like a landmark in my rattled wonky wonderful life. I was keeping an eye open for a table before I even moved into the new place. A standard selection to be found in thrift stores and craigslist: Ikea particle board tables, horrendous ornate wrought iron with ugly upholstered chairs, shellacked black wood lacquer with metal straight back chairs and leather seats. That is not appropriate. Not with the way I like to dine.

I then gave myself permission to buy something beautiful, something unique. Something older but sturdy. Practical but with character. A table where I could eat breakfast by myself in the easterly light of the window with a newspaper and a French press filled with coffee, or a late supper for two where utensils are optional. I imagine my friends sitting there, imbibing and being competitive over games and filling each other in on the weeks events. I wanted it to fit 8 but I am settling for 6. That might work out because I don’t even think I own 8 plates.

My parents had the same dining room table my entire life. It definitely seated 8 though I think they managed to always make room for more. It was a thick heavy slab of glass sitting a top an iron grate. It was gorgeous but intense. What I remember most about it was what a pain it was to clean. Whoever was clearing the table that night would have to grab the Windex and wipe away all the food and fingerprint smudges of that meal, all the intensity and problems and solutions that would arise during our dinners. We often left that table with our concerns and issues in mid air. Our bellies full but a heaviness looming.

That table got sold along with all the other furniture I grew up around.
My parents took great care to handpick all the furniture we lived with for twenty plus years. Mostly antiques, but livable warm earthy antiques that traveled with us from house to house all over the west side of Los Angeles. When they up and moved to another country 8 years ago they sold the majority of their belongings. I was living in Europe with no home or storage unit of my own. So any inheritance of these pieces, the welsh dresser from the 1800’s, the massive wooden couch I spent most of life lying on, the wooden kitchen table that was stained with berries and orange juice and pencil marks from homework, that mammoth glass dinner table which hosted endless dinner parties and my parents phenomenal cooking, none of it remains.

So instead of buying a cheap white formica table to fill the empty space in my new dining room, I went with a vintage handmade wooden table that seats 6. I am guessing it’s from the 40’s but what do I know? It could very well have been made in 1973. It has an extra leaf tucked away to extend and make room for the expected and unexpected. It’s base is rounded and curved like an art deco piece. It is heavy but hopefully not too heavy to carry up the stairs to my new cottage.

I have been eating on the floor for the last 5 years. Eating on my bed or a bolster or on the stoop of my old place. And I am hoping it fits easily through the narrow door and lives happily against the wall and the window of my bright dining room. I think my cat might love resting on its dark wood, although I promise to always wipe it off before you come over to eat.

sprung

I’m looking forward.

Spring.

It makes me blush at how gorgeous and sensual it all is. I shoved my face in a mess of jasmine on a walk this morning. Pink and heady. Intoxicating and almost illegal.

I’m looking forward to more cherry blossoms and jacaranda trees and all their purple robust flowers staining the sidewalks. I’m looking forward to the bright raw green of all the early shoots and stems and beans and peas making their way into markets and on to menus. Asparagus, skinny and sweet, fava beans being pushed from their furry shells with my thumbs. Green garlic and obscenely fragrant bouquets of mint. Tiny carrots, pea greens and the perfect paper skins of spring onions.

Fertile. Fresh. New. Terrifying. Because it is being delivered to my feet, to my hands, to my plate. All this newness, this possibility.

Today was too warm, but just right. It was a new year but felt like old times.

What do you want from this spring? Can you feel it rushing towards you? Are you ready to leave behind everything that doesn’t serve you?

I’m ready to get crushed into something phenomenal.

"...like most humans, I am hungry. But there is more than that. It seems to me that our three basic needs for food and security and love are so mixed and mingled and entwined that we cannot straightly think of one without the others. So it happens that when I write of hunger I am really writing about love and the hunger for it and the warmth and the love of it and the hunger for it...and then the warmth and richness and fine reality of hunger satisfied...and it is all one. "

-M.F.K. Fisher

You Give Good Sunday

I’ve been working hard. Working for the weekend, which is also filled with work.
When I lived in Germany, the majority of stores and restaurants would close on Sundays. The streets were quiet and serene and would force us all to find respite in our families and homes, or in church if that’s where you like to go, or the local lovely bar which is where I like to go.



This Sunday I awoke after sleeping for almost twelve hours. Catching up from a week of late nights and big emotions, of disappointments and wide awakenings. I woke renewed and hopeful. I ran in the park, then I lured my friend, (who might also be my culinary soul mate) into brunch plans.

My last meal had been at 4 pm the day before. So my hunger at 10 am on Sunday was extraordinary. Healthy ravenous post-running hunger. We chose Stella, because its not too expensive for the quality, the coffee is exceptional, our waitress is adorable and there is usually never a wait.

Sherry mushrooms and poached eggs on toast. Enormous mugs of coffee. A shared salad to balance the butter intake. There might have been fries. I’ll never tell.

We meandered that day. Window-shopped, pined over shoes that rival my rent, let our fingers fondle mid-century furniture, drooled over eclectic soul compilations. I bought nothing except for a pile of books from Out of the Closet. Old plays I want to re-read and magazines I want in my possession for my lazy low attention span moments.

Window shopping is hunger inducing work. And we needed an afternoon sugar fix. So my brilliant friend suggested Proof, a new bakery in Atwater. Glass cases with potato tarts and precious cakes and lovely scones. A huge glass jar filled with breadsticks that were over a foot long. Tiny tarts with promises of pistachio.


We shared a chocolate caramel morsel and a lemon cream tart with berries. Not bad. I might return. It’s definitely not its neighbor Sweets for the Soul, but what could ever top the brownies that come from there?



More window-shopping. Vintage clothes, snotty shop owners, overpriced items. More hunger. Or more, a thirst. A late afternoon glass of vino. Our favorite hangout, Little Dom's. And Dom’s at 3:30 on a Sunday is a glorious place to be.
The light is lovely, the bar is empty, the transition from brunch to dinner is happening but you can still get rice balls and order a bottle of organic/biodymanic wine from Sicily. And maybe we should have pizza too. Yeah, good idea. Anyway, it’s Sunday. And this is our church.

I definitely use food to soothe, to decompress, to alter any heavy working load upon my shoulders and mind. But it’s not just the food. It’s the company who loves to eat as much as I. It’s the steady pace between each meal while you digest and emit the gratitude for living in such a crazy diverse city that shines bright and warm in the midst of February. We enjoyed every bite that day, I guarantee. We might have overdid it, but we might be trying to tip the scales away from the heavy weeks we lead, only to bring us back to the true pleasures of life.

Love bites

Last week I lost my appetite. And if you know me, this a rare and disturbing occurrence. I did not lose it by means of something distasteful or rancid or unappetizing.

I lost it in the name of lust and yearning. I blame it on the man. He is somewhat irresistible.

This has happened before. In fact it happened exactly 4 years earlier, on Halloween night, at the Pacific Dining Car on 6th street on the edge of downtown and crack-ville.

Pacific Dining Car is overpriced, and truly of a different era. It's a great place for a kitschy first date or a rendezvous with your mistress or a late night business meeting when you're not afraid to throw down the company credit card.

The Halloween from a few years past was the second date with a boy who had admitted some feelings. So we boycotted costumes and entered into the dark aged plush world of the Pacific's dining room. Being the first to arrive, I found a spot at the bar, where the ancient bartender served me a 15 dollar Pinot Noir in a massive wine glass. Worth every sip.

In walks my cocky adorable date in a white snap button cowboy shirt and rumpled hair with a slight smirk on his face. I was smitten. I bought him a steak. A 30 dollar steak that was smaller than the palm of my hand. I think it came with a few green beans or a tuft of spinach swimming in butter. I can't remember. I can't remember what I ate either but I do remember the wine being the only food that could go down easily. Because my stomach was flip flopping around, my head was dizzy, I was lost in that tiny green velvet booth across from someone who would unknowingly become my lover for the next 3 years.

The current Halloween date is not my lover. He is not even really a friend. I have cooked with him and watched him roast a turkey. I have quietly reveled at his choice of wine and his subscription to Cook's Illustrated. I know almost nothing about him; except what he does for work, that he is somewhat brilliant with the exception of matters of the heart, that he likes Donny Hathaway and that when we kiss it takes me a few days to recover.

Maybe all this vagueness and not knowing spurs on the longing. I came into our rendezvous hungry, but 15 minutes in all I could ingest were sips of Sangiovese and water. Those damn butterflies filled me up, a slight dizziness came over me. It has been a long time since I felt woozy from a man. It knocked me from a place I have been enjoying lately. A place of only a few harmless crushes and fewer distractions, of keeping men at arms distance so I can focus on what is directly in front of me and what I want in life.

He was able to clean his plate and mine as well. The pasta is cooked with a homemade fennel sausage. It is rich and clean and delicious. I also ordered us the rice balls, two heaping fried balls of risotto that ooze mozzarella.

I am not one of those ladies who picks at salads on a date. I can easily put food back and I appreciate those who has a diverse and healthy appetite. Even more so I like a man who can appreciate my appetite. But sometimes feelings prevail. Emotions and hormones and desire take up too much space and leave no room for real sustenance.

No substantial relationship will likely take place with this gentlemen. We are too different, the momentum is halting, we rarely run into each other, and he seems to be deep in his own complicated chaotic world into which he is rightly devoted. But for our brief occasional rendezvous, it is worth every moment of my lack of appetite. These days I find true chemistry to be a rare and fleeting thing. If someone can lose me in a kiss, I will gladly (temporarily) lose my ability to eat.

I do know, for future relationships, I will no doubt require someone who is adventurous with their food journeys. Someone who follows the beaten path to the hidden nook in the wall, someone who plans the next meal as we are finishing the current one, someone who shares a hunger for all things culinary, hopefully striking a balance between hunger and satiety.

I do hope he inspires my appetite as well as other things. I hope that's not too much to ask.

Medicine cabinet

I have never been good at meeting deadlines, completing assignments, following through. Admittedly, I am a bit of a slacker. Definitely a hard worker when given a specific task. But the follow-through tends to thin out and my attention runs rampant. The expectations for this here blog were a bit higher than they needed to be. What with 14 plus readers, do I need perfection, do I need Pulitzer prize material? Or do I need to meet the goal I set out to meet? Write. And write some more. Maybe post a pic or two. And when all else fails, write again.

I am eating every day. So I have plenty of material. Do you want to hear about what I just had for a lunch or about a lazy day messy recipe of throwing together what looks edible in my pantry? It seems so very exciting when being made, the satisfaction of eating my creation or someone else's work, but after the hunger drifts away, I forget about all the foreplay, all the details that made the experience worth writing about in the first place.

Too much comparison, too high of expectations. This is just a scrapbook. A virtual journal. An experiment. An experiment that is not reaching its potential considering I spend the majority of my income and waking hours ingesting or pondering food.

Maybe it scares me how my taste buds wane and wax, how my budget does not allow all that I want to experience, and that my body is less tolerant of my cocky brave appetite.

I'll tell you a story. A couple weeks ago my lower back seized and the majority of my vertebrae went every which way. I couldn't stand up straight for over a week, my right hip visibly 3 inches higher than my left. My emotions were a roller coaster of anger, helplessness, deep dull pain and occasional bouts of hysterics. So I laid on my back and began laughing and called a friend who tends to calm and soothe. He mentioned Mint Juleps; he was working on a project and was also thinking about making and drinking them. I don't know about you but on that hot day while I laid on the carpet immobile that sounded like true medicine. With the impetus of cold whiskey in my future I managed to rise up and pluck a few handfuls of mint from the garden and get a simple syrup started on the stove. My tall and lovely friend arrived not long after, a bottle of Makers Mark in his hand. He crushed some ice in the vita mix and put a straw in my lovely cocktail. The straw was curly and plastic and bright green and let me sip without bending over my glass.




Well, this started a 4 day trend. Since I rarely take aspirin I get to justify healing with booze. I know, I know. But the sweet mint syrup could not go to waste, or the bottle left behind. And my friends rallied and visited and tended to my thirst and mild hunger and crazy moods.

A four day binge can only end badly. Especially when your spine is not aligned. So a few days later, my liver knocking on my ribs, my emotions spent, I tried a new sort of medicine. A few beets were hanging out in the cooler, organic and golden. The thought of a raw beet salad made my body cheer.


So I grated those beets down, joyous yellow shocking my dulled out senses. Adding squeezes of lemon and orange juice, a few grinds of Hawaiian sea salt, a dash of olive oil. Chopped parsley to further aid in kidney repair and man, do I love parsley.


If you are a loather of beets, which I think 65 percent of you are, you might love this salad. That bitter beet grimy taste is nowhere to be found. It was crisp and citrusy. I felt my blood come back to life, color filling in my cheeks.

8 days later my spine found its way back to straight, the pain and burning allevaited, and I came out of it grateful, motivated, ready to dance.

I still think whiskey is medicinal, but I am happy to add beets to my repertoire.

happy accidents

If you haven't guessed by now, I find great solace in eating. Chemistry shifts, satisfaction settles, flavors abound and I find joy.

Joy is something that has been waning and waxing lately. It is a word that is coming up often. In conversations, on paper, with some great and wise folks I am lucky enough to have in my life. They tap this word on my forehead with firmness and big love and remind me to find it, or even just remember that it's there.

It has been tough times. For you, for me and for folks that have issues I cannot even conceive. I have gotten a few chances to step aside and watch the tape that plays over and over. The one full of doubt and beliefs and the reality that is unmovable and ingrained. I finally called bullshit. Softly at first, but now it comes out loudly and more frequent.

So then when you counter your current situation and dream up a new one, what the hell are you going to put in it? Other than a working car, an actual income, debts paid: what does your life look like?

I have decided to try an experiment recently. I am breaking the habit of worry and despair and am giving up. I am deciding all is as it should be and I'm going along for the ride. In the back of my mind this seems highly irresponsible and somewhat arrogant but it is a hell of a lot more fun. I am experiencing surges of happiness that terrify me. I am attracting cool ass folks. I ask for big and little things like parking spaces and jobs and they show up.

After a long haul last week of massages and driving I was making my way back to the neighborhood. A big detour kept me off my exit and threw me into downtown. While coming up through Santee Alley, I was on the phone with my closet pal and driving aimlessly through dark streets and shuttered store fronts and haggard and hungry folks. I turn left and find myself in the hub and vibrant scene of Thursday Art Walk. Wow. Folks packed on city streets. Persian men sketching, punk rock kids hanging out of makeshift gallery spaces, tourists overwhelmed, tiny girls balancing on high heels holding on to their macho men. It is a time warp, a few decades represented in the sidewalk fashion show, a thrill in the air. The dead air of downtown is nowhere to be found. I strut down Spring Street to The Gorbals which is filled with raucous happy folks. Sitting, standing, pushing against the bar. Buzzed boys try too hard with sweet girls. A girl carries an accordion. The bandleader of Dakah Hiphop Orchestra enters and everyone cheers. It is a scene.

There is an empty seat at the counter. I am served calamari with a Vietnamese dipping sauce. Broccoli arrives, the one I have spoke fondly of before. Every one is harried and happy and shaking their hips as they work. A young man with 3 inch eyelashes sits down next to me. He takes one of the yellow flowers from behind his ear and hands it to me. I put it in my hair and swivel my chair to face the gypsy band that starts playing. Bliss. I watch folks dance and eat and hold each other. The owner bustles and smiles shyly.

The calm that ensues is the confort of being fed after a long day, as well as a stellar glass of Viogner. It is the feeling of being in a city that likes me in this moment. Of hearing great music and having an excellent date with myself.

It is all my great loves in one room in one time, and that is enough to let joy linger for awhile.