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Death by Triscuit.

I ate lunch yesterday a little later than normal. A big steaming cup of cream of rice and a Fuji apple. Both were fantastic. After work I went to therapy, and it was a dozy. We are getting to some pretty deep awareness-es and last night was a big one. More about that later…I had planned on taking a yoga class after therapy and as I drove at 7:15 from the Marina over to drizzly Cole Valley I contemplated skipping class and eating dinner instead. If I didn’t eat something before class dinner wasn’t going to even be an option till 9:30 or later. I decided it would feel really great to do yoga and then eat. I would feel really satisfied and balanced. I dreamed about grilled veggies with mustard garlic sauce and a big crisp salty chicken Caesar salad from my favorite vegan spot. Somehow while my tummy gurgled during class my mind drifted. I know right? How could I imagine that WOULDN’T happen?! I know better than that. Around the halfway mark of class Naan N Curry got in my brain and stomach. Indian food can be kinda healthy if you order right, but it’s nowhere near the veggie consumption or low cal level of my previous dinner plans.
I grumpily stomped up to the counter at the 9th and Irving Naan and Curry and my favorite short guy w glasses who knows my order was nowhere in site. The other wildly rude, younger, always wearing a hat guy was there. He again was wildly rude. He even asked me in some garbled weird way what kind of name was Lizzi? Like as in “What? Lizzi? WHAT kind of crazy name is that?!!” I hate that guy with out my normal guy who knew my order, I felt like I could get away with something different. I usually get Chicken Tikka Kabab and a Garlic Naan. Since I’m sorta trying to not do so much flour I ordered rice instead, and also a lentil veggie dish.
While waiting I went to the corner store for a soda, DIET soda. Ehem. STILL having not eaten a thing, I went precariously where no hungry lady should go: browsing. I had time to kill, love food, and hey, why not. I walked past an impressive canned veggie/fruit section; grabbed 2 Fuji apples for later this week, saw prune jam (?!) and found my way to a can of diet Canada Dry Ginger Ale. Still not feeling like I had spent enough time away I tip toed by the cracker cookie aisle. Know this about me: if it is in my house, I’ll eat it. Know this about me: I just don’t buy some very delicious things, because if they are in my house I’ll eat it all.
So here is where my tale turns even darker. I decide to buy a box of Rosemary and Olive Oil Triscuits. These little puppies taste like heaven, if heaven was made of woven wheat, salt, and oil. (I of course needed to sprinkle a little extra salt on each one…) Not only do I already have too much dinner on the way, but I learned a little rule when I was a kid from grocery shopping with my parents: If you eat it before you get home, it doesn’t count. So walking the 2 blocks back to Naan N Curry I cracked open that box and ate a handful.
At home I laid out all my grub and much to fast dove right in. The lentils were atomically hot, and I was impressed to see green beans in there. I assumed the only veg I would get is potato. The chicken was a little less red and spicy than normal. Usually it has a bright ring of red hotness permeating at least a quarter inch into the chicken chunks. Tonight it was only slightly pink with spice; I guess it hadn’t been marinated as long as usual. The food was hot and I was hangry. That’s a combo of Hungry and Angry. When ones blood sugar gets so slow they lash out at perfect strangers or treat perfectly good partners as strangers. Either way being hangry led me to basically commit my stomach to suicide. Triscuit suicide. Too add insult to a rather growing injury I haven’t been eating much wheat and today at work I literally hurt from being puffy and swollen with all that delicious wheat.
After dinner that open box sat in front of me. Just staring at me. Not only had I over eaten my regular dinner and had a snack before I decided It was a good idea to have a few more. I lost count at some point was just getting compulsive.
Why do we over eat? Why am I attracted to men who like to over eat too? I always say jokingly I am distrustful of men who don’t have a sweet tooth. But all jokes aside when the man you love can devour a GALLON of ice cream in one sitting, well.maybe not the most healthy. Food is love. I love food. Why does food never love me back? Why don’t I get it? It’s like an abusive relationship I can’t leave. I set limits, I set boundaries, but I inevitably put myself below the line and go to the food. I don’t take care of myself, and I take advantage of my poor poor stomach.
The only relationship I am in right now is with myself, and why don’t I treat myself the way I would treat a partner? Just a little something I am proverbially chewing on…because clearly I’m not having any more snacks today.

Brekkie

Sundays growing up no one was allowed to leave the house. We didn’t even really get out of bed; I just sort of shuffled into my parent’s bed or to the couch. We watched cooking shows on KQED until our tummies grumbled too loud and we could no longer ignore them. We did not stay in bed because its gods day: but because its bacon day. Yes. In my Jewish parents house, every Sunday was dedicated to pajamas and bacon. If there was a celebration mom and I made waffles every so often, but even then, still bacon. Never coffee, never gooey Pillsbury cinnamon rolls, NEVER cereal. Never really anything but maybe some eggs, and crispity, crunchity, 30 year old cast iron pan, thick hand cut, nitrate free bacon. My dad cooked it slow for a long time. His slices had hard browned meat and dark crisp fat that broke like graham crackers. No wobbly fat here. They were hard bacon wafers of love. I bet the walls smelled like bacon when we moved. They still have bacon a lot, but I think now it’s more of an any day thing now and less a Sunday thing. I’ve been over to the house and seen tubs of collected bacon grease. God forbid we should need bacon grease for something and be out.

Maybe it was out of rebellion I became so into going out to brunch on Sundays in my early twenties. For a while I was even with a man who I would see only on Sundays for morning sex and then I would make him various breakfast items and then send him on his VERY happy way. Is anyone catching a pattern? Sex, love, and food? Yah, I get it all kinds of confused. Oops.

I had brekkie Thursday morning with my Heavily Tattooed Boy Best Friend. He and I have made a thing about breakfast for as long as we have been besties: about 10 years. What is it about Sundays and Brunch? It’s so white. It’s so expected. It’s so “I just came from a tennis match, we’re on the way to wine country for a tasting,” the weekend brunchy thing became the Marin thing to do. We are so alternative, so not the suburban type: no hung over bloody mary’s or golden retrievers here.

Now it is a great rarity I go out for breakfast, but over the past few months I have become attached to a weekly commitment to a Saturday AM yoga class with brunch after. We eat at a wonderful south Indian place and it is glorious. The last man I was with even re-inspired me to go out more because we each had weekend favorites the other had not been to yet. It was sort of like a revealing game of cards. Him understanding why I love a place, or a dish was like explaining part of me. Watching his face while he bit into a peanut butter butterscotch coffee cake was like watching a small miracle take place. Sharing food is love.

Thursday I had the great pleasure of having an early morning before work breakfast date with HTBBF and his lovely lady friend. First, I commend the three of us for making it happen at 7:30 AM. This is a far cry from a weekend brunch that cannot EVEN begin before 10. The sun wasn’t even shining yet. Really. I suggested the Dipsea in Mill Valley. They always have clean non greasy food and decent coffee.

We sat in the empty dining room and quickly ordered coffee. I reminded the half awake waiter that we would need to see the pancake specials and he presented us with 2 choices: cornmeal cakes with fresh blueberry sauce or brown sugar pecan with whipped sour cream. I may have mentioned that if, for some crazy reason, there were pancakes to share, I might, I could be persuaded to try the cornmeal cakes. I figured my oatmeal needed a little fancy friend in my belly. When the cakes came they were super fluffy, almost bready. The batter had a savory scent that was rosemary or thyme. The sauce was thick and goopy. A better version of blueberry preserves. The berries were more tender not squishy. The cakes themselves were thick in the middle thin on the sides. No syrup here, just not needed today.

HTBBF and Lady friend are also photographers so we spent most of the time talking shop and since they live in LA and rarely hang we had a lot to chat about. I cried the day he moved to LA. Hard. Really hard. It was nice to partake in our old ritual.

So here is the place I have to admit something: lately I have been uninspired by food. Historically I have never “lost” my appetite. I have NEVER lost weight during a breakup. I classically eat my feelings and emotions. When upset I over eat. Maybe it’s the changing of the seasons, maybe it’s the summer tomatoes disappearing. Maybe it’s my delicate emotional state. All I want is oatmeal. And oatmeal related foods. With this diet I am not lacking in the whole grain goodness, clearly it’s that comfort I am after. I don’t want to be bothered by feeling over full. I don’t want to deal with a sour stomach. I just want to know all I need is hot water to make dinner. I eat oatmeal at breakfast, cream of buckwheat at lunch, and cream of rice with ghee for dinner. It’s a mushy life for me. It is also a cheap life for me. I’m sure my appetite will come back. They say it always does

Breaking up is hard to do...

Wedding Times…

Wedding started at 4. At 2:30 I was still blow-drying my hair. I sped most of 50-mile drive to the Carneros Inn in Napa. Rubbing bronzy liquid all over my shoulders and cheeks, keeping an eye on my almost empty gas tank, I crossed my proverbial fingers for a miracle. With the windows down I felt the 30-degree change from SF (75) to Marin (90) to Napa (100 or so). After a quick golf cart through the property I arrived to a beautiful grassy lawn adorned with huge peachy mounds of flowers flanking the seats. The 30 or so guests were offered paper perisols and lemonade as we took our seats and the sun laid its self on my shoulders. A quick and lovely 20 min later the happy couple, glistening at their brows walked us all over to the poolside cocktail and hors d’ouvres hour.

Tiny crab cakes with avo mousse, crispy Parmesan twists, single potato chips with a little spoonful of tuna tartar, LOTS of champagne and white wine helped all of us bear the heat. I stood secretly sweating under my boobs, thankful I went with the black dress that day. I had never met the bride and the last time I saw the groom was when he was maybe 17 or 18 now 35 or 37? Our mothers are besties. Mother of the groom and my mom looked SO in love standing and eating with each other, I QUICKLY noticed her FAB black satin heels with creampuff like bows on the toe, Kate Spade of course. The bride motioned me over to meet a group she was standing with; her creamy skin, berry cheeks and lovely gay man friends stunned me. I instantly found my peeps!

Inside, the 7 small tables were adorned with silky green napkins, handwritten menus, and sweet little matches with ducks kissing. Now let me tell you a little secret: wedding cake is one of my favorite things on earth. Fondant the smooth, creamy layer that makes a cake look finished and keeps it moist that is usually peeled off by most but I LOVE THAT STUFF, its like gummy sweet wedding paste. Delish. On the end of the menu I noticed written in small calligraphy “assorted desserts.” Only slightly concerned my racing heart saw the 3 tiered white cake in the corner of the dining hall, and then became calmed and excited that there could be more than just cake later!

A fig and proscuitto salad was thickly slathered with vinaigrette and the large pieces of Parmesan were buttery, nutty and gave me my salt fix for the evening. I was not into the almonds at the bottom. I am rarely ever into nuts IN things. I like a handful of nuts, Ehem, but I don’t like the texture contrast when in creamy or lush things.
Next up gnocchi with farm fresh ricotta, English peas, caramelized onions and fried sage butter. Since I am a consummate over eater, I became concerned about a gooey doughy pile of pasta: I NEED to save room ya’ll. 4 delicious pillowy buttery ‘tato dumplings later I felt ready for anything. When the beef fillet was placed in front of me I had a feeling I was in for something special. This was hands down the juiciest, smoothest, softest piece of meat I can remember ever eating. About the size of my entire hand (granted I have pretty small hands…) the red wine glaze was perfectly tart and salty. No steak knives at this table, butter knives only, and no need for that extra sharpness here. That beef was delicately smoky. Not like the over bearing smokiness of a campfire, but when you are back from a camping trip and your hair just smells slightly of the night before roasting marshmallows. Like that. It sort of took my breath away.
At that point getting a little food coma I asked for coffee and patiently sat awaiting dessert. When FINALLY the long thin dessert platters were brought around the pinkies up party began. I glanced over at my mom’s table across the room, and caught her licking her chops at the small delights. Tiny cream puffs delicately stuffed with punkin cream, light tangy square lemon tarts with high dollops meringue, and a little brioche toasts with a Nutella squirt were served 2 for each guest. I again glanced at the cake and decided to skip the pumpkin.

The Cake was good. REAL good. It had just a little bit of cornmeal in it, like a honey loaf cake meets cornbread with LOTS of butter and sour cream. Light fresh whipped cream with a touch of butter cream frosting was thick under the fondant. I had two pieces.

During dessert I ditched my table and carried my second cup of coffee over to the gay’s table. We talked about our favorite Food Network shows, Nigella Lawson’s sexy cooking styles, and Top Chef. Do I even need to say that these were clearly my people?! When finally the DJ played Faith by George Michael the dancing bug got me, even in my heels. To my surprise I had walked into an impromptu 80’s dance party with me, some Canadians, and the Boys. After New Order, The Cure, Morrissey, Guns ‘N Roses Sweet Child of Mine, Pulp, and the Postal Service I had worked up a sweat. Before I left the dance floor the bride whispered in my ear the she wanted ME to also be her new sister in law. I blushed, and told her it was meant to be, we were meant to meet. She had me in her palm: peep toe Louboutin’s, Steak, and The Smiths.

C.

There are things too close to my bones to say.
There are things so black I can't write them.

There are no letters that spell heartache.
There are no ways to explain the loss.

The Jewish Chef

I was on J-date. There I said it. I for a few months I PAID (oh the shame) for an online dating service for Jews. OY. Not only did I rarely see anyone I was even interested in most of the interest in me was well…lets just say it wasn’t worth the money.

The one date I did go on from J-date was the Jewish Chef. Although blond, which I have classically never been into, he was cute, had nice buddy holly glasses, a plaid shirt and was snarky as hell. He was smart, too smart. He over thought things. Oh did I mention he was a chef? Yah, he had me at chef.

We exchanged emails for a while. We envisioned starting a cookbook book club with French macaroons as snacks. We talked about SF style, music, friends, life and love. He kept on serving up compliments. Did I mention we talked about food? And restaurants. He was impressed with my knowledge and I was impressed there are actual normal Jewish men out there.
We decided on a hip Oakland spot he hadn’t been to yet, but I had! HA! We meet there. I remember I wore something to accentuate my bust, but it wasn’t slutty. I just figured if we were eating…

Standing in the cramped entrance I did not recognize him. He was HANDSOME. Well dressed, even stylish! POLITE. It was like hell froze over. All my online dating had literally paid me back. We sat giggled and ordered. I noticed immediately his snarky comments were almost constant. Although I pride myself of being a girl boys like to joke around with, I was almost exhausted with the pace. I thought the food was excellent like the meal I had before there. He complained about the pizza, to the waitress: eek! Well, he is a chef. It’s like trying to enjoy a library while being a librarian. Well maybe different. Anyway. It went well. We decided to see a movie. I promised if we went to a movie in SF I’d drive him back to his car in Oakland. (I know, it’s all just too perfect…)

Before the movie we stopped for ice cream, I think he got Mint Chip and I got Peach Pie. When he found out while we were buzzing around the city that I had only had my driver’s license for about 6 months, he immediately insisted he should drive MY car the rest of the night. Double-parked outside the theater, I went to hop out to grab 2 tickets and before I reached for the door handle he twisted a 20 in my hands. REALLY? Wow…that NEVER happens.

We saw Milk at the Castro Theater. We sat in our seats sipping black coffee reading San Francisco Magazine Food Issue and talked about places to go. He ran his delicious hands up and down my thighs the entire movie. HEAVEN I TELL YOU.

One of my first date moves, my patented Lizzi moves is lipstick. It gets ‘em every time. Thick, matte, serious lipstick. It’s confusing. Its like: I want that, but its messy, it’s complicated. It usually ensures I make the first kiss last till the second date. Usually.
Our first kiss was in his kitchen in the Oakland hills a few hours later, while he made me Matzo Brie. Yes ladies and gentlemen. At about 1am this man cooked me milky, salty, eggs with broken slightly mushy pieces of matzo SLATHERED with butter. It was again delicious. He kissed me with conviction. Hard. Like he wanted to say: fuck your lipstick, that shit won’t keep me away.

The next morning he asked if I wanted a drawer. In his house. For my clothes. Yes. That happened.

I woke up, drove to a nearby store and picked up coffee, bacon, eggs and some fruit. We cooked, laughed, and kissed in a bright sun filled kitchen. He even sat me up on the counter like in the movies. We laid breakfast outside in the yard and I sat on his lap in the cold early December sun and ate in the scenery and the food.

Our first date lasted the entire weekend. The only reason I had to leave aside from work was because I had scheduled another date, with a Pastry Chef. Yes. I know. What are the odds? The Jewish Chef encouraged me to keep the date just to compare the two. He joked all pastry chefs were pussies. The Pastry Chef was Russian and we did not hit it off, we did talk a lot about food and baked goods, but he just wasn’t charming. I called the Jewish Chef while I walked away from my awkward date, I told him he was the clear winner. When I got home I realized the Pastry Chef was featured in the magazine Jewish Chef and I had been reading at the Castro Theater 2 nights before. My cheeks blushed with excitement.

The only time Jewish Chef and I left his house was that first date, and once to go the movies. We brought tangerines for snacks. He was a great match, an almost perfect match, but the never left his house. That little thing was a problem. To this day he never even has been to my place.

So on New Years Eve, I brought over a feast, from New Ganges, the best Indian food in SF. I called ahead of time, told the owner how much I wanted to spend, what time I needed the food by, and explained slowly and carefully that I needed this food to make a boy fall in love with me. He said: “come at 8, for magic.” That meal was indeed magical. Thick whole-wheat chapatti with ghee everywhere. Gulab Jaman, soft golden balls of fried cheese soaked until puffy with rosewater and honey. The ascorbic Achar, pickles made from lime rinds and mango, thick with bay leaf and oil, really impressed him. Many other dishes in-between that I don’t remember. We did not fall in love.

In mid January I went to New York to see the William Eggelston Retrospective at the Whitney. I thought to myself: I am a grown woman, I can travel for art! While walking around in the January slush I visited many eating sanctuaries. I ate at the newly 3 starred Scarpetta, and had by first sweet breads, I had Blue Ribbon's classic chocolate chip bread pudding, Magnolia Bakery for cupcakes, and of course 2nd Ave deli for pastrami. I traveled with an extra bag that flight home, but not one to check: one full of 2 lbs of pastrami, 1 entire loaf of rye bread, 1 container of NY half done pickles, and 4 Magnolia cupcakes. I touched down in SF at about midnight. The drive to the Oakland hills was quick and I grinned from ear to ear the entire time. I plunked down on the Jewish Chefs couch and he slowly with huge wide eyes un-packed his presents. We ate with our fingers, with one dim lamp sitting on the floor. He said, "Man, Jewish girls really ARE better..." I felt accomplished.

The last meal the Chef and I shared was on Feb 1st. At 6am on the way to the Alameda Flea Market. We had both been excited to go and he had an entire house to furnish and a keen eye for Swedish modern antiques; it was to be an expensive but fun day. He sleepily pulled out 2 Onion Bialys from the freezer. Toasted and warm with butter, the smell dragged my butt into the dim kitchen for thick fresh ground coffee he made, a cup at a time of course. There he introduced me to heaven: Babkka. A thick doughy sweet bread, like a cinnamon chocolate sweet roll made love with Challah bread then added some streusel topping. I could NOT stay out of it. He even gave me a hard time, saying they were only made in Brooklyn, flown in and only sold at one specialty foods store in the Bay Area. He basically said hands off the Babkka. Boy was he right. After that day there were no more hands on anything.

Jewish Chef and I had incompatibilities. We were looking for different things. We could probably have gotten married and lived a very happy life together cooking for each other forever in that house. But see I am looking for a partner, a true companion, he was not into that. Me using food like a ticket into the house was no way for me to live, plus it was clear even though we had a lot in common he was not the right guy. With our inconsistencies it was clear, NO, we weren’t going to talk about it later.

I drove away knowing I would never talk to him again.

Sushi, Tattoo’s and 21 year olds.

Memory is a funny thing. Remembering back to the “old” times I get tricked. My head is selective. I forget details. I remember dates when they get associated with men. October 2nd 2003. March 27th 2007. June 9th 2008. Aug 4th 2009. You know the days that time slowed to a creeping fog and every speck of that day, of that moment, is in my chest.
Since I was a kid I have collected memories and imagined them like storyboard. I think to my self often “this is a moment in the movie.” I sit on trains and imagine what I look like from the outside. I sometimes see a moment happening to me instead of being in it. As a photographer I am a bit obsessed with that moment. That one moment that encapsulates the many moments leading up to and following.
Many, many, MANY of these moments have happened on Thursday nights. Last night was no exception. (Thurs Sept 10th)
As I sped towards the Mission in my grandmothers Ford Taurus (don’t be jealous) with Best Girlfriend in the passenger seat, it felt like any other night we go to sushi. It happens a lot. At Sushi Bistro there is a cloud of deliciosity floating overhead. Here lives one of my favorite things to eat in the world: The Big Island Roll. Best girlfriend and I are sushi freaks, there is almost no time we don’t want sushi. Really. The Big Island is cool, calm, briney, and slippery. A thick circle of cucumber curl is stuffed with smooth peppered crab and various slices of raw fishies: SALMON, TUNA, YELLOWTAIL, TOBIKO and AVOCADO. It is magical. It is life changing. It is the roll to which all other rolls should be compared. There is a space on the food storyboard of my life for that roll.
After sushi we took a quick trip downtown to a cool kid art show. A room packed with faces from all the lifetimes I have lived. Again my memory synapses fired on overload with photo shutter flashes. Pictures of me at 13, 18, 21, and 25 sat in the eyes of some of those people.
2 Diet Cokes later my feet hurt. Ready for bed. Back in the Republican (the term of endearment for G’mas Taurus) I had a flash of me at 20 staying out until 4 am at LEAST two or three nights a week dancing, going to shows, and generally fucking around. We used to go to a 24-hour diner ALL the time. We ate the worst stuff: chili cheese fries, pancakes, bacon, everything greasy and luke warm. I remember weird pies and shakes too. But it was always how we ended the night.
I was dared. Slightly drunk Best Girlfriend and Black Stiletto Heels in the backseat and I quickly changed the route home to detour at PopScene. I’m not trying to sound uber hip, but the guy at the door there knows me. He knows all of us. That place, that dance floor has defined so many of my life's best moments. So many friends made, so many boys kissed, so many red bulls. Best Girlfriend and I enjoyed having the back corner to ourselves (mostly) to re-enact an insane dance number to Le Tigre's Deceptacon (dedicated to us by the DJ) - We shook it, shaked it, screamed it, and stomped it for the next 2 hours. A few joyful tears, many many grinning smiles and lots of giggles later it was time to finally get to bed.

There was a moment there, when I stood next to the bar, I saw myself in the mirror. A mirror I have seen myself in for 10 years now. It was definitely a flashback moment scene in the movie. But for the record the food is SO much better 10 years later, and so is my hair.

Vol 3: Falling for it OR ”I know I screwed it all up…. I will love you forever.”

I’ve always had questionable taste in movies. I’m the first to admit it. I dated a guy once who referred to my favorite genre as: The Rom Com. Yup, The Romantic Comedy. To spare everyone the extensive therapy bills I have endured, these fantasies have since childhood put the notion deep deep in my mushy girl brain that men can not only read minds they can and will always do the right thing in the end. They will always show up at the end of the movie to say that one brilliantly self-reflective paragraph and all will be well again. There are massive problems with this. As the term “misunderstanding” has been generously thrown about while watching these movies it is important to remember none of the insane predicaments these women get themselves in COULD happen in real life: most plots in Rom Com’s are based on HUGE misunderstandings.
“IF ONLY he could see…!”
“IF ONLY she just said that one thing she isn’t saying…!”
“IF ONLY they turned that corner 5 minutes earlier…!”
That stuff is like crack cocaine straight to my heart. Its like mainlining hope.

Recently I watched the Sex in The City Movie for the third time. The first two times I cried my head off. Loud slightly noticeable sobs. Yup. That’s me in the back with the popcorn, red vines, and LOTS of extra napkins. The salty and sweet movie snack combo, it gets me every time. The other night I sat on a floor in a beautifully lit North Beach apartment with two new girlfriends. Both I know from a fledgling yoga practice, more on that later. We had an apartment picnic. A feast laid on a yellow plaid blanket with yoga blocks to sit on. Rosehip tea for me, Jasmine and Peppermint for the ladies. Each one brought something to share. Jasmine tea brought some lovely mini sweet potatoes fragrantly spiced. Peppermint tea, our hostess, made some fresh Vietnamese spring rolls with crunchy carrot and fresh mint. Some sprouted grain bread and luscious unsalted butter made the perfect addition to the dinner. I brought fresh raspberries, peaches, and some raw Oreo cookies I have always wanted to try, which left me just plainly wanting real Oreo's. The texture is nice and gooey but the flavor not for me. Maybe for some one who eats raw it would be more of a treat, but they just weren’t sweet enough for me, not really dessert status.

Picking at food is a skill. I do not posses this skill. I tend to overeat when given the opportunity. I tend to over do when given the opportunity. I tend to think Romantic Comedies over do when given the opportunity. The Sex in The City movie for sure over does it, but that’s why I love it. That’s why I’d be a sucker for any boy showing up on my door professing his love with flowers but ESPECIALLY if he showed up with snacks.

Vol 2: The perfect love?

Cupcakes are so in they are on the verge of being out. Vegan cupcakes take over the world? Skull and crossbones with a cupcake T’shirts? Tour buses regularly stop and unload people at the now world famous Magnolia Bakery in NY everyday. Why the other day I drooled while slowly fingering Martha Stewarts THICK book dedicated just to the little buggers. This may NOT come as a shock: I like cupcakes. I believe they are the perfect food. The better ones are complex and tell a story to every inch of my mouth. The best cupcakes I have tasted live in the spaces between your teeth. They fill up every cell with buttery, thick, moist sweet clouds of sugar. I am carrying on now…

Today I had a lovely brunch in Oakland with an even lovelier friend. We went to Aunt Mary’s, a place she had wanted to go for a while. I had looked online (cuz I am a totally insane person and I do that) and I instantly began to daydream at my desk at work about grits. The merits of grits and what if any additions I would order in mine. Bacon? Roasted tomato? Greens? All on the menu thank god. I ordered apricot toast, scrambled egg whites, grits and a side of bacon. It was not my intended brunch, but when the waitress asked what I wanted it just came out. Not the day old corn bread crumbled in a glass of milk, or the malted waffle, or the ham gruyere and sage omelet. Nope. None of those. The apricot toast did me in. Homemade and baked fresh daily.

The room temperature water was served in mason jars; at home I drink water the exact same way, I love this. The toast was thicker than I imagined. Almost like a cookie? Like a roll? A big thick cracker? It needed butter, and it was excellent with a pat on each slice. The bacon was the crispiest bacon I’ve had in a long time. Crunchy meat with a good give to the fat. Maybe the perfect bacon. Eggs were nice and the grits were thick, creamy, and were on a menacing slow moving lava like crawl getting dangerously close to those eggs on the other side of the plate.

To continue with the fattening of my life we went to a cupcakery called Love At First Bite in North Berkeley. The tiny storefront provided me with too many choices: Pretty in Pink a strawberry cake with strawberry butter cream, Vegan Gingerbread with lemony frosting, Blueberry with Lemoncello icing, Red Velvet, (!) Hummingbird, a cake with banana pineapple and pecans with cream cheese frosting. And just to make everything harder on my my brain mini versions of EVERYTHING they offer. I settled on Classic Vanilla, something I feel is a good indicator and a mini Pretty in Pink, how could I resist that little Pinkster. We also split Peanut Butter cup, rich chocolate cake with peanut butter butter cream. (WHOA butter) The Vanilla was dry, just not good. Peanut butter had good frosting but bad cake, not chocolatey enough, it was missing something. The strawberry mini was my favorite: light, fresh, sweet as hell, a little oily, a densely complicated cupcake. Complicated like truly falling for some one.

Cupcakes really ARE love. They can be just exactly like falling in love: for the moments leading up to, while eating, and after they are over, I am consumed. A sort of infatuation like I’ve felt before with men. I really only want the frosting but I have to eat the cake to get to it. I want to spend every waking moment with a man I am falling for, live in the nooks and crannies of his body, stay touching forever but eventually laundry, yoga class, eating, sleeping and work get in the way. But I gladly do them all knowing we get to see each other again soon. The ratio of tender frosting to solid cake is like the beginnings, it's the same feeling. And then there is the fat. There is a pure naughtiness to all that fat in one little dessert. Whipped sugar trapped and suspended in all that butter, the fat from a good cupcake stays in your body, the cellulite is like a battle scar I gladly display. And just like the men I’ve truly loved, (as I say that I can only admit there have been 2, I think…but that’s a whole other story….) I can’t shake that love. That love is in my hips. It’s in my chest deep pink and tender. Just like that little bite today, you are with me, for good.

Vol 1: "I did not meet my future husband last night."

A long time ago, before Facebook, J-Date, Match.com, Make Out
Club…(anyone remember that site, it pre-dated even the now ancient Myspace?)…There was a time when people who wanted to get it on met through “set-ups.” At least that is what my mom calls them. A person might say “Oh you should meet so and so...I bet you two will hit it off.” Horny single youngsters or not so young singlesters used to be restricted to “set ups” by immediate neighbors, family members, fellow synagogue members, or friends of friends, basically one or two degrees of separation. To this day never a set up has passed my inbox or voicemail and I’ve done fine so far. I’ve dated my share of total strangers, semi-strangers, just plain strange men, and straight up ex’s of best friends. A couple of weeks I was invited to an ol' fashioned “set up.” I went against my better judgment.

Here is the background: every month a boy cousin of mine has a house dinner. A rotating roommate is responsible for the food. All 6 or 7 roommates attend. Everyone is encouraged to invite friends: READ bring single ladies. My aunt who lived in India in the 60's is a wonderful cook offered to feed the group; I figured I would get a great homemade Indian meal if nothing else. 10 people in total were in attendance, 5 boys, 5 girls, including cook.

Here are my considerations: I do not want to be on a dating game. I don’t want to be entered into a single person humiliation auction. It’s embarrassing enough to be alive most of the time and I’m not exactly looking for anyone anyway. Also remember: “I might meet my future husband, you never know.“

I arrived 10 min early scoring a nice parking spot. The roommate who answered the door exclaimed “WELL HEEEELoooooo” all pseudo sexy. My cheeks flushed immediately with a deep DEEP yearning to turn around and run. I reminded my self of the free gourmet dinner on the other side of the dude. Also on the other side of dude, I quickly noticed a stripper pole in the living room. Just a note of reference for how badly I wanted to curl into the oven with the potatoes and die.

Once inside, I was disappointed to find no Indian food on the menu, but I offered up all my awkwardness to the kitchen gods and got elbow deep in making salad. Some crumbly pan-fried goat cheese croquettes awaited slightly salty garlicky oiled greens. I was instructed to add a few pieces of radish, cucumber, avocado and slices of fresh fig to each plate. It reminded me of my grandma slicing radishes on everything, very Russian. I might have sneaked one or two figs. I am on a big fig kick now. They are so squishy slippery and sweet. I cut a few loaves of bread and stirred a huge wok full of green beans softening in hot oil with ginger and garlic. Salmon was already grilling on the porch.

Thinking back, I don’t even remember the salad. It looked good when I made it, I sat at the table and ate it, but I could not tell you if it was good. I have no memory. My palate had been wiped clean with fear, doubt and insecurity. What I do recall is the bread. Holy hell. Bread and butter, my new best friend, you are the one I lean on in troubled times. Multi grain sourdough. I have never tasted such a dichotomy. Thin not hard crust, a really soft soft crumb. Sweet honey with a tang. Little crunchy seeds. With butter. Yes.

Dinner was blackberry-glazed salmon, the oiled garlic green beans and oven fries with cheese (I think it was parmesan?) Usually I hate glazes. Sweet and salty is heavenly don't get me wrong; peanut butter is my personal kryptonite. But fruit glazes usually are jammy and tacky. But this salmon was rubbed very liberally with cumin before being sauced, so it was sort of smoky and sweet. The blackberry was very savory, not candied.

I had seconds of the 2 rustic homemade nectarine and plum tarts, 4 servings of tart? Why not. I like to eat my feelings, don’t you? The tarts kept their shape and the fruit was perfectly squidgy and sugary. The nectarine had a few deflated blueberries that had gotten perfectly molten and gooey Each as big as a dinner plates, one with homemade dough and one store bought. I liked the texture of the homemade crust best, almost like a shortbread cookie. The crust was buttery and sandy with out crumbling. Really the perfect summer dessert.

There were no possible or potential love connections. I would never say “I told you so” to my mother, but like I said earlier, I’m not really in the space for that sort of thing anyway: my heart is not as lucky as that homemade tart dough; it’s a bit crumbly lately. Maybe I need to add some butter to my diet and my heart will mend?
Will I go again if invited? I'm not sure, but I know I'll ask what's on the menu before RSVPing.

New Feature.....

So at the request of my dear friend
Chrisandra I am going to start a project documenting and writing about my connection to food and love. I wrote a few new reviews for Yelp (HERE)
The things I write under this section will be about relationships and food.

Foodie adventures in love?

or

For the love of food: romances with food, dating, and relationship

or

Romancing the spoon (and other first dates)

Something like that...enjoy.

not mine...again

"...so one need not worried about consistency. anybody who becomes worried about consistency will be come untrue because only lies can be consistent. truth is always changing. truth contains it's own contradictions-and that's the richness of truth, that's it's vastness, that's it's beauty.".

Incredibly close

"In bed that night I invented a special drain that would be underneath every pillow in New York, and would connect to the reservoir. Whenever people cried themselves to sleep, the tears would all go to the same place, and in the morning the weatherman could report if the water level of the Reservoir of Tears had gone up or down..."

Loss

Sickness is a manifestation of loss: real or imagined.

I miss you.

Panic Attack?

Until one is committed there is a hesitancy, the chance to draw back, always ineffectiveness. Concerning all acts of initiative (and creation) there is one elementary truth, the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then Providence moves too. All sorts of things occur to help one that would never have occurred. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in ones favor all manner of unforeseen incidents, meetings and material assistance, which no one could have dreamt would have come their way. Commitment sends an unequivocal "YES!!" to the universe. Our thoughts and energies align and we become a powerful magnet that brings to us all the experiences, people, and things that we need at that time. When we are committed, we view life through a powerful lens which asks the question, "does this support my statement of commitment or not?" when one is truly committed the decision is easy. "I am a Commitment to __________." Speak it out loud to some one who can witness your commitment. One can feel their own personal power and that of the universe stand together. Commitment is more than a promise, it is a statement of connection which embraces loyalty and trust as well. In what areas of your life are you now ready to make a commitment?

its been a while...and it feels good to be back.

Me: Have I ever told you about my dream to live in a store front?

Him: Yah. *pauses* It goes with your photography.

Me: How is that? Because its like a studio space?

Him: No, I mean how you want people to look into your life.

none of these are mine:

reminder:

Eye to eye
Thigh to Thigh
I let go....

dating

talking
participating in group activities
becoming friends
holding hands
touching shoulders, knees, and so forth
spending time together in non-sexual activities
hugging
kissing
petting with clothes on
petting with some clothes off
engaging in genital stimulation
making commitment to relationship and plans for future activities
engaging in intercourse