Life happens.

The food writing class I had enrolled in has officially come to an end, and yet it oddly feels like the beginning. I feel like I've finally released the breath I've been holding for too long. Its interesting, to be a part of something with people that have such diverse backgrounds united by a common passion for food. For us foodies, food is not sustenance. Food is pleasure and heartache, indecision and endless opportunity. In food we trust. For me, I understood that food mattered from the very first moments I can remember. The kitchen was where life happened, sitting at the table watching the world swirl busily around me. I would sometimes get scraps of pasta dough to fold into little bow ties or rounds of cookie dough to make little thumbprints in. The kitchen was where we opened the first gifts on Christmas Eve after clearing off the seven fish dishes from the table, oohing and ahhing over the new toys and clothes, hugging and kissing in gratitude. It was where I practiced for spelling bees and twirled around until the cabinets kept spinning even when I stopped. In the kitchen my father and I practiced dancing for my sweet sixteen, both trying to hide our tears from the other. It was where I read my college acceptance letter aloud, my parents holding their breaths as I slit open the envelope. The kitchen was where my Nonno, brother, my little cousin Raffaella and I bridged generations, dusting each other with flour as we made gnocchi from scratch. It was where we all congregated during family the holidays, wanting to be close to the stove, to mince the garlic, zest the lemon, chop the herbs, longing to be a part of the meal.

The kitchen is where life happens, and for right now, looking forward at the kitchen I'll someday have, and the life that will fill it, helps me to know I'm just at the beginning.

Surreal

So after a long hiatus, its time to stop neglecting my beloved writing place. I think I was too ambitious trying to put a post every day, and that made it too easy to give up entirely. So, as I promised myself, before the end of this month, I would start writing again, here I am on March 31st. I've decided to restructure, I'm going to post at least twice a week, on Sunday and Wednesday evenings, and to spice things up a little, experiment with video blogging once a month. We'll see how it goes.

Tonight, as I write, I find myself in front of the computer, mug of organic high fiber cereal with soy milk in hand, reminiscing of the days when cereal meant marshmallow pots of gold and Toucan Sam. When we were younger, my brother and I would go to my brother's godfather's house often. They had four children close in age to us and we would get ourselves into all kinds of trouble, but my strongest memory tied to cereal comes from their house. They had the jackpot when it came to cereal, cookie crisp, berry berry kix, rice crispy treats cereal, and every time it was just about time to head out, would cry starvation. We begged for cereal, we could not go on without a bowl of cereal. And we milked it for all it was worth -- pun intended.

But in reflection, cereal really is the simplest of pleasures. A bowl filled with ice cold milk and delicate sweet, crispy flakes. The satisfying crunch delivered by the spoonful. I have vivid memories of my 4 year old self having deep conversations with my rice crispies. The secrets of the world would be revealed if I payed enough attention. My rice crispies told me stories about pirates and princesses, they made me laugh, and never revealed my secrets. But now, on this early spring evening, my cereal says nothing, only that my digestive system will be grateful for the treat. Tony the Tiger is replaced by a quaint outdoor scene, and the colorful fruity pebbles are substituted with what looks more like rabbit food.

Like pulling a rabbit out of a hat.

The last two evenings I've spent concocting in my kitchen. Following my tummy and my nose for twists on comfort food, all the while trying too keep it on the fresh and healthy side. On Saturday night, after having watched Lidia Bastianich make a bolognese that could probably get me on a flight to bologna, I was craving pasta and meat sauce. And really, in life, few things satisfy quicker than a good meat sauce.

I started with frozen Kobe beef (is there any place else to start?) which is far too expensive to make in to sauce, but when you know the butcher, these things become inconsequential. In a sauce pan coated lightly with olive oil (if it were a Cartier beef you could skip the oil) and I lightly browned the meat, watching it sizzle and crumble. My nose then led me to the garlic, so I sliced some thinly and added it to the pan. Beef and garlic are a combination created by the gods, an aroma so powerful your salivary glands lose all restraint. Your tongue succumbs to the longing to taste, and you stomach cries out in hollow churns. I added some dived canned tomatoes, tomato paste, fresh bay leaves, peas, a dash of oregano, a pinch of dried parsely, salt and pepper and suddenly there was sauce. A sauce I couldn't stop eating straight from the pan.



I decided to go with medium size shells for pasta.



The sauce needed some that could embrace the bits id beef and peas, grasp it up in its arms and trap it inside. It was a perfect marriage, I had created deconstructed stuffed shells. Like pulling a rabbit out of a hat. That's how I feel every time I walk into the kitchen. I don't quit know where I'm going or what will happen at then end of the journey, but I always know how to get there.

My apologies for an abandoned post

Sorry to have cut the last post short, particularly at what some might say is the most important part. The dessert was an apple tart. Ever so slightly and delightfully sweetened. A sweet ending to a sweet evening.

The times they are a changing

The last few weeks have been full of big life decisions and somewhat scary changes. I've made the decision to go back to school in the fall, and frightening grown up thoughts like health insurance and bank accounts have been dominating my thoughts. I know no matter what it will all turn out ok, but for now it feels like I'm closing my eyes, holding me breath and taking a giant leap into a dark pool of water. I can't tell how deep it is or see the other side yet, but I know I'll make it through.

Last night, however, was not about work or money or loans. Last night was about three of my favorite things: friends, steak, and french fries. It's my favorite season to be in NYC, it's restaurant week. The brief period of time where dining in Manhattan doesn't create a deep feeling of loss in the wallet. Last night three of my friends and I spent a lovely evening at Steak Frites, indulging on a prix fixe special. To start I had a mushroom bisque, finished off with a drizzle of truffle oil. (since my experience with the truffle focaccia my palate has been craving the rich, muskiness.) It was comforting and earthy, full of cream I'm sure, but light and almost fright. It was the perfect starter to warm you from the soul outwards on a frigid evening. Then, for the main course I had the steak frites. Now I never order steak at a restaurant, mainly because my father's a butcher and anything he brings home is probably going to be better quality and perfectly cooked. However, this meat was perfection, and the fries crisp on the outside, light on the inside.

For dessert I will have to continue under separate post....to be continued!

A sight, a taste, a sound

The other night, wandering through the city, I came across a memory. It was an old, but strong one, that some how seemed to pop into my head quite often, but I could never quite place it. For a long while I thought maybe I had imagined the whole scene.

It was a restaurant, dimly lit, with red leather booths, worn with age. Atop each table was a checkered red and white cloth and a caddy for oil and balsamic. I can't ever quite place exactly how old I was, but I know I was happy, sublimely, simply happy. It was a dinner after some play or art gallery my uncle had taken me to, and we had met my aunt for dinner. It was perhaps before she was even my aunt. When she was just the beautiful woman my uncle was crazy for.

And we sat. We sat and ate in this big, chushy red booth, happily together. I can't recall what was said or even what was served. It was one of those instances where it didn't matter. My adoration growing for my aunt and uncle with every second. There they were, everything I could ever want to be. Living in Manhattan, being in love, eating good food -- and even not so good food. But still, living.

Perhaps the reason this memory has stayed so strong within me is to keep me on that path, the wide and winding one. And this happenstance, this stumblance upon the very restaurant I have visited so many times in my mind, was meant to slap me across the face, Christina, get to it already.

When there's nothing to write about

I've been going through a bit of a dry spell on the writing front. A lot has been happening personally and at work lately that have prevented me from putting together an entry I could be proud of. Nearly every night this past week I've stared at my empty blog space, my curser blinking accusedly at me. I started and stopped, started and stopped, all the while the words of my prose professor ringing in my ears "don't rewrite the beginning, until you get to the end." But I just didn't have a solid ground to stand on. This Thursday night, however, I had a life changing experience with a truffle focaccia. This was the kind of dish that inspires symphonies.

My cousin and I were sitting at the bar in the cozy wood and exposed brick room as we waited for a table when suddenly, the woodsy, rich scent of truffles tickled our noses. We turned to feast our eyes upon the most beautiful focaccia we had ever seen, and resolved to order it the second we sat down. When it finally arrived before us it was perfection in its purest form. The focaccio was set atop a long wooden cutting board, as though it had arrived directly from nonna's kitchen. The dough was light and airy, crisp on the bottom, everything focaccia should be. The top was covered in tangy cheese, perfectly balancing the rich, earthyness of the truffles and mushrooms. Finally, it was finished with9 a dash (or several dashes) of truffle oil glistening in the soft candle light.

I did not undestend the truly mystical power of food until this encounter. Truffle oil is currently on my grocery list.

Honey on a Plane

In the papers today was an article about several gatorade bottles filled with honey found in a man's suitcase that caused an uproar at an airport. The quote that really got me was the Sheriff's reaction "Why in this day and age would someone take a chance carrying honey in Gatorade bottles?"

Now, I happen to know WHY in this day and age someone would carry honey in Gatorade bottles. Because when you find someone who can give you real honey, honey that has not long been separated from its bees, you don't ask questions, you take it in whatever vessel it comes, and you hang on to it. I can almost guarantee that if he were allowed to take more than an eyedropper of liquid on the plane, he would have put those bottles in his carry on. If you've ever had real, fresh honey, you know exactly what I'm talking about. There is really nothing like it, the rich golden color, the pure, sweet, flowery taste that coats and soothes your entire body as it goes down.

Through the years, my grandmother in Europe has always sent chocolates, candies, cotton undershirts, and cards for our birthdays or Christmas, but now she knows better. Now she knows any time someone is coming back to New York from Vacation, to send them here with jars of honey for me. My love affair with real honey began when I was 15. My Nona Lina had a neighbor who kept bees. We first tasted it in her kitchen with little spoons, dunking them into the wide mouthed jar and trying to get as much of the golden honey onto the spoon as possible. We pulled out spoons out as it glistened in the sunlight that beamed through the small windows of her tiny apartment. It was such a different flavor, distinct, but delicate, untainted. I felt a camaraderie to the bees. Those little critters that I so furiously dreaded, who would sneak into my soda can at family picnics or make hives under our deck. They were now maestros of the comb, bringing pure happiness in thick, golden streams.

That summer, before the 9/11 tragedy, before Osama bin Laden, before the man on the plane with a bomb in his shoe, that summer when I turned 15, where I sat outside my uncle's house late at night, in the cool Adriatic air, and spoke to the stars. We packed up our bags and put the unmarked jars of honey in our backpacks and carried them on to the plane. I remember checking on the jars all throughout the flight. Making sure they were secure, unharmed.

I have some right now, sitting on my counter top, in an unlabeled jar. In its previous life, the jar was probably home to a plump stash of pickles or perhaps even roast red peppers in olive oil. Now, it sits in a bowl (those jars can get sticky) and every night I take a little honey, one spoon for my tea, and one for my tummy.

Soup, soup, soup, soup

It seems as of late, my entries have mostly been about comfort food and soup, and finally what my subconscious was trying to tell me has materialized. I'm not feeling too peachy today. I'm not sure what I've got, but I've definitely got something. I bundled myself up, and trekked out to work this morning, only to almost faint on the bus. So after a few hours of vigorously emailing, I bundled myself up and trekked it back home. It seems like everyone I talk to seems to be getting over something. So in an effort to help all the sickly, here's a recipe for minestrone soup.

My mother made this soup yesterday in an effort to nurture us all back to health. You start by making the "odoro"

1 onion chopped
A few cloves of garlic chopped
a few tablespoons olive oil (to coat the bottom of the pot)

Coat the bottom of the soup pot in olive oil, then add the chopped onions and garlic. Sautee them until they're transparent and smell sweet. Do not let them brown. Fill the pot with water (be careful, water + hot oil = high potential for splatter). Then add any vegetables and beans you have lying around the fridge or pantry.
I like:
1 Bag frozen vegi medley (corn, carrots, string beans)
1 Bag frozen spinach
1 Can corn
1 Can chick peas
1 Can Kidney beans

You can really add anything else you have around! I hope you enjoy, please share any of your favorite comfort food recipes.

The faraway isles

Sometimes on a lazy sunday afternoon all that is needed is a few hours, the isles of a supermarket, a grocery list, and cheesy 90's music playing over the speakers. I often find myself singing "Total Eclipse of the Heart" aloud as I browse the selection of teas. When I'm grocery shopping I find myself in a completely relaxed state. Maybe its because I'm among good friends, Chiquita Banana, Aunt Jemima, Mr. Quaker Oats. My breaths fall deeper, my shoulders lose their tension, my head clears, and a for a few hours, I browse and fill my little cart. I'm a master mathematician, comparing prices, clipping coupons, checking carton sizes, seeing which sale ends up better ounce for ounce. While browsing the shelves, the possibilities are endless. I can head over to the produce and make sauteed spinach with caramelized onions. I can dash to the butcher counter and have juicy Kobe beef burgers. I can head down the baking isle and pick up oatmeal, cinnamon and raisins for some gooey cookies. There seem to be fewer and fewer areas of life where the future seems limitless, and strolling through the automatic sliding doors with an empty shopping cart gives the promise of boundless potential.

On today's particular outing, I ventured towards the deli counter for some turkey. The sound of the blade of a meat slicer, with its clean metallic roar always brings me back to my childhood. It reminds me of all the things I've learned when it comes to preparing food. I know that sandwiches don't come prepackaged and saran wrapped and tomato sauce is not manifested in glass jars. I know that these things can be made by my hands, and should be made by my hands. As I left, the supermarket, half a pound of thinly sliced Thumann's Turkey in tow, I knew that for lunch this week I had all I needed for a week's worth of delightful lunch creations.

Just so you all know, tomorrow I'll be having a turkey breast sandwich with brie, honey mustard and slices of apple. Reclaim the brown bag! If you'd like to try it, all you have to do is buy some turkey mean, some good bread (I like to use whole wheat rolls), honey, mustard, (or ready made honey mustard) and a green apple. (Making honey mustard is easier than you'd think, I like equal parts honey and mustard, but you can pretty much use any ratio you like, you just literally mix honey and mustard together, and that's it!)

So go forth, get to the supermarket, pack your brown bag, and start realizing the possibilities.