Food, Water, Rest January 20, 2012

Chefs have this impeccable ability to push through most conditions, hunger, exhaustion, and extreme physical discomfort. I have cooked with a second degree burn, saute station, on a Saturday night. That’s a masochist for you. Stubborn as mules, and soft as pizza dough we think we can continue indefinitely. Im here to tell you, we cannot. We grow old, our bodies break down, our sleep patterns stay the same and we pull from a smaller and shallower reservoir of energy.
In these past months, almost two full years after my mothers death I felt irrationally crazy. Edgy, empty and lost, my sleep was elusive, I found my patience with everyone wearing thin. Not ok for a teacher, whos job is to swim in a sea of questions, as gracefully as possible.
In the midst of cooking for two weddings for chefs (intimidating) I met a lovely new friend. In the absence of spending *actual* time together we talked a lot over email. Also a writer/blogger we talked about feminism, food, books. It reawakened a part of myself I had lost to work and life. We developed a cute system of checking in; breakfast questions, accounts of exercise and daily activities. On a cellular level I remembered how good breakfast was. I slowly became less irritable, very slowly. I looked forward to spending a quiet hour to myself, eating.
Then came the questions about why I wasnt sleeping. Actually, the exact question was what my achilles heel was. And I honestly couldnt say, I was that far removed outside of my body that I had forgotten. Any disruption or lack of sleep just further fueled my inner asshole. Fall closed in, and I started to bundle up, crawl into bed with a book and force myself to wind down and get ready to sleep. Enduring the short period of impatience was worth it, every morning when I woke up far from exhausted and hungry. My body was slowly speaking to me again.
That last piece was tricky, I am notorious for wanting water and never drinking it, small cups of it laying around the house like tiny birdfeeders for some invisible companions. My morning coffee was joined by a glass of water, and my water bottle at work was always in sight…and lo….that complicated swirl of balance returned. The flashes of deja vu that had been missing, and the gut reactions I used to have came back.
One of my dearest friends, and her partner told me at my lowest point that when I felt destroyed, horrid, implacable that I should do a diagnostic check….food.water.rest. They are the tenets of self care that should never be forgotten, because they nourish our complicated beings on a cellular level, and those small atoms are so easy to feed or neglect every moment, every day.

Hungry Ghosts or Loss and the ghosts it leaves behind January 2, 2012

It would seem strange to be talking about ghosts, after ringing in what promises to be a good year. After spending the morning at my uncles house; a combination of new walls and old, 4 generations of family and so many smaller tribes of children running through it seems fitting. Each new years day, my uncle and his immediate family go to the cemetary, a tradition that my family also does, albeit not on the same day every year. They go to pay respect, and also I think to remember the bonds that remain. It is a certain strength this, to remember who is left and to honor who is gone.
My cousin Tommy died when he was 14, much too young of course and unexpected to all of us. It was the end of an age of innocent happiness for all of us. Because even though we were scattered all over the island, and the west coast, we could always rely on coming back together, and the 3rd gen running around the house, or the beach eating, screaming, and getting scoldings. I remember taking him and my brother to the beach; they were so little, caked with dried sand, drinking passionfruit juice and eating chips. Tussling little boys are always beautiful to behold, brown limbs flailing, enlisting any passerby to help them build the biggest fort ever. Tommy’s mother is like a sister to me, she made sure I stayed out of trouble, gave me dating advice, snuck me beer when we would go out for Thai food.
Tommy toggled between Washington and Hawaii, just like me, but only because his father lived there. Eventually, somehow, his father got full custody, and my cousin only got him during the holidays. We were all very upset, but we made the best of it. No one completely understood how miserable this made Tommy, how he felt displaced from both his mother’s family, which now had three little ones, and his father’s, which had a new addition of its own. In the family pictures of him as a young man, he looked increasingly forlorn, and not of the typical teenage variety. But who could know? Having gone through custody battles myself, his mom and I would discuss the stupidity and injustice of it all, but it was like discussing the weather, or sports, it seemed normal. When I turned twenty eight, I got a phone call from my mother telling me he had died, killed himself while his parents were out and he was babysitting his baby halfbrother. Never have I seen my entire family cross the ocean at once. Never had I seen them so…empty. My cousin never looked as happy or as mischevious again. She and her parents, so proud of their washington boy became for many years, what I refer to as hungry ghosts. After a great loss, there is a greyish green sheen of light that hangs over the ones left behind. They laugh, and move forward, but their voices become softer on the subject of those gone, and the reminiscence can range from a pause over favorite foods, or a drive past a park or well loved destination.
I never knew what it was exactly, only a creeping sadness. Not until I lost my mother two years ago. It comes and goes like the ebbing tide. I know this now, and it informs how I appreciate and move through the world myself. But I am determined not to become a hungry ghost, it is too much, it can suck the fire out of life this loss and grieving.
How to cling to the happinesses that remain, when you are confronted with profound loss, even from lifes blows? This much is clear: you cannot stop dreaming, you cannot keep yourself empty, because waiting for someone’s return is not giving them a better evolved version of yourself. Anyone, even someone long gone, would not want that, not if they loved you that much.
So this post, while a recollection of a young man ten years gone, is also a celebration. It is a reminder to myself that this year I have seen myself at my best, and my worst and both have given me the tools to move forward in earnest.

Home. And where my heart is. December 30, 2011

5:30 PM 12.18.2011 Honolulu Hawaii

The last 24 hours have been nice, lovely even. The sounds of home are comforting, and the voices and closeness of those I call family is a respite from all that has been frenetic and stressful these last four months. The familiar sound of birds cooing, with the breeze, and the languid feeling that comes with it forces me to take a deep breath and reminds me to be thankful.
So here I am, a little over a year later, since the last time I was here, with her. I waited years to bring her home with me, and she knew exactly what I wanted to see and do and share with her. It was the perfect compliment, and one totally underappreciated. I wish I had paid attention more. Ive been dreaming vividly since Ive been here, of her, and of my life and how to grow it the way that I want.
When I see her in my dreams sometimes it is the big conversation we have yet to have, about the goodbye, and all the apologies and gratitudes I have yet to share with her. Sometimes she has forgiven me, and it is a relief, and upon waking it is something I know I have yet to earn.
Ive been asked to move home again, and this time by more than my family, and I feel like the timing could be right, if I reflect enough and choose the path that makes the most sense. So like many reflections I have left here in the past, I am hoping this one, will be less bitter than sweet, and that a year from now, it makes more sense than ever before.

Lisboa December 4, 2011

I think of you often. Too many times to count. I am preparing myself for the long road home, two years away from my brother, almost a full season away from my father and all I think of is you. I am sorry I caused you so much pain and now, I feel all of the same pangs. Coming out to my father was an empty gesture without you by my side. I know you told me how much it hurt you to see her by my side, instead, but it was almost like I needed a shield when I finally told him. To be 37 years old and to wait until then to fully express the fullness of who I was I needed something, however short lived. I missed you then, I miss you still. I wish I could take back everything I said in anger, you were never crazy or irrational I just assumed that because I was so impatient that you did not hold the same feelings for me. And so now in this time, I need you to know that I am setting my expectations to never see or hear from you again despite the fact that I see you every day, either in my dreams, or on the street, or in our favorite haunts (just this week). My heart and my mind are trying to reconcile the loss of you. You were and always will be the love of my life, I cannot believe I abandoned you at our most difficult moment, out of spite, in its most simplest form. If I could tell you one thing right now, it would be only this: I am so so sorry and please know that I will never love anyone the way I loved you. You are are a treasure, a miracle, a blessing underappreciated, and a memory never, ever forgotten.

Babygirl November 6, 2011

I miss you. It goes without saying, more than 7 months have passed, and so many emails and silences and whatnots. I wish I could see you face to face, especially after the anniversary of my mother’s passing. You were such a relief then, and such a heartbreak. I thought I was over you when all of that came to pass, and then in the wake of honest, real pillow talk, you told me, without asking what I wanted, that you would never be that, what I wanted. And so, from that point forward I let you go. In my mothers bed, with everything weighted on my shoulders precariously, I let that one, most important thing, slide right off. It was too much, and delivered at the worst possible time, and so I let you go without asking you what it meant. It saddens me now to think you still held me in your heart, not having a permanent space. I know that feeling well; where to put, how to deal, how to heal. It is too soon, but to see you face to face now, with all that has past might be some sort of healing, I would hope. I think of your small hands often, and how for that brief time, how well they fit in mine.

The search for the wheel September 2, 2011

It was less than 2 years ago that I pushed a wish out into the universe and casually demanded an answer. It was an entirely selfish and self motivated request, an approach I was not used to, or practiced in. Somewhere in between I got distracted, by life, by love and things of a more impermanent nature. I foolishly thought I was pursuing balance, when in fact I was afraid of what the consequences, power, and scope of what I wished to undertake would bring. I have brought myself halfway around the world and back, emotionally and mentally. But not once have I envisioned what the step between me…and what that would look like. Truth be told, its terrifying, to know what you want for the rest of your life, to hold things in your hand that are tools, or weapons, if used against yourself.

Salaison and the art of reintroducing the wheel December 29, 2010

Today was my last day at the farm. Everyone will be going to the market or is on holiday and so no one is cutting, and the abbatoir is closed for cleaning and so….

I took all the chiles J made Kate buy and roasted them in the fireplace and made “french” hot sauce

Also: I boned out a hock/jarre for stuffing, poaching and preserving tomorrow, cured some duck breasts (we’re doing it wrong), made tarte de vollaille, cleaned the kitchen

Found 1 gift, out of the 10 I am sposed to be looking for: an absinthe spoon for T

Thought a lot about salt box, and curing (since I did a lot of work with cured meat today) and how everyone that works on the farm does something with a force of skill that would knock the eight ball in the corner pocket unequivocally. Dominique: the teacher makes all the saucisse cuit and sells at the market and goes to the US to tell people about the farm. Bruno: the expert in salaison went to Lyon and studied dry curing. He knows the science of things; humidity, fermentation, time and was shocked when I told him about Monsanto, and eating habits in the US. Cecile and Mark are the steadies, like middle children and sous chefs they will watch for the gaps, pull more than their share and with a half smirk and a shrug tell you youre aight. Jacques knows more in his pinkie about pigs than anyone I have ever met. The energy on the farm when the pigs are eating, or he is running around is palpable. Quiet & smart, he can cut with the rest of them, but instead makes sure they have pigs to work with. Mssr & Madame Chapolard did not have to show the silly american how to cure, tie, and hang but they did all while cracking wise about each other and all of their grandkids.

And so, I feel as though I have a picture in my mind and hands of what the wheel could look like, or rather what my dream of producing cured meats could look like and for the first time in a long time, I do not feel restless, disastified, less than capable or unready.

The wheel you see is what we have been doing all along, and sometimes we forget that it is what carries us forward from where we once came. You forget to look down, notice the road passing by, what the terrain looks like, what the wheel feels like – the one in your hands and under your feet. We strain against reinvention constantly, in a way that defies all that created us, or sometimes in a way that mimics a coming of age.
Vous prenez le temps de passer le temps – If you dont stop to reflect upon what you are doing, all is lost. The things we do can be beautiful and well crafted or hasty and good enough. Good enough is not…good enough. I can feel the salt on my palm and it speaks to me in a way that only a purity of ingredient can. Focus, minimize a lack of precision, act with intention. Breathe fully and move carefully as if we have forever, as if we only have now.

The wheel December 29, 2010

France – 17.12.2010

I have slept all the sleeps I have. Something occurred to me over my dinner, during which I sat still the whole time, and ate tiny bites, and stopped and watched the snow. (SNOW) The dinner was an exercise, more on that in a bit. So the thought that occurred to me over my simple dinner, served on a butcher block. (a sign) What if we just stopped trying to reinvent the wheel? What if the goal of the whole exercise was just to present a perfect wheel to the next group of kids coming up and actually take the time to divest them of the notion that the wheel needs to be reinvented? The truth of the matter is, we will eventually be without means to add all of the bells and whistles that we keep trying to glue to the bike in those cities filled with gastronomes. So what if a pork chop can just be: a pork chop, with some sauteed noisettes of apples and a parsnip apple puree (made with the rest of the ridiculous scraps of apple after all those tiny balls) I say this as I am about to launch into teaching Molecular Gastronomy next quarter. What if the wheel is enough ? “Here you are, a perfect wheel, I took care of it for you, keep in good shape and people will love it.” I know this notion itself is not new, but wheres the badass thats actually talking about enough when he’s taking it to the table? The truth of the matter is, the consumer needs to be retrained. We both know the food system is seriously fucked up. What if we asked the customer/consumer/guest to pick up their half of the responsibility and helped us rectify whats wrong about our food and revel in whats right? Truth is, I get tired of people whining that 3.99 is too much for a pound of meat. Is it? I mean if I fed them every day for 18 months and then factored in everything else and crunched the numbers….it used to make me sad, then angry. But being here, right now, where people will pay for their food (not the tacky atlanta ladies bitching in the corner of the cafe) I feel passionate that this is possible.
So there I was, master of the deli cup dinner relaxing into something I have not done in so many years, just eating. The pace of the meal was predetermined by so many things I am sure. The four mile walk around the Champs de Mars/Eiffel, the slow drifting pace of the snow, the warm wood surfaces, the servers who refused to rush. Any small deviation from that formula could have resulted in something entirely different. A glass of wine, a steak barely kissed by a grill, a salad dressed with a vinegary mustardy dressing and a tiny steel dish of chilled bearnaise. *sigh* Does anyone ever admit that cooks might have eating disorders? Oh, that’s right, we don’t do therapy either….The last six months, what with the on-site culinary analysis (food grading) and the 14 hour days with too much coffee I was actually trying to avoid food, like it was bad for me. “No, thanks I think Ive consumed enough calories today, no, I didn’t enjoy them either.” Someone should have slapped me. So the server, despite my atrocious french must have fallen in love with me because I concurred that I wanted my steak “bloody”, and asked about some Marc after the meal to have with my tarte tatin. Or maybe I wasnt being an obnoxious american. So it was my charcuterific lunch and this dinner that made me stop and think too many thoughts about what to do when I return….but the wheel….the wheel is very much on my mind.

Precision December 7, 2010

I imagine the look the beast would evoke once its brought to the table. I often have an excited bristle of electricity, a commanding concentration and wonder at the gravity and opportunity before me. The arduousness of the investment to just bring it to the butcher always amazes me. A chef I knew described it as giving death. I have no such illusions and remember how it made me feel, all those years ago, far afield with my father and uncles. Taking its life, honoring its death, making sure above all that no part is wasted. A beauty that demands respect. The metallic sound of edge as it slides against steel to hone itself for the task. Honing: such an apt expression for a butcher, especially one who seeks to become more and more precise wasting nothing, using all.
The steady hand that is watched switches modality, grabbing the handle shank to shoulder using the blade as lever and as scalpel. The visceral nature of incision can mesmerize, the fingertips pulling back to reveal the next step, the bone, the sinew. The terminology to describe it counters the actual act. Fabrication; a composition of what, an assortment of cuts for the chef? A transformation of beast to braise? All those things, the act of butchery itself is tantalizing; whether cutting across or around the beauty of it can only be matched with a hard kiss of dry heat, followed by a slow simmer in its own unctuousness.

Lens December 7, 2010

In a long chat with a friend that became known as “the conversation”, not because of its import because it was a conversation left open-ended revisited and continued at different times, an intriguing idea emerged. Perhaps not as intriguing to her, but a relic from my childhood, remembered and reconstructed in a new light. They say that the eyes are the windows to the soul, and certainly our eyes are lenses for how we see the world. But what about the photograph? Some people hailed it as the one great thing that would replace realism, and perhaps most great art. This claim didn’t paralyze artists, or stop them from creating. What it did do was spur those artists on for who photography became a way of capturing a moment, perhaps with realism or only an impression or emotion. All of those ideas are so very academic, and beyond that, people who enjoy the photo, the capturing of a moment enjoy it because of the light, composition, or subject. So the premise that always fascinates me the most, and captivates my interest is what goes on behind the lens. What is going through the mind of the photographer; are they happy, sad, enamoured of the subject? Are they a purist, capturing the moment with the best light and composition they can? Sometimes I can see the dialogue between the subject and artist; resignation, bliss, comradery. The view beyond the lens becomes more fascinating sometimes than the subject itself. I love the dynamic exchange between a photographer and their subject, at times I have been that subject, less than I have been the photographer.
Silly as this sounds as a child I found mirrors to be completely confounding. I would stare at my own image and become paralyzed with a singular metaphysical thought…what…am…I…doing here? I would literally have to will myself back, it is a question that remains wholely unanswered but stitched together in places with gaps, some wide and some strange. But a photograph of me, a photograph solidifies who I was in some great place, at some great moment, looking pensively into the lens at my capture.