Not a Highlight Reel: 2018

I’m not interested in sharing a highlights reel this time. There are always highlights, magic to be found even in the most prosaic of moments. Eating well, for instance, is a guaranteed way to find the sacred in the mundane more often. But roses don’t separate from their thorns as easily as I once thought. I’m finding that I talk about the good things and the painful, difficult things in one breath these days. I need them both to explain who I am right now, to give context to one another.

Since the end of 2017, I’ve lost three people who were very dear to me. A dear friend, my aunt, passed away this September. A big and painful surprise. She taught me to seek beauty wherever I could find it. Through her eyes, I learned to appreciate art and dance and New York itself. Despite the stereotype that small children have no patience for shows or museums or nice food, she and my uncle exposed me to all of it, trusted that I had the capacity to take it all in.

My grandpa passed away last October followed by my grandmother in February. They lived long lives. Alzheimers, in a sense, had already claimed my grandma years before that. But her death signified an end to their story that felt hopelessly and painfully final.

At my grandma’s funeral, I looked at old photographs of her and my grandpa in their tennis whites, their tanned skin glowing orange in the Kodachrome cast. They were younger than us at that point, already with two kids, happy. They lived fully, immersed in the things they’d worked hard to enjoy: their house, children, lots of tennis, good friends.

Despite stereotypes of the Great Generation, they never pushed their path to success on us, never called us soft or entitled or extravagant for wanting what we want: adventure, spontaneity, creativity, wonder. We want to walk out our door everyday and feel interested in the world, awake. It’s the kind of life that lacks concrete milestones like theirs did.

Yet, they were open to it, in awe of our imagination even. In the last few weeks of his life, my grandpa called me from his hospital bed to tell me that he wasn’t worried about Adam or me, that we’d find our way and that he wishes for us that we’ll continue to seek more and different experiences of the world, which he thinks must be a very good approach to life (if not very different from his own).

Loss offers perspective. So does travel. We didn’t get the idea to move to New York from my aunt’s or my grandparents’ passing or from the two weeks we spent in Italy in May, but all of it restored our sense of urgency. My grandparents lived their values. My aunt, too. I know they slept well at night and that they left this world knowing they built their lives with integrity.

One life. That’s what we’re given. So why not throw away the arbitrary checklist: house in the suburbs, practical car, high-end furniture with annoying cleaning instructions. It belonged to someone else, anyway (the list, not the furniture—so we’re clear). Could we jump into another city, another life in which we could continue the adventure, regain our sense of wonder? We already knew the answer.

I’m writing to you now from my apartment in Upper Manhattan. It feels like home. For the first time in over a year, I’m sleeping well. It brings me a comforting sense of continuity knowing that my grandparents lived and played tennis just across the water from us, in Queens, and that the brownstones they grew up in are just a train ride away, in Park Slope. We’re living alongside their memory. But most of all, we’re living how they wanted us to live: according to our values. And that feels like the biggest highlight of all.

This Week / Vague To-Do Lists + American Flag Socks

Hello, friends. We made it to the weekend! I am trying to trick myself into feeling those Saturday feels, even though I am staring up a mountain of a to-do list. Everything I need to accomplish this weekend is both monumental and vague at the same time. “Downsize life.” “Pack furniture.” “Figure out health insurance scenario.” Tonight, I will be figuring out a tequila scenario because I need to give my brain a rest from the logistics of this whole renting-out-our-house-and-bouncing-to-New-York thing.

We all need to give our brains a rest, from worrying about our own lives, from worrying about our collective future. I got the notice of Kavanaugh’s confirmation in Home Depot, while discussing sod cutters with a guy whose ankles and calves were tattooed with American-flag “socks.” All I could think was, I do not identify with anything that is happening here. But here are some things I bought and watched and read this week that I very much DO identify with, including these sunflowers from the farmer’s market which are now in a vase on my dining table.

1. PURCHASED. I cannot resist a luxurious faux fur moment, and the color is gooood.
   

2. “For to permit yourself to do only that which you are good at is to be trapped in a cage whose bars are not steel but self-judgment.” Much needed permission to NOT pursue excellence in everything we do.
   

3. Currently watching this series which explores trauma, mental health, and isolation. It’s strange and uncanny and I am here for it. Jonah Hill is excellent in it. But Emma Stone is double excellent, per usual.
   

4. What #MeToo has accomplished in one year.
   

5. LOL Banksy stumps us all, again.
   

6. Simple, yet packs a punch: the best delicata squash recipe.
   

7. Remembering an old favorite because it’s decorative gourd season.
   
   

Life, Lately / Homecoming

This time last week, I was drinking my coffee on a bench in Domino Park, watching the blue-green East River lap the foundation of the Williamsburg Bridge and fully crying in public (and making a failed-but-concentrated attempt to stop myself). I did what I came to New York to do: find an apartment. We received the email the night before: “You’re approved!” And I simultaneously felt a tingly oh-my-god-what-have-we-done?! type of shock and also something else. Homecoming. That wave of warmth and relief and clarity that signals you’re in exactly the right place at the right time.

It keeps sneaking up on me, that feeling of home, of rightness. Probably because I spend so much of my time seeking it, trying to perfect every little facet of my life and often failing (as we do), that it’s impossible to notice. I remember feeling it when I met Adam and sometimes in college around two or three in the morning, when I’d stayed up all night to write an essay. Now it’s happening all the time. On Sunday afternoon, waiting for the L Train, sweating from the heat of the station, avoiding the mystery liquid dripping from a beam overhead. Tuesday night, reading in bed, listening to the air conditioning rattle.

It strikes me that I’ve felt most at home within myself when I’ve ventured the furthest from what I know, often based on nothing but intuition. Starting a freelance business, moving to a strange city for a boy, writing about things that make me uncomfortable, culinary school, all the plane tickets I’ve ever bought. This must be what it takes, to peel back all the layers of what we think we are (or what other people have said we are) and find what’s true.

The light changed, the morning before I left New York, from cool white to warm caramel. I’m not entirely sure, being a born and bred Angeleno, but I think that means it’s fall. To me, fall is its own kind of homecoming, a release from the slight madness of summer heat. I feel that clarity and I see into the future, for the first time in a long time. I know it will be fleeting. I’ll continue to hunger, to not settle. But for now, I’m enjoying these moments—even as I play the role of crazy lady, choking down tears on a park bench.

Everywhere We Ate in Rome

Eating, while traveling, is all about learning. Learning about a place, yes. But also about your own appetites. I live for that revelation of biting into something new, discovering I love it, and wondering where it has been all my life. The world seems wider, more hopeful in those moments. Normally I find two or three dishes that stay with me and that I hope to return for one day. In Italy, I found new obsessions almost everywhere, even during quick pit stops for snacks or gelato breaks. I can think of at least ten things I need to come back for. It helps to know that Italians, too, are obsessed with their own food.

They are what we would call "food snobs" here in the US. The label cancels itself out because they are all snobs, ready to give you their opinion on how to choose your pecorino and which market vendor sells the best salumi. In Tuscany, we asked our cab driver where we might pick up steaks to grill back at the house we stayed in. He insisted on parking the cab outside the butcher's and taking us inside himself, so he could translate and help us pick the right ones. We didn't, he insisted, want to put our dinner in jeopardy because of a language barrier. But I think he'd be surprised how far a desire to eat well often takes us. 

Everywhere We Ate in Rome: 

Antica Caciara—This salumi and cheese shop has been a staple in the Trastevere neighborhood since 1900. Over a century in business, apparently, leads to perfection. I'd never tasted pecorino that bright, sharp, salty, and wonderfully flakey all at once, the technicolor version of the mild, not-as-good-as-parmesan pecorino I'd known before that. 

Casa Mia—In the name of sampling the menu and of vacation in general, I shamelessly ordered two plates of pasta here. Carbonara and cacio e pepe. Both entirely worth the cringe-y moment when I explained to the waiter, in broken Italian, that yes—they were both for me. 

Da Enzo—A tiny, tiny trattoria in with a giant line, worth the extra moment to call and make a reservation the day before. I ordered amatriciana, a Roman pasta dish that is greater than the sum of its parts which are olive oil, cured pork cheek, tomatoes, and pasta water as far as I can tell. When they come together, the sweetness of the tomatoes and the salty, sumptuous feeling of that pork cheek multiply tenfold. It's really something.  

Emma—Make a reservation here, if you want to come for dinner. For lunch, we were able to drop in spontaneously.  Twice. (Okay, the second time was very much premeditated.)  It pretty much derailed our afternoon both times. In a nice way. In a food-drunk (and actual drunk) kind of way from a big plate of salumi, a bottle of Prosecco, and heaping portions of cacio e pepe. 

Fatamorgana—Thank goodness this gelato shop has more than one location. I came back three times (in different neighborhoods) for their orange-almond flavor, which felt dense and velvety and tasted like exactly what you think orange zest will taste like if you don't know any better, like an orange distilled—sweet, intensely bright and floral with a pleasant acidity.

Innocenti Suppli—The dumpling of Rome and the perfect snack (or appetizer, or meal, depending on your ambitions).  It's a rice ball mixed with tomato and veal, stuffed with mozzarella, breaded, and fried. It's the kind of crispy, pillowy, starch-on-starch-with-melted-cheese combination that melts my heart right out. You can get them all over Rome, but this place made my favorite.

L'Arcangelo—A cozy place with some innovative things on its menu. Although I honestly don't remember anything other than the artichokes, which tasted like they'd been soaking in olive oil for weeks. Tops removed, they glistened on the plate and fell apart at the gentle prod of our forks. If you've ever wanted to mainline an artichoke—if you love them that much (like I do)—this intense, pure flavor is as close as you'll probably get.

Mercato Centrale Roma—A similar concept to Grand Central Market here in Los Angeles and Chelsea Market in Manhattan, this is a collection of vendors inside of Termini Station, Rome's central train hub. Adam and I ate lunch here on our last day in Rome and found it a great way to reminisce about all the good food we had. We found artichokes, panini, suppli—everything we wanted one more taste of. 

La Norcineria di Lacozzilli—Porchetta. Porch. Et. Ta. The name rolls off your tongue like the fatty, amplified-umami flavor of porchetta on fresh ciabatta. Even one little sliver holds enough concentrated flavor to make you weak in the knees. It's almost not fair, how it makes everything else around it taste pale and bland by comparison.

Pane e Salame—You can order a giant cheese & salumi board here for 12 Euro, so I don't think I have to say anything else except that you should arrive before it opens at 11am. It's located in a touristy area (near the Trevi Fountain) and the line builds up quickly. But 12 Euro for copious amounts of pecorino and prosciutto and speck. It's worth the hustle. 

Pasticceria Trastevere—Italy is one place you won't be judged for having an all-sugar breakfast. It's tradition here. Sugar in the espresso with more sugar on the side, usually in the form of a cornetto or brioche (which is not like what we put our hamburgers on, I learned, but more like a croissant filled with chocolate or jelly). This place has good ones and lots of cute Italian cookies which I can't remember the name of now, but which I ate a lot of. 

San Cosimato Market—One of Rome's farmer's markets located in Piazza di San Cosimato in the Trasevere neighborhood. Smallish, but packed full of attractive produce and certain things you can't find in the US, like another obsession I left with: zucchini flowers. You can also get fresh cantaloupe wrapped in speck and loaded up on a skewer from one of the vendors there. The best shish kabob you've ever had.