A Year of Forward Motion

"If you're going to have a fear of failure, you're just never going to learn how to cook. Because cooking is lots of it, one failure after another. And that's how you finally learn."

Julia Child understood something about cooking, and life, that made all her endeavors seem effortless—even though, objectively, they were not. Her baby, Mastering the Art of French Cooking, took a whopping decade to write. Her cooking shows were lessons in humility. Fans of hers could watch Julia slice into her own finger while dicing a carrot or burn the roux for a béchamel right from their televisions screens. And then they could watch her laugh it off, as she always did, and move on to finish the task at hand. Not taking things too seriously: that's what Julia understood. It allowed her to approach cooking with a levity that made home chefs feel comfortable with their own failures too.

Enthusiasm, for cooking and eating and writing about cooking and eating, maybe the only quality I have in common with Julia. I dip my toes into the ocean as if a tidal wave could reach the shore and swallow me whole at any moment. I add unnecessary layers of complication and general angst to most things in front of me, and I take failures personally. But dwelling on fear, I learned embarrassingly recently, is something of a luxury, uncomfortable as it is. It requires time and brain space I just couldn't give up this year. 

Since January, I've traveled to nine cities and five countries, started a novel, started a business, grew the business, stopped writing the novel, and started writing another novel with a better story. I enrolled in a weekend culinary school program. I learned what activism means to me and the small part I can play in helping our country change its course. I turned 30, freaked out about aging for a hot second, and then realized I wouldn't trade the years I've had with this brain and this body and all my favorite people for anything. I've read 11 books that have all reaffirmed something I already knew—that fiction can sometimes be the best conveyor of truth. I said goodbye to my Grandpa who was the truest mensch I ever knew and who stayed engaged and interested in the world until the very end of his life. 

"No fear." That's what Julia used to say before stabbing a lobster between the eyes or flipping an omelet. And I've repeated it to myself all year. A kind of mantra. I said it before sending emails I was nervous to send, before making decisions that felt big and course-altering, before showing pages of my novel to my writing group, and before my first attempt at poaching an egg the old-fashioned way (no container—just a dash of vinegar and a swirling pot of hot water). And I made plenty of mistakes. Although it should be noted, for the record, that I poached the heck out of that egg on the first try. A small accomplishment, I know, but one that I'm pretty pleased with.

Rather than dwell on the shoreline, I dove headfirst into the waves this year. I dove so many times I felt numb, pins and needles, from the shocking cold. And that's the thing about "no fear," about embracing forward momentum. You get used to it. I've had lots of failures and some successes I never thought possible, and I've gained courage equally from both. So here's to the past year and to this next one—may it be another year of living enthusiastically and fearlessly as Julia did and may the lessons be just as rewarding as they've been. I wish that for myself and for you, too, reader. 

Dive Right In

Oh, hey. It's been a minute, reader. The reason for my absence is about what you'd think. Work, travel, work, work, lots of good and much-needed visits from family and friends, more work, etc. But here's something else true. Writing, after a long period of not writing, is like catching up with a friend you haven't seen in ten years—where do you even begin? Every day I don't write, the rift opens a little wider.

Lately I've been coming home from nine-or-so hours in the office (and hopefully one good hour of barre), grabbing a hot shower, and laying on my couch for a precious couple of hours. Ignoring my lonely, untidy kitchen and the impulse to write for fear that my prose will devolve into something truly horrible and mundane. Folding fitted sheets, deep conditioning my hair... you get the picture.   

The same has been true of cooking. I find myself a stranger in my own kitchen these days, casually passing through to make coffee, fulfill various snacking impulses, and unpack the takeout from our usual line up of Thai, Chinese, and Indian. I'm now regularly surprised by what I find in the fridge—which, if you know how stringent I usually am about fridge order, tells you the gravity of the situation.

When I do cook, I seek out the grand, complicated recipes. It's been so long, I tell myself. Why not go big? Last Sunday, for instance, I attempted an elegant roast chicken recipe I've been eyeing in Melissa Clark's magnificent new cookbook, which had herbs and sherry and smoked grapes. Who in their right mind—I am really asking you, reader—who uses the oven in the middle of a record-breaking heat wave in Los Angeles? The stakes were too high, the conditions too unfavorable. I fully cried. Twice.

But writing and cooking poorly, sloppily even, is probably better than not writing and cooking at all. Maybe it's better to dive right in, make a real mess of things if you have to. And so I will see you back here soon, reader. If all goes according to plan.  

Let’s Eat Together, On Purpose

Let me paint a picture for you, reader. It’s Friday evening in late summer, the overwhelming heat of the day has finally subsided, and you’re at a beautifully designed, al fresco dinner party with some of LA’s most exciting food people—tastemakers, chefs, podcasters, etc. You’re about to sit down and enjoy a seasonal three-course meal. But for now, you’re holding a cool glass of rosé in one hand and gesturing wildly about some restaurant you’re really excited about with the other. Because all the people here care about food as much as you do. 

I’m talking about Kitchen Table App’s upcoming dinner party this Friday, August 18 at 6:30pm. It’s rosé themed, naturally. It’s taking place at the Daily Dose Café, which is so ivy-covered and ethereal, it could double as the set for A Midsummer Night’s Dream. And it’s co-hosted by five of LA’s top tastemakers and chefs who are also curating a lot of the menu items themselves. The food will be rooted in California cuisine, seasonal, and partly vegan. So we’re in for a riot of brightly colored, local produce. If you live in the area, I hope you’ll join me. 

I recently heard someone say that people in Los Angeles don’t wear fashion, they wear cars. As much as I want to defend my city, there’s a point to be made here. I just had my dear friend Courtney over for dinner last Sunday, for the first time in a month. Angelenos know that when I say Courtney lives in Pasadena and I live Downtown, we are talking about an almost-long-distance relationship here. Especially during rush hour. 

But she happened to be at a party on a rooftop somewhere Downtown that day, and I happened to be home catching up on work (binge watching Parks and Rec). She texted me. I texted back, inviting her for dinner. And Adam and I ran over to Grand Central Market for some ingredients we could make a quick meal out of. We ended up with a peach, basil, and burrata salad and three rib eye steaks. We dug a bottle of merlot out of the pantry, put on Kind of Blue, and BAM: dinner party.

As we ended a perfect night, brought to us by serendipity, all three of us wondered why we don’t do this more often. It’s not hard to break bread together. But we hardly ever do. Every time, we say it was all so lovely and we should do it again soon. Then we let too much time pass, get wrapped up in the minutia, let bad traffic discourage us. 

All this, reader, is to say that I think we need something like Kitchen Table App to bring us together on purpose, to get out of our cars and interact with other Angelenos around the table or at the Daily Dose Café. Having a digital platform to facilitate meals with all my friends and neighbors breaks down those barriers between my next dinner party and me, like the expense and the laborious, back-and-forth coordination with all my guests. And that’s exactly what Friday evening is all about—coming together, breaking bread with old friends and new, meeting our neighbors, sharing our love of food (and rosé). 

You can book your seat at Rosé All Day by downloading Kitchen Table app right here. Each of the co-hosts has their own posting—so choose who you want to sit with! Hope to see you there! 

Lemony Red Lentil Soup, A Cure

Happy Saturday, reader. This morning, I remembered a conversation I had with a friend recently. He told me about something called Paris Syndrome. It's not a croissant addiction. (I know. You're surprised too, right?) It's an extreme case of shock resulting from an individual's finding out that Paris is not, indeed, what they'd expected it to be. Yep, not kidding. This is a real condition for which the Japanese Embassy in Paris has set up a 24-hour hotline (it occurs in about twenty of its Paris-touring citizens each year). Psychiatric symptoms include anxiety, delusional states, and hallucinations. "I think I might've had it," my friend added. "But it was Disneyland, not Paris. And I was maybe six."

There's a metaphor in there somewhere, about the anticlimax of all those little moments we anticipate and and over-plan for. First trips to Disneyland, promotions, round-numbered birthdays on which we expect to wake up noticeably wiser and more mature than we were the day before, mimosas that are mostly orange juice. And the day Adam and I took my sister-in-law to the beach, about two weeks ago, so we could dip our toes in the water and sunbathe and eat coconut shrimp at Malibu's Seafood. She'd flown in from Brooklyn for the weekend to see us and to thaw her bones under the California sunshine (her weather app showed 18 degrees in Brooklyn that day). When we got to the coast, though, we could barely see the sun; it looked lethargic and pale behind a gray wall of fog. 

I'll spare you the banal platitudes on coping with life's little letdowns, reader. It's Saturday, after all, and you're having brunch and generally trying to stay positive about life. So instead, I come to you with a cure: lentil soup. Hear me out. This recipe is like an antidote to disappointment. Last week, Adam and I frantically made a batch for a couple of last-minute dinner guests. Or, more accurately, Adam made it from a set of instructions I texted him from the grocery store, where I'd run out for a baguette and some dessert. I completely forgot to tell him to add carrots and later found out that he'd usurped creative control and added more than double the amount of cumin and chili powder I'd advised. But it turned out wonderfully, maybe even better than my version. No matter how you make it (or ruin it), this soup always promises a dose of comfort. 

The credit for this one goes to Melissa Clark of the New York Times dining section, who really knows how to make a foolproof recipe. So many of the lentil soup recipes I've tried (and believe me, I've tried a lot) have ended up tasting like health food experiments gone wrong, the components never fully meshing with one another, the lentils remaining kind of hard and chewy no matter how long I let them simmer. I can't believe I never tried red lentils before—it turns out they held the solution this whole time. When they melt into the broth, the texture of the whole soup becomes thick and velvety from the starch. So many elements of this soup work so well, like the contrast of the earthy cumin and the bright pop of lemon juice and the sweetness from the tomato paste and the carrots. I modified the original recipe to suit our tastes over here. My version has more cumin and tomato and a generous hit of chili powder for heat. If you'd like something a little more delicate, you should consult Melissa Clark's version instead. 

This soup has become something of a ritual in my apartment. I make it in big batches on Sunday afternoons for the week ahead. I make it because it tastes wonderful and because it's filling and healthy. But I think there's a small part of me that also takes comfort in knowing that, if nothing else goes according to plan, at least we'll come home to something reliably good and nourishing. I hope you find it similarly helpful. 

Ingredients
2 tbsp. olive oil
1 large yellow onion, finely chopped
3 garlic cloves, minced
2.5 tbsp. tomato paste
3 tsp. ground cumin
1 tsp. chili powder
kosher salt to taste
1 cup red lentils, rinsed + sorted
1 quart chicken broth
1 cup water
2 carrots, peeled and diced
1/4 cup lemon juice
chopped fresh cilantro for garnish
a few grinds of black pepper

Directions
Heat the oil in a large pot on medium-high heat until it simmers. Add the onions and cook until they're soft and golden-brown. Add the carrots, garlic, tomato paste, cumin, chili powder, and salt. Mix well. Stir for another two minutes before adding the lentils, chicken broth, and water. Once the liquids begin to simmer, partially cover the pot and reduce the heat. Cook at a gentle simmer for about 30 minutes or until the lentils are soft and cooked through. Depending on your preferred texture, ladle about half the soup into a blender and puree until smooth. Pour that half back into the pot. Stir in the lemon juice little by little, tasting as you go. Add more salt if necessary. Serve drizzled with olive oil and a garnish of fresh cilantro.