Summer Shots

Letting Go

Miranda July was featured on the cover of the New York Times Magazine a few weeks ago. Of course, this sort of surprised me, but then again, so did the article on how to make boozy ice pops at home.

I had read Miranda July's book of short stories called, No One Belongs Here More than You, because Mark Brinker (a guy in my now defunct writer's group) had recommended it. After reading the book, I wasn't sure how I felt about July or what to think of the fact that Brinker thought I would like it.

But, one thing is for sure: I liked her name. Turn's out, she selected that name at age 16. She was inspired by a character from one of her friend's stories in a zine. July said: "It was part of being self-authoring. And it was vanity. I wanted a name that I liked. July looked good on everything and it seemed edible. But it's a 15-year-old's idea of a great name."

Well, I thought, that's pretty cool. Who changes their name at age 16? Gosh, When I was 16, I didn't give thought to my name. That is, I was busy running around in on of those Hypercolor T-shirts, playing broom ball and going to Youth Group.

The Times article went on to explain that she was also co-founder of the band "Le Tigre" and the filmmaker of You, Me and Everyone We Know, which I had also seen and liked more than her collection of short stories.

Besides being an informative article, I loved another one of July's quotes in which she is referring to the point she is at in her life. She says,

"It's kind of about letting go of that feeling in my 20s, that feeling that I will do absolutely everything, I will have sex with everyone, I will go to every country. In your 30s, it's obvious that a finite amount of things will happen."

I LOVE this quote because it's so telling of "my thirties." I love being in my 30s since some of the major question marks are crossed off. I mean, I am married, and at last, I have a career - should I chose to accept it, indefinitely. But, their are finite things too: like a certain amount of fertile eggs in my body, a certain (but meager) amount of saving in my checking account, and a grounding realization that I can't possibly have a baby, get a dog, learn Spanish, open a cafe, publish a book and do unlimited yoga on my days off. (Clearly, time management is not my forte).

Probably, in my 20s I thought I could do all of it, and now I know I have to actually chose what I want. I spend a lot of time thinking about ways to rebuild and reestablish my situation so that I can squeeze in all of these goals. ("Um, yes, I would like to start with the lifestyle sample platter.") The process of thinking of options sometimes drains me to the point that I feel paralyzed by all of my choices.

Fortunately, on most days, I am happy with the lifestyle foundation I have built thus far. My imagination and my denial that I am socked well into my 30s makes me quiver a bit, but I do appreciate when other people throw quotes out about being in their 30s. My 20s feel like a long time ago and my 30s somehow give me too good a view of the years to come. In a way, I feel like the magic bus of my youth is about to hit a fork in the road.

Not to leave off of too deep or dark of a note: It's good to be in my 30s because there is still lots of good stuff to look forward to - no matter how I split my fork.

Happy Birthday, Nicole

I usually consider myself a good calendar keeper. I have a paper calendar because I take a long time to transition with technology. I learned that my annual process of sitting down in January and manually transcribing my friends' birthdays onto the next year's paper calendar is quite fallible. Thinking that I was the clever one, I texted our mutual friend Katie on the 25th to remind her: "Nicole's birthday is tomorrow." She texted back, "It was actually on the 20th."

Happy belated birthday my dear, Nicole who always remembers my special days and who truly embraces celebration with style and generosity! I love you lots!

Phillip Gaigl

My dear friend Katrin had a baby boy! His name is Phillip and he was born on August 10th. I had barely corresponded with Katrin since our trip to Sevilla, Spain in September of 2009. Katrin and Patrick live in Germany, and due our business, we briefly caught up in the summer of 2010, but that was about it.

I was so thrilled to receive an email, announcing the birth of her son! Congratulations, Katrin and Patrick! We have all ready talked on the phone for an hour and caught up with each other. Perhaps we can talk again while Phillip is sleeping.

Family Sunday Dinner

Okay, so we aren't exactly Italian. Right now I am reading Blood, Bones and Butter, by Gabrielle Hamilton and if I am ever to have a crush on an author - on her way with words and sentence structure - then, this is it.

Trying to save money somewhere in my life, I have been checking out newly released books at the Santa Monica library. I reserved BB&B at the library. After a few weeks of waiting, it was my turn to checked it out. On the back of my hard copy, Mario Batali wrote a review of her book:

"Gabrielle Hamilton has changed the potential and raised the bar for all books about eating and cooking. Her nearly rabid love for all real food experience and her completely vulnerable, unprotected yet pure point of view unveils itself in both truth and inspiration. I will read this book to my children and then burn all the books I have written for pretending to be anything even close to this. After that I will apply for the dishwasher job at Prune to learn from my new queen."

Batali's review made me laugh, reminding me of my first job in New York at his restaurant, Babbo. Mario is smart, cutting, articulate, and possibly part genius (if you use the term liberally like I do). I worked at Babbo just after it received it's three-star rating from the New York Times. I had been in New York less than one week when I was hired, and my experience there has shaped me in countless ways that I could not possibly recognize at the time. Ultimately, after two rounds of working at Babbo as a "backwaiter" (aka: busboy, busgirl or bus person - whatever) and "food runner," I was fired by a manager whom I secretly called Semifreddo, which means "half cold" in Italian. This word refers to a class of semi-frozen desserts, typically ice-cream cakes, semi-frozen custards, and certain fruit tarts. Babbo serves a Pistachio and Chocolate Semifreddo. It was one of the most often ordered desserts that I frequently ran up the double-flight of stairs to the foodies, celebrities and "bridge and tunnels" (an industry name for people from New Jersey who make the pilgrimage into the city for a Saturday night meal). Semifreddo amply summed up my manager's demeanor.

When I got fired from Babbo, it was just before my shift. I think it was at 3:15 in the afternoon, sometime in June of 2001. I was elated at the time. On my way home, I stopped at a vintage thrift store and bought a dress to wear in Italy at my dear friend's wedding. On that summer afternoon, I didn't realize that this work place, which I had grown to detest, had silently yet tightly clenched hold of my spirit in a way I would later come to appreciate and to reflect upon with fondness despite the sore muscles, ego and bank account I endured during my employment there.

On the topic of getting fired: I believed that Mario Batali didn't know that I had been fired, because somehow I was convinced that he respected me as one of the girls who was strong enough to handle the steaming hot plates, which burned my skin when I carried them out of his swinging kitchen door. And if the plates were steaming, the sarcasm from the his hot line was scathing. Most of the girls who were hired to "run food" wound up, mid shift, drying their eyes with pressed white linen napkins, kneeling down near the espresso machine and hot tea boxes. I too, was scared of the demeaning commentary which was verbally served as a side dish to the bowls of beef-cheek ravioli and whole roasted goat, but mostly I was awed by the theatrics of Babbo and the caliber of food being plated. Looking back, I realize that Batali's "family meals," which were often accompanied by his lessons on obscure ingredients and historical/geographical tidbits about the regions of Italy, were - on so many levels- an education that I could never come by in college.

Hamilton's book traveled with me for two weeks and then it became overdue. I was reading each page at the pace one might slow-braise an entire baby calf. I had to return the book in as to not pay for it in the form of a hefty overdue fine. (I exchanged BB&B from Tina Fey's Bossypants, which did make me chuckle, but even still, I found myself checking my email to see if the library had sent me notification that BB&B was waiting for me on the "reserved shelf.") Sorry Tina!

I am pleased to announce that the book is back in my possession, the book has returned to me and I am at the part where Hamilton is about to start her restaurant, Prune. Her restaurant opened when I was living in NYC, and I never ate there because I didn't really eat out (unless you count my free "shift meals" as eating out, which I sort of do). Prune served and still does serve an amazing brunch, but I have yet to try it since I usually worked the brunch shift at 'ino. Prune's food was talked about by chefs and foodies alike. And because it was adorable inside (Yes, I have peaked through the window numerous times), I felt that Hamilton had blown all the meat-and-lardo-lovin' boys out of the water. Hamilton was my hero.

At the time when Prune opened, I was living with the sous chef of Lupa, and working at Jason Denton's 'ino in the Village. People around me lived for meat - more simply put: any animal that could be cured, stuffed into intestinebased casing, aged to perfection, then thinly sliced, and served delicately with Italian wine - as it was a tactile symbol of all that is purely Italian. On a hot summer afternoon in the city, sharing a carafe of wine, some olives and a plate of this meat with fine company is the most tangible way to transport oneself into a bucolic Italian postcard.

At this point, I have stopped carrying BB&B around with me. I want to read it from home, where I can focus. So, on my way to the nail salon, I picked up Bon Appetite magazine and was tickled pink (Prune Pink) to discover that the editor had mentioned BB&B in his opening note. Then, he went on to say that Hamilton had written an essay titled "Blood Bones and Baked Eggplant." I was in the midst of a mani-pedi when I read Hamilton's article. Again, I savored every word and my crush on her grew exponentially. Before the end of the "pedi" part of my treatment, I had ripped out the essay, folded in quarters and slipped it in my purse.

Later that night, tucked into my covers with the fan blowing, an "ocean sounds" tape playing, and retainers in place, I read a passage in which Hamilton describes her realization regarding one of her "mentors." The passage moved me because it eloquently stated that you do not always recognize who is influencing you until you reach a point in your life when you actuality reflect on that experience shared with that particular person. (Now, if you are interested, this passage appears in the last two paragraphs of page 111. I would be happy to type them out if you would like, but I do fear this is becoming a long blog.)

I started to think about my life in New York in my early twenties. Although I would have spit at the suggestion that I was in someway being "mentored," I have no problem admitting NOW, that those experiences did influence me. Hamilton's book has inspired me to write more often, more honestly and toward publication. She has also - in the same way one of those Match-Lite tools easily lite a camp fire - reignited my interest to work in the realm of food. But, sadly that's where this spark stop as I am not sure which realm I desire since I do not want to be a food server or restaurant manager. I want my own thing, but that thing has not taken shape. I long to be back in some space where I am, unbeknownst to myself, being squished and stretched like a piece of puddy into something I can't possible recognize in the midst of the process.

The family meals that Hamilton mentions in her essay in the Bon Appetite are something I, too, share a version of with my own family. Only, my family gets ingredients from places places like, ugh, let's say ... Costco and Trader Joe's - not from an exchange with neighbors who own an organic farms. We also do have rituals - ridiculous rituals like heating of the jacuzzi and throwing balls at loved ones as they jump off the diving board. Last week we officially named the game "Two Balls" and we are looking forward to another round. My grandmother comes over, but not with ragged apron stings and a cooking agenda. She wears comfy sweaters and lose pants (sometimes a cute vest or a cat pin). She enters the front door with a small box of empty Tupperware, and my mom makes sure she takes home leftovers so that she does not have to worry about cooking for the next meal or two. Clearly, we are not Italian. We are Californian. We have wine, but it's a random medley of Charles Shaw and a few already-opened bottles that we have pulled from our fridges because we needed "just a glass" the night before.

Enough with my ramblings: Here's to family gatherings in whatever shape they take. Let's hold our glasses high to the mentors that influence us - even when we are blinded by their magical shaping methods.

Shipwrecked Hike

Trying some trail out of Santa Monica can be challenging. Santa Monica has great trails with ocean views. On Saturday, Josh and I went to Palos Verdes to try out "Shipwreck Trail." It was a good one in the sense that you actually arrive at a destination. Um...more on that later.

There are a lot of "forts and shelters" along the coast. My guess is that teens booze and smoke in these "secret club houses." We found treasures along the way - shells, lounge chairs, umbrellas, and oh yes, a pair of well-shaken maracas!

This Tourist's Got Style

My dear friend Gretchen and her husband Henry came to Venice for the day. Gretchen and I met in NYC years ago - sometime around 2000. We were little city mice in our early twenties. We had a few things in common - like boyfriends who smoked and wore concert T-shirts, flaunting their loyalties to Guns N' Roses and Iron Maiden. We would go to "Happy Hours" at Tortilla Flats, Bar and Books, the Turkey's Nest and the Cowgirl Cafe to talk about family, our futures or our next big move. Eventually, Gretchen and I both returned to college - to Hunter College. She became a librarian, and I found myself wearing a crisp white nursing uniform.
We have both left NYC and our lives as bartenders. We both made the treks across country to witness each other get married. Now, Gretchen has an adorable baby boy.

It was such a treat to spend a day with her family in Santa Monica. I cherish the time friends spend with me in Santa Monica. It gives me a chance to be a "tourist" in my own town. Speaking of tourist's - Dom was lucky enough to get Rasta hat on Venice Beach. This baby's got style!

Give Me Five

August 5th marked our Fifth Wedding anniversary! We celebrated this weekend by going to the beach, watching our wedding for the first time on video, going to see "Crazy, Stupid Love," hiking along the coast, picnicking, and cooking some great meals. We took time out this weekend to celebrate our wedding date and the five years of marriage we have shared. (Side note: If you look real closely, you might also see two more reasons to celebrate - blue walls in the office and a completed quilt!)

Waylon's Smile

There was something so adorable about this "smile series," which I received from Katherine, Waylon's mom. I love that she was able to transport this to me within minutes! Look whose smilin' at you!

I Wanna Jam it Wid You

For the past few summers, Josh and I have been going to the Hollywood Bowl with our friends. Each summer KCRW sells tickets to their "World Concert Series." This year we have been to "Big in Japan" and "Reggae Night" It was great to see Ziggy Marley perform. I hadn't seem him play since he opened for Peter Gabriel in 1993.

We have two more concerts to go. Our section needs newcomers. Maybe next year some new friends will join us for the festivities. The Hollywood bowl is one of Los Angeles' great summer venues!

Ooh, yeah! All right!
We're jammin':
I wanna jam it wid you.
We're jammin', jammin',
And I hope you like jammin', too.

Ain't no rules, ain't no vow, we can do it anyhow:
I'n'I will see you through,
'Cos everyday we pay the price with a little sacrifice,
Jammin' till the jam is through.

We're jammin' -
To think that jammin' was a thing of the past;
We're jammin',
And I hope this jam is gonna last.

Cheers to the Adventures of Cathi and Nathan

My sister has left New York City with Annabelle and Nathan. (Actually, they left a week ago, but whose keeping track of my tardiness when it comes to blogging?) If you are interested in there latest travels, look no further than here. I have to say, Nathan and Cathi are living up to the title of her blog. Many people have commented on how brave and exciting there move to Europe is! I agree, it's an amazing journey and I am proud of them for sticking to their "plan." There's no greater feeling than executing a plan that is dear to your heart. I commend them both for getting enough momentum going to execute an exit from NYC. There were probably a thousand reasons to stay and "play it safe" in the city.

The fact that Cathi and Nathan made arrangements for their two cats and got everything in order is downright inspirational!

Before their departure, Cathi brought the cats, Bruce and Walter to Los Angeles. While here, she stayed at a beautiful resort in Palace Verdes, the Terranea Resort. My mom and I drove there to meet her for a day at the pool. It was so fun to do absolutely nothing but try out the giant water slide and enjoy mojitos by the pool. My sister wrapped up ten years with her starter company, Pureology. Congratulations Cathi! Wishing you lots of happiness and adventure with whatever you choose to do next!