The Return of Many Things...

I've been a monstrously infrequent blog writer as of late.

I’ve been sidetracked – by my move to New York, the start of a new job and, most recently, a week-long visit from Becca, all the way from Virginia. I’ve also been sidetracked (to a larger extent than I think even I knew) by my odorless state - that unassuming and constant olfactory nothingness has weighed on my mind. I've kept my love of food throughout my recovery, but have been obviously distracted in my pursuit of the culinary, so easy to shy away from without the full physical ability to taste. I've also realized that a result of stressful transitions in my life (going to college, moving to New York) is a temporarily odd reconfiguration of my appetite. My first week at Brown, for example, I had a strange and all-consuming affinity for white rice and mustard. (Weird, I know.) My first week here in the city consisted of plain burnt toast. And stress coupled with lack of smell has definitely caused me to shy away from the culinary (writing and eating) without even fully realizing it.

Luckily those days are over.

Scents have been constantly, noticeably creeping back into my olfactory consciousness. (Last night while concocting one of my favorite quinoa salads I could hardly concentrate on a story my roommate was telling; I was too enveloped in the smell of cilantro to listen, so strong and pungent to me that I could barely believe it has been almost a year since I last experienced its cool aroma.) (In fact even as I sit here now, at the computer in the tepid 90 degree summer smog of my third-floor apartment, I smell cilantro. Just thinking about last night’s smell-return brings the scent vividly back to my nose.) These vividly regained scents have rejuvenated my love of and involvement in culinary.

A month or so ago, also, I spent an intense week grappling with the direction I want to go professionally. Culinary or writing? I was offered a position as a server at Thomas Keller’s Per Se after spending an evening observing the kitchen and dining room. I can’t write much about that experience (confidentiality agreements…alas), but the temptation of spending my time in a kitchen of such jaw-dropping culinary genius and a restaurant of such beautifully choreographed eating was extremely hard to pass by. I could have, obviously, learned a lot about food there. Just in that one night I learned a great deal. But as I watched Chef Benno at work, graceful and precise, awash with the delicate color of dishes plated so artistically in front of me, I realized that as a permanent fixture at Per Se I would feel a constant sense of loss. It is an all-consuming, intense environment and I would be continually aware of the unattainable. I could see the food, but I could not wholly understand it. Not now, anyway. Instead of carting around a thick cloud of ‘what could be’ I decided to take a step back and move in a different professional direction. One involving writing, of course. More specifically - in the realm of magazine publication. For now.

And what I've found since is that the decision not to follow the official culinary route seems to have given me some kind of mental permission to enjoy food all over again. A rejuvenated sense of culinary enthusiasm. I guess it makes sense, but it has certainly surprised me. And came in perfect timing for Becca’s week-long visit. Becca shares my passion for food in a way no one else I know does and her visit was an intense, beautiful eating-fest. One that my stomach and I are still recovering from.

Before I had even decided to move here, Becca and I had already concocted a gutsy list of things and places we would eat together in the city. (We also have an ongoing list of over 100 different kinds of muffins we will create for our future joint muffin shop. Peppermint muffin? Lemon champagne? Brioche muffin with a foie gras mousse center? The mystifying golden vodka muffin? This preemptive New York eating list is not that strange in the history of our culinary tabulations.)

We did a pretty good job of hitting up the big names on our list – way too well to fully write up for one already prolific post. Just thinking of all the eating to mention is giving me a food-coma relapse. There was an evening exploring soup-dumplings in Chinatown, pizza at Otto and wine in Bryant Park, tapas (and a table next to David Lieberman) at Tia Pol, thai food, peanut butter cookies and coffee dates, biscotti and monkey cake at Amy’s Bread. We even ran into Rachael Ray and Thomas Keller at the Bouchon Bakery in Columbus Circle. The crowning moment, on which a post is soon to come, was lunch at Le Bernardin.

And on one morning while we sat at my kitchen table watching the Today Show (delightfully free of work til 2) I asked, “So what shall we do today?”

Becca looked at me, eyebrows askance.

“What I mean to say,” I quickly reworded, “is what do you want to eat today?”

She smiled and nodded emphatically: “Cupcakes.”

We operate on the same page.

After a morning of poking around the west village and participating in the (continuing) trend of averting my eyes as my bank account rapidly depletes itself ( thoughI did, on a side note, have to buy Bill Buford’s new book, Heat, about his experience in Mario Batali’s Babbo kitchen and beyond – I am seeing him talk this week; there was no choice…) we made our way to The Magnolia Bakery. Cupcakes from there have been first on our to-do list for quite some time. Perhaps that’s because of a certain TV show – but perhaps because, really, what can be happier than a fluffy, sprinkled little tower of cake?

We brought them to Washington Square Park and ate as we watched as a phalanx of tiny dogs chased each other around their owners’ legs in the nearby dog park. The vanilla cupcake was soft and simultaneously dry. But combined with the thick creaminess of the light-purple butter frosting it was textural heaven. The chocolate one was too moist for me – too liquid in its overwhelming chocolaty-ness. Strange, I know. Perhaps it was a result of the stifling heat wave that has been surrounding us, melting everything in its path. But Becca didn’t have the same problem with the chocolate, so who knows. In conclusion, cupcakes are a relaxing way to spend an afternoon. They certainly made the traipse to my office, soon after, much more bearable.

This week-long festival of eating with Becca was a fitting way to celebrate my partial return to smell and the full revival of culinary-love. The words mmmmm and delicious were probably the most commonly used between the two of us. Well, perhaps a garbled oh-my-god-I’m-so-full and the mumbled I-think-I’m-in-a-food-coma could also be thrown in the mix. It was also the first time I ate while seriously attempting to use all my senses but smell, in an intellectual manner and far away from sadness or loss. It was a week reinforcing the fact that Becca is a wonderful partner in taste and friendship alike. And a week that has provided fodder for a good deal of blog writing.

a pizza experience

Late last October my Mom and her fiancé, Charley, took me out to dinner. We went to Caffé Umbra, a fun little restaurant in the South End of Boston. It was not even two months after being hit by the car; I was dependent on crutches and a bulky knee brace and only just lucid enough, post-skull-fracture, to comprehend the significance of my injuries.

I remember feeling extremely nervous. My heart fluttered as we drove together to the restaurant. It was the first time I had done something “normal” – the first time I had ventured out into a public, social situation while injured. I was afraid that people would stare at me; I was terrified of attention. I was scared that being in a restaurant would make me sad, truly hammering in the consequences of my loss of smell. I was afraid of entering the familiar culinary environment and suddenly seeing how quantifiable the post-accident changes truly were.

Charley let my mom and me out on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant before he parked. One glance at the small, dimly lit bustle of the dining room made my stomach sink in apprehension. The tables were close together; walking with crutches would be difficult. There were lots of young professionals, fancied up in suits and dresses and sipping drinks at the bar, independent and healthy. Though shy in high school and perhaps (quite) awkward in junior high, I have not had any problems with confidence or social comfort in a long while. But hobbling through the dining room that night, my mom’s hand constantly hovering at my back, the hostess having just helped me climb out of my jacket while I balanced precariously on one leg, I could feel my self-conscious teenage angst creeping steadily out of my ears. No one really looked at me. Even if they had been, there was truly nothing to be embarrassed about. Being young and on crutches is a common occurrence. My cheeks were burning none the less.

But then we sat, my crutches nestled inconspicuously in a nearby corner. My mom and I faced Charley, our backs to the wall, with a full view of the crowded restaurant. The air was peppered with laughter, low tones of deep conversation, loud greetings and the whispered clink of forks and knives. Pomegranate martinis were placed in front of my mom and me, bright purple. I began to feel more comfortable. Charley, would of course never drink something so girlishly colorful, and his glass of Chianti tapped our sweet drinks as we smiled, cheers, happy that we could finally all be out of the house together.

I don’t remember what we ate. I can only recall the vague taste of martini -- like sugar water with a tang, any sort of nuance lost in those early stages of my olfactory regrowth. But the food itself wasn’t the important part. As we sat and talked, eating and drinking our way through a few hours of the evening, my awkward self-consciousness melted away. Perhaps because of the strength of thesaid martinis, yes. But also because, after those few initially awkward moments, I was finally able to look beyond my fear of injury and change. And I remembered that I love all things culinary for a reason -- a reason beyond the subtleties of flavor. Beyond qualifications of the chef and quality of ingredients. Food brings people together – the obvious happiness of those in the restaurant, patrons leaning cheerfully over their plates, sharing bites, laughing into delicate glasses of wine. People dressed nicely, together, bonding over the shared experience of a meal. I had fun for the first time in months that night. My mouth muscles, the ones used for smiling, reasserted themselves back into my physical repertoire.

Recently I’ve been sad about my less-than-full ability to taste. I’m at a plateau, recovery-wise. Completely healed, it is only the lack of smell that lingers in this tumultuous year of change. I’ve been struggling with what I want to be doing with myself and my writing. I’m in a rather constant state of confusion. But I’ve realized that the confusion may not dissipate for a while. And in coming to terms with that, I am now more fully aware of the other things, many other things, that there are to concentrate on. I’ve been happily reminding myself, now that I’m feeling more settled in my new home, why I love the culinary. Taste was a part of my kitchen-love, of course. But certainly not the only part. It’s a matter of exploration and fun. The way food brings us together and inspires universal pleasure.

For example, one night this week my friend Colin and I took a romp from our Park Slope stomping grounds deeper into the realm of Brooklyn. We were on a quest for pizza. The best pizza. Di Fara’s Pizza. And fresh off the Avenue J stop off the Q train, I found myself turning in circles searching for some visual confirmation of the well-lauded pizzeria. Perhaps I expected some kind of spotlight, bright neon sign – fireworks? Singing elves? Something to loudly advertise the amount of wonderful hype I’ve been hearing about this little nook-ish restaurant. I saw only a calm, quiet neighborhood; there was nothing out of the ordinary. I was ready to pull out all my pizza-radar equipment (though, in reality what that involves I have no idea – maybe some kind of magic wand slash scuba diving mask) – when I noticed Colin staring at me, eyebrows raised.

“It’s right here, Molly.”

“Oh. Right.” I looked up, right in front of us, and saw the simple faded sign. Di Fara’s Pizza.

Di Fara’s is contained in a small, bright little room – a tall counter separates the few tables from the oven area. Domenico DeMarco, a slight, older man with gray hair and a green plaid button-down shirt, lorded unassumingly over the pizza dough and the ovens. He wore an apron and exuded an aura of calm. His slow movements were deliberate, delicate and perfectly executed. A light rhythm of guitar chimed in the background, twinkling of old school Italian. The walls were covered with articles about his pizza.

Colin and I watched Mr. DeMarco work (after ordering our cheese pie) as we sat at a small corner table. One pizza at a time; there is nothing fast involved in this food. It deliciously slow. Colin and I had stopped by a neighboring convenience store and had crisp, cold beers to entertain us as we waited. Still in their paper bags, we drank them with straws (Yes the straws were a strange twist, I know. But somehow that straw turned it into the perfect pizza-beer. More perfect than a normal pizza-beer. Don’t ask questions, just believe me.)


Our pizza came to us, an hour later, piping hot, thin crusted with twinges of burnt crispiness on the edges. Bubbling melted mozzarella di bufala over the thick red sauce (homemade multiple times daily, I hear). We watched – Colin practically clapping his hands, seal-like, in pizza-glee – as Mr. DeMarco drizzled olive oil and carefully snipped the leaves off a fresh bunch of basil over the pie, finishing it off with a smattering of hand-ground Grana Padano cheese to sprinkle over. We ate until it felt like death was knocking at the door – the pizza slices fairly melted down my throat. The Di Fara pain is a good one though. As pleasant as an over-eating pain could possibly be.

It’s true that I can’t taste every aspect of this pizza (or any food) fully and completely without smell. But that isn’t the draw of this experience, even. It is the feeling of a lovingly made pizza practically dancing in your mouth, soft and crunchy, salty and sweet. It is the olive oil dribbling down the corner of your mouth (“Now that’s cute, Molly,” said Colin, “beer with a straw and oil dripping down your chin. Classy.”) It’s the adventure of a new neighborhood, new food and new friends.

We slunched ourselves, full to the brim, to the subway for our ride back home. [‘Slunched’ isn’t a word, I know; but I do feel it accurately portrays our state of being at that moment. You can’t just ‘slump’ if you are that full.] Colin was cold, an unusual occurrence for him, and I made the astute observation that all the blood generally keeping him warm was in his belly, working on the pizza. I suppose that if instead of on the subway on a warm spring night we were somewhere out in the unprotected open wilderness in the middle of winter for a long time, this pizza-induced-cold might have been dangerous. But what I really think is that the human body does have its priorities straight. If I had to choose between basic body function (such as temperature control) and an evening of Di Fara’s pizza – I would probably choose pizza. That’s why they invented the jacket.

another beginning

It has been eight months since I lost my sense of smell.

There are certainly moments when I am positive it will never come back. My olfactory neurons seem to aggressively advertise their stagnant growth with silence.

I can clearly imagine myself at eighty-five, stooped and wrinkled, hair white as snow, baking cookies with my young granddaughter. Right before we take them out of the oven - golden brown, glistening pools of melted chocolate – I’ll lean towards the small girl and say in my creaky old voice, “When I was a little girl, about your age, the smell of baking cookies was my favorite. It always reminded me of Christmas; it smelled like school vacation. I can only imagine it now.” I will have a far-off, nostalgic gleam in my eye. And the little girl will just smile at me, confused, her batty old grandmother.

The fact that I actually do imagine myself (with vivid dexterity) as a gray-haired grandmother is slightly disturbing. So is my apparent penchant for wild exaggeration. Because the truth of the matter, when I take a small step back and view my sense of smell with a hint of reality, is that things are getting better. Slowly, almost so sluggishly it is impossible to tell if I am hallucinating.

I got a whiff of Spring the other day. I walked outside of my apartment building and most decidedly, concretely, could smell Spring. I couldn’t put my finger on any of the scent-details that were once so familiar - the freshly cut grass, perfumed budding flowers, a sweet warmth in the breeze – but I knew they were there, hiding under the inexperience of my regenerating olfactory neurons. The strength and depth of smell is not there; it was a simple baseline of Spring. But it was something, something concrete.

Beyond the distinctively sharp, recognizable scents I have had back for a while (chocolate, cinnamon, citrus, laundry, herbs, wine), I am now gaining a general sense of “scent.” Unknown and indescribable. But, I think, infinitely more hopeful. Even lacking the subtleties and nuance that give scent a name – there are smells, constantly. I find myself walking into a room and with a slam, my nose registers something. Something indefinable and weak. But it is something. I will say, confused, “What does it smell like in here?” And whomever I am with often looks equally confused, sniffing, and says ‘I don’t know… nothing much.”

I had almost forgotten that there is scent everywhere. It is easy to forget the universality and continuance of smell when you have it. The subtleties are so common they are literally unnoticeable. Every room, everywhere, has an individual smell. Temperature, too; warm has a smell, as well as cold and wet. Their baseline scents are different than their physical feeling. And the difficult thing for me at the moment is that I don’t have the words to describe them. They are registering in my nose with such a weak hum that it is more of a feeling, an idea, than a smell. But at the same time, I know that it is the beginning step to a full scent palate.

The only way I can describe these new delicate smell-ideas is to say that they make me feel alive. It is surprising how quickly I forgot that these universal scents ever existed, as I myself have existed in an odorless world. But the memory, however feeble the actual smells coming back, gives me the momentum to step out of black and white and into a world of color. Or at least sepia toned. Small steps, moving in the right direction. There are hints of a newfound vibrancy lurking everywhere.

***

On another note, it has been one year today since I began writing My Madeleine. The past year has been the most difficult and, simultaneously (the realization has been slowly dawning on me, though, I suppose that is another story in itself) the most beautiful of my life. I am very happy to have documented a great deal of the change here; the process of writing through it all has helped me in an infinite number of ways. So thank you, all, for reading.

a brief return to boston

On Thursday morning I lugged my huge suitcase down the two flights of stairs from my apartment to the sidewalk. With each lopsided step the suitcase bounced against my leg; it was a fight to keep from falling face first down the stairs. Coupled with the gigantic backpack I had somehow managed to stuff with every possible item under the sun (did I really need 6 different books for my four days in Boston?) my balance was widely off-kilter. Once on the ground I rolled the case behind me as I walked to the subway, leading like a tugboat of sorts, silently berating myself for agreeing to deliver this monstrous suitcase to my mother in Boston. She is going to London; she likes to pack a lot. By the time I awkwardly bounced myself down onto the F train, up the stairs at East Broadway, and down the few blocks of Canal Street to the friendly “Fung Wah Bus Station,” I was covered in sweat. After hectically throwing my money ($15.75; best deal ever) in the tiny glass window to get my ticket stub (handwritten on a scrap of paper) I lofted my suitcase (with a combination of arm raising, back bending and a few aggressive karate kicks) onto the luggage platform of the bus and collapsed into my seat, hot, sweaty and tired. I promptly fell asleep, wading through hazy dreams of subway trains somehow supplanted into the office of the magazine I am currently working for alongside some spinning cherry trees in full blossom, an old friend from elementary school and a series of shooting firecrackers launched from a rooftop. Strange dreams; I’ll blame it on the loads of allergy medication I need to take this time of year in order not to sneeze my nose off. I woke up when we reached South Station in Boston somewhat disoriented, but happy to be back, however briefly, in such a familiar land.

My mom and I walked to a local French bistro that night and had a glass of wine (or two) together while we ate fresh pea soup, vibrantly green with a pool of white crème fraiche in its center, grilled calamari and spicy chorizo. We talked about a lot of things: my new life in New York, hers continuing in Boston, future trips, plans, the excitement of my little (well not so little; 6’3 varsity lacrosse playing) brother spending the summer in NYC as well. And simply the strangeness of finding myself back in Boston, even if for only a few days, after my first two months in New York. I am beginning to feel comfortable in Brooklyn – like I live there and it may possibly one day be called ‘home’. In Boston it seems as if in every corner there lurks a ghost of my former, injured self. Driving to the grocery store there is a girl on crutches sitting in the passenger seat next to me; she winces whenever we go over a bump. Riding the T I brush hands with my shrunken self, the one wearing a large black knee brace, as we simultaneously grab the handrail. The kitchen reverberates with the sound of my cane and when I walk into my bedroom I leave behind a woman who is not able to climb the stairs to reach it. It’s amazing what only two months away can do to change your mindset. New York is good for me. It is wonderful, however, to be back at home for a weekend and see my family.

And Friday night I again took the helm of the kitchen and cooked dinner for my mom and her boyfriend Charley. I think they miss having an enthusiastic personal chef around the house; I certainly miss their standing mixer and Cuisinart (maybe them, too). I made a simple meal from the Balthazar Cookbook: mustard glazed salmon and earthy lentils, roasted asparagus with parmesan and a toasted vanilla pound cake with strawberries. It was very spring, fitting well alongside the yellow daffodils winking through the kitchen window. And comforting – to cook, to eat, to be back home, and to know how far I’ve come.

Mustard-Crusted Salmon
Adapted from the Balthazar Cookbook

6 salmon fillets
1 ½ tsp salt
½ tsp black pepper
¼ cup Dijon mustard
6 tsp dry bread crumbs
2 tbs vegetable oil

-preheat oven to 500
-season salmon with salt and pepper. On top, spread 2 tsp of mustard and a sprinkling of bread crumbs. Press the crumbs into the mustard with your fingers.
-heat oil in large sauté pan, when it begins to smoke, add the salmon, mustard side down and lower the flame to medium. Sear for 2 minutes, until there is a crust. Flip for one minute and then transfer the pan into the oven to finish cooking for 3 minutes.
-Plate on top of the lentils

Lentils:
Adapted from the Balthazar Cookbook

1 cup green lentils
2 slices diced bacon
4 sprigs thyme
½ medium onion, diced
1 minced garlic clove
1 tsp salt
2 tbs unsalted butter
1 medium carrot, diced
1 celery stalk, diced
¼ tsp white pepper.

-rinse the lentils in cold water and drain. Put them in a sauce pan with 4 cups of water and bring to a boil. Simmer for 20 minutes.
-meanwhile in another saucepan, sauté the bacon and thyme for two minutes. Add the garlic, onion and salt and sauté 5 minutes. Add butter, carrot, celery, white pepper and one cup of water and boil five minutes.
-drain lentils and then put them back in their pot. Add the vegetable mixture and simmer 10 minutes. Serve under the salmon.

Roasted Asparagus with Parmesan:

Asparagus
Olive oil
Salt and pepper
Handful of parmesan cheese

-preheat oven to 500.
-toss asparagus with olive oil, salt and pepper.
-roast 7 – 10 minutes, until fork tender.
-throw the parmesan on top, while hot, and serve.

The State of the Fava

For those on the shipping and receiving crew, there are boxes to unpack in the produce area.

The omnipotent intercom-voice directed; I obeyed. It was my first shift as a working member of my local Food Coop.

I unpacked and organized boxes of bright oranges, radishes, banded bunches of asparagus, a vivid color differentiation of beets, soft loaves of bread, multitudinous buckets of cottage cheese and yogurt. I swept up the remains of spilled farro wheat, rolled oats, and red lentils. I stood on a little step stool in order to crane my too-short body over the edge of the top shelf to rearrange more packages of rice cakes than I ever knew existed.

Are there any workers in the shipping and receiving crew who feel comfortable handling raw meat? Calling all non-vegetarians; we need meat handlers.

In the apparent dearth of carnivorous coop members, I had the opportunity to spend a long time unpacking cool chicken carcasses wrapped in plastic. Thighs, drums, legs, breasts; I organized all organic body parts with my small band of fellow meat-eaters. Grass-fed beef steaks, short ribs, stew meat. Racks of lamb. Pouisson. Tiny capons. Pates and smoked delicacies. Duck and Turkey. A ready phalanx of diverse and organic meat showered itself into the shelves as we organized. I entertained myself thinking on the deliciously endless cooking possibilities.

The hours of menial labor were pretty boring. But worthwhile, certainly. I am happy to have a nearby organization of people who care about the quality and diversity of their food. I am delighted to have things like Meyer lemons and blood oranges available at an affordable price [especially since it seems that I have zero grocery store self control]. And not only has it inspired a few interesting new acquaintances [how many Passover Seders can a girl actually go to?], but has also given me a root-like sense of community, important in this new city.

At one point in my shift, as I waded through the swamp of vegetable containers in the produce arena, my gloved hands ripped open a damp cardboard box. The contents were covered in a sheet of white paper; I could see a hint of green in leafy protrusions on the side. But it wasn’t until I crinkled and tossed the paper into the nearby trash that I fully realized what, in fact, I was dealing with. Fresh fava beans. Bright green, slightly fuzzy. I hadn’t realized they were yet in season; the large pods contain the delectable crunch of spring.

As I tossed the beans into the bins in the produce section of the Coop I was immediately back in The Restaurant. It has been almost a year since I worked as a dishwasher at the intense Boston bistro in a (sadly, aborted) attempt to work my way up the line of the culinary world. On one of my first nights working in the kitchen, I was thrown in front of a monstrous pile of fresh fava beans. I had never seen them in this unpeeled state before. My co-dishwasher S. and I spent a few bonding hours together as we pierced open the thick outer pod and freed each light green bean with our fore-fingers, tossing the edible nubbins into a metal dish.

No matter what the exact hour, as I peeled those favas for the first time I was most likely covered in chicken stock, my white staff shirt stained with beet juice and a smidgen of chocolate, my hair a detached frizzy mess on top of my sweating head. That was my usual state of things. I did not yet have such an extensive knowledge of kitchen-Spanish and probably mumbled in an odd mix of Italian and English as I attempted to converse with S. I vividly remember, however, looking at the piles of bright empty pods and bowls of fresh cleaned beans. I wondered how they were cooked, how they tasted, and how The Chef would use them. I imagined the smiles of the eager restaurant patrons as they drank in the sight of the vibrant green favas with their eyes, their steaming plates set carefully in front of them. We did that kind of prep right before the first big wave of dirty dishes of the night; I remember feeling very happy.

I bought my own little bag of fresh fava beans before leaving the Coop on Saturday. And last night I peeled them while sipping a glass of red wine, relaxed and chatting with my apartment-mate. I worked slowly, relishing the crunch of the open pod, the delicate color of the inner bean. I blanched them in a pod of salted water and then quickly slipped them out of their outer membranes. In a salad of plump farro wheat, fresh cherry tomatoes and arugula, dressed simply with olive oil, red wine vinegar and salt and pepper, the fava beans were a bright addition.

The fava beans were a vivid reminder of where I was a year ago and simultaneously a token of where I am now. No longer am I entrenched in the culinary world; I am finding my way in the confusing mash of NY. I’ve been sad, these days, as I watch my life continue in a path that veers farther and farther from my original culinary plans. My days (however short) as a dishwasher were a concrete jump into a passion and now seem very far removed from my current existence. Today I am not ‘sure’ of anything, really. I’m having trouble thinking of a job that I really want. The majority of my physical body has recovered from the accident. I can walk comfortably with both legs. Run, even. (Well, nothing close to a sprint. But jog a bit when I’m running really late). I can sit cross legged and can again do a mean yogic backbend. The only lingering losses from the accident almost 8 months ago are my sense of smell and my professional convictions. And I miss them. A lot.

On the Birthday of a Dear Friend

It was a cool October evening, a whiff of rain lurking somewhere in the humid overtones of the night air. Adrienne’s brown hair whipped up in the frenzy of a sudden gust of wind while my raincoat ballooned out into a cape of gortex as we quickly moved down the marbled cobblestone street of a small Italian town, somewhere near the coast of Capri. I clutched my shoulder bag close to my body, checking the dark sky for signs of clouds obscuring the stars, impending precipitation. Lights were twinkling in the noisy trattorias and cozy cafes we passed as we walked; bearded Italian men and women, bronzed to European perfection, strolled nearby, tossing the light cadence of their language into our ears.

We landed at our destination, smiling – a single bench perched on a small hill. In a calm little park overlooking the cool flapping water of the Tyrrhenian Sea, Adrienne and I sat together, comfortable despite the hard wood seat. We opened my roomy bag and pulled out the bottle of rich red wine, two plastic cups and a bottle opener, a loaf of crusty white bread, hunks of white flaky cheese and mounds of fresh green grapes. Bright juicy tomatoes. We clinked our glasses in the cheers of happy travelers and attacked our wandering picnic fare with the same gusto that we often shared in those months of studying and traveling abroad. As the evening went along, always with the sound of soft waves breaking close-by, we ate, drank, and talked with the serious ease of comfortable companionship.

That autumn semester Adrienne and I lived in the same apartment, studying art history in Florence and exploring the Italian countryside in unison. It was a world deliciously far from the usual large lecture halls and musty libraries of our home university. Adrienne and I had not known each other in our first few college years, but when thrown serendipitously together in Italy we immediately found that we were kindred spirits. We hiked throughout all of Italy, picnicked at Pompeii, rode trains with large contingents of singing Italian soldiers, hitchhiked through a fit of giggles when we found ourselves stranded in a remote corner of the Tuscan countryside. Perfectly situated in our apartment right down the street from Florence’s Mercato Centrale, we cooked dinner together every night; Adrienne’s infectious laugh was always a delightful companion.

I don’t, actually, know what I would have done without her. I had arrived to begin my semester in Italy only a week after returning from Namibia, Africa. I had spent the previous three months as a volunteer English teacher in Katima Mulilo, a remote village on the Caprivi Strip. Coming from that intense experience of pervasive poverty, encroaching disease and little hope, Italy was a blaring shock to my senses. I was overwhelmed, to say the least. My post-Africa anxiety, I soon found, was all-encompassing. I felt guilty for who I had left behind; hesitant and wary of the unmitigated pleasures of my current situation.

On that cool and humid night near the ocean of Capri, one month into my Italian life, Adrienne listened as I talked about my experience in Namibia. It was the first time I had been able to verbalized what I was feeling. My fears, guilt, sadness over leaving the troubled African village to which I had grown so close. She listened that night; she listened consistently, continually, beautifully as I worked my way through all of the difficult emotions in the coming months, painful feelings I was not even aware I harbored until Adrienne’s gentle support allowed me to explore myself more deeply. Hours of involved conversation later, peppered, of course, with a plethora of fresh picnic food, we felt the sharp splash of rain drops landing on our cheeks as we looked up at the dark sky. A bright red umbrella magically appeared in Adrienne’s hand. Arms around each other and laughing with unabashed giddiness, suddenly free of tension and fear, we skipped up the hill back towards the hostel we were bunking in that night. Dark figures awash with the pattering of laughter, lost under a vibrant red umbrella.

***

On Saturday night Adrienne arrived at my apartment, a short ten blocks from her own, glowing in a bright flowered dress, funky cowboy boots. Her laugh, infectious as always, filled the room. Joined by other familiar college faces, we celebrated her birthday with a vivacious eating-fest.

For my first foray into ‘serious’ cooking since my move to New York, I indulged the vegetarian in all of us (though mainly our anti-meat friend, Grace) and made quinoa (one of my favorite things) with Moroccan winter squash and carrot stew, pomodori ripieni (roasted tomatoes stuffed with bread and cheese), and a voluptuous dark chocolate cake. The meal was warm and colorful. The smell of the chocolate cake as it baked lingered happily in my nose all evening. It was comforting and homey, fitting fare to celebrate the birthday of a wonderful friend.


We all gathered together on the rooftop of my apartment toward the later hours of the night, clinking glasses of wine and gazing at the sparkly view of Manhattan. Though nowhere near Italy and far from picnics of bread, cheese and grapes, when we stood there on the roof, none-the-less, I could almost hear the lapping ocean waves. Or maybe that was just the wine.


Happy Birthday Adrienne!


Quinoa with Moroccan Winter Squash and Carrot Stew
Adapted from Epicurious

Stew
2 tablespoons olive oil
2 onions, chopped
3 minced garlic cloves
1 tsp salt
1/2 tsp ground black pepper
1/2 tsp ground coriander
1/2 tsp ground cumin
1/2 tsp turmeric
1/2 tsp ground ginger
1/2 tsp cayenne pepper
Pinch of saffron
1 cup water
1 can diced tomatoes
2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
1 medium sized butternut squash, peeled, cut into 1-inch cubes 2 cups peeled and cubed carrots

Quinoa
1 cup quinoa
2 tablespoons olive oil
1/2 cup finely chopped onion
1/4 cup finely chopped peeled carrot
2 garlic cloves, minced
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon turmeric
2 cups water

1/2 cup chopped fresh cilantro, divided
For stew:
Heat oil in large saucepan over medium heat. Add onion; sauté until soft, stirring often, about 5 minutes. Add garlic; stir 1 minute. Mix in next 8 ingredients. Add 1 cup water, tomatoes, and lemon juice. Bring to boil. Add squash and carrots. Cover and simmer over medium-low heat. I let it simmer for almost an hour; the vegetables were soft and tender, a wonderful consistency. Season with salt and pepper.

For quinoa:
Rinse quinoa; drain. Sauté onion and carrot in the olive oil in a large saucepan over medium heat, about 10 minutes, until beginning to brown. Add garlic, salt, and turmeric and sauté 1 minute. Add quinoa; stir 1 minute. Add 2 cups water. Bring to boil; reduce heat to medium-low. Cover; simmer until liquid is absorbed and quinoa is tender, about 15 minutes.

Stir in half of cilantro to the stew. Serve with quinoa and more cilantro sprinkled on top.

A Close Encounter

I ran to the row of bright yellow machines perched in a dark corner of the subway station last night, credit card in hand, bouncing with awkwardly spaced skips through the crowded muddle of people. I was attempting to buy a metro card with unflappingly focused speed before the F train blew in on the track below me. I had just finished an educational but intensely busy day interning at an art magazine. It was late and I was so hungry that the thought of eating even my own arm was somewhat appealing. Unfortunately (fortunately?) I had on a bulky jacket and I could not reach the tender arm-flesh through my layers of winter cloth.

I made a beeline to the first ticket machine available in the row, sidestepping around a woman in a large, fuzzy black coat. She was grabbing her own yellow ticket out of the dispenser and turning quickly around in a jump to her own train; we could hear it vibrating on the track down below. I moved quickly aside, unreasonably annoyed that her physical presence could dare to possibly be in my way. I looked at her, radiating a frustrated vibe of overtired grumpiness (in what I like to imagine is a magnificently wilting, terrifying gaze) but immediately recoiled in surprise. I recognized this woman. It was Sara Moulton, executive chef of Gourmet Magazine and star of her Food Network show “Sara’s Secrets”.

In my post-accident, pre-New York and unemployed series of states, I have spent many an hour watching her on TV as she tames the seeming complexities of risotto or beef bourguignon. She has always struck me as a deliciously real person; never with the narcissistic, showy makings of a ‘celebrity chef’. Someone I could relate to as well as respect. Granted, I don’t think I’ve ever attempted one of her Food Network recipes myself, but those in Gourmet Magazine have been often well used and received. Instead of a manic recipe guru and larger-than-life cooking fiend (as I may or may not categorize other well-known chefs) I think I have viewed her more as (dare I say it?) a friend.

And so I was somewhat shocked last night when I found myself attempting to kill Sara Moulton with the death-rays of my gaze. She hardly even glanced at me, though, and certainly did not consciously register my presence. She ran quickly off to her train. We can all breath a sigh of relief; I didn’t kill Sara Moulton. I didn’t eat my own arm either. Overall, it was a largely productive evening.

Familiar Smells

In a free afternoon last week I went to The Strand Bookstore, a beautifully large mess of books – new, old, a smattering of favorites and deliciously intriguing new reads. I wandered, browsing for a long time. Surrounded by books, the infinite possibilities of prose and poem, I am in my favorite state of being. Libraries and bookstores are my havens of comfort and stability. Even my room has an obscene number of books stacked in all corners, spilling over in large flows from my bookcase. Especially in times like today, when the concreteness of my own life is awash with confusion and ungrounded future, promise of the other worlds housed in literature beckons unavoidably. The Strand boasts to have “18 miles of books”; and I didn’t doubt it while perusing their crowded floor to ceiling shelves, cases, tables, nooks and crannies. It was the perfect place to go after a stressful job interview.

In the extensive time that I spent browsing there, I realized that there was something missing. Something I had not yet thought of yet all of sudden felt very acutely. I miss the smell of books. The musty aromas of old novels have always hinted of past people, places, and untold stories; the possibilities of getting lost in a book for me are intrinsically tied to a scent. A combination of sharp paper, clean ink, clouded leather and mildewed pages – an odor so easily imagined yet now quite unobtainable. I felt strangely dissociated in such a richly supplied arena of past and present, leather binding and rippled paperback, without that familiar scent. It was as if a part of the experience was missing; the striking odor of “bookstore” is one I had forgotten means so much to me.

The minor depression of the scentless bookstore didn’t stop me, of course, from buying more books than I will be able to read in the anywhere near future. When I emerged from the store my bag was noticeably heavier. It was warm outside, sunny and hinting of the immediacy of Spring. I walked to nearby Union Square and wandered through the spattering of farmers market stalls set up in the late afternoon breeze. When I saw a woman surrounded by small pots of herbs and flowers on the tables under her white tent, I knew what I needed to erase the odorless bookstore from my presently troubled musings. I bought myself a tiny rosemary plant, slightly off kilter and snaking up in an arch around the side of its plastic pot, small and musky green. I sat with it on my lap on the subway, heading over the bridge back towards Brooklyn. I rubbed its small leaves gently with my thumb and forefinger and sniffed, my nose touching the felty stem. Its deep, resounding herb scent crept deliciously up through the connections of my still functioning olfactory neurons.

The little rosemary plant is living on my kitchen table for the moment, situated in perfect view as I sip my morning coffee and read one of the million books I have piled up on my bedroom floor.

The Best Possible Nourishment for a Girl with Largely Impaired Olfactory Neurons: A Perfect Combination of Taste, Texture, and Discernible Scent

The Independent Food Festival and Awards, hosted by TasteEverything.org

As I have written before, the loss of my sense of smell affects my taste. The soft subtleties of flavor so imbedded in every eating experience are often lost to my largely scentless palate. My olfactory neurons have been working diligently since the accident; certain scents have been returning. And as a result, my eating habits have changed, focusing ever so much more on what I can taste. I would bath in salsa if that wouldn’t be gross; the feeling of spicy is wonderful in the muted field of my mouth. Anything with rosemary, thyme or citrus. Coffee, cinnamon and wine. (Yes, my brain seems to have its priorities straight. It knows what’s important to restore). I can smell soap, shampoo and laundry; I would probably eat them too if that didn’t mean a slow and uncomfortable death. The most important, however, is my reestablished ability to smell chocolate. Without smell, chocolate is nothing more than a texture, the true flavor floating off into the netherworld of damaged neurons. Though it is not any huge lifestyle change for me to eat a healthy daily dose of chocolate, its consistently whole flavor means all that much more now.

I don’t think there could be a more perfect scent to have remained intact. I just moved to NYC. I am confused about my future. I’m starting some temporary waitress work today and the heating system is all out of whack in my apartment. If there were ever a time for chocolate, it is now. Luckily, I have discovered the perfect bar of chocolate. And, believe me, I have done some extensive chocolate tasting in the last few months. Not only is it delicious, interesting, and made by a company that values fine ingredients and inventing creative new taste combinations, but it is artfully constructed with components that sing magnificently well for those who cannot smell.

Vosges Haut Chocolate’s ‘Barcelona Bar’; hickory smoked almonds, fleur de sel gray sea salt, and dark milk chocolate.

The sea salt is imbedded in careful, subtle yet tasteful discretion throughout the chocolate. Without smell, taste buds in general have full ability to register ‘salty’ ‘sweet’ ‘bitter’ and ‘sour’. The salt cuts through the already sweet, slightly bitter overtones of the chocolate. There hickory smoked almonds, small bits, are scattered throughout, providing perfect texture. In the midst of the soft melt of the chocolate, there are the satisfying crunches spread in each bite. Salty crunches, excommunicating any feeling of boredom some less thoughtful chocolate bars may have the tendency to inspire. It is an excellent quality dark milk chocolate, not too sweet, not too hard or soft. It melts quietly on the tongue. At least twice, more likely thrice or more times in any given day, I reach for a small square of the Barcelona Bar. I seem to consistently have one stored in my pocketbook, always there when just a little shot of deep, rich sweetness will get me by. And not just any dark, rich sweetness; it is one that caters to best of every viable taste and smell I still have intact. It is a solid bar of perfection. And in honor of the 2006 Independent Food Festival, I name the Vosges ‘Barcelona Bar’ the Best Possible Nourishment for a Girl with Largely Impaired Olfactory Neurons: A Perfect Combination of Taste, Texture, and Discernible Scent.

A Playground of Sorts

My feet skid on the thin crust of sidewalk ice as I walk briskly to a nearby café; the cold morning air bites my cheeks. My breath forms clouds of mist as I exhale. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a hazy reflection of myself (flash of green coat, purple hat) in the shining front glass of a used book store. The dark window of a butcher’s shop hints of hanging cured meats, salty jars of olives. An elderly woman decked out in fur leads a tiny, delicate lapdog on a bright pink leash as she crosses the street, a newspaper tucked under her arm. Cars honk; a bus rushes by in a jittery haze of exhaust. The sky is blue and the sun gleams off car roofs. The café is a few blocks away from my new apartment. I arrive in a warm rush of heat, the familiar rhythm of Nick Drake humming in the background.

I sit in a cozy window seat, a mug of tea steaming next to my computer. A young hipster in her funky vintage wear is to one side; an older, gray haired man to the other, dark bulky glasses perch on his thin nose. My table moves in miniscule rocks as I change position; the legs are not quite even. I read over what I’ve typed and sigh. Detailed descriptions jump to my fingertips unbidden these days, a bubbling fountain of adjectival observation. It’s been difficult to push myself away from it in the last week; perhaps it is my attempt to feel at home.

I have officially moved out of Boston, away from the lengthy convalescent baggage of my accident. I now inhabit a small, often sunny, sometimes freezing little apartment on the top floor of a creaky old brownstone in Brooklyn. And I find myself constantly, keenly observing what is around me. [This morning I carefully noticed that the burnished cream radiator next to my bed stands at a slightly defiant angle; its bulk protests the small grains of chipping paint, the unattainable brush of morning light, the red wall screaming behind its back.] I am decidedly overwhelmed by this move; in hopes of making some sense of the transition I give full concentration to my immediate surroundings.

A little girl, her straight brown hair tied in floppy pigtails, hops on one foot by my table. Her pink corduroy dress bounces around the white socks at her ankles with each bounding leap. She seems determined to land in the center of each large square tile on the floor of the café. She frantically hurries her movements as her mother calls her name sternly. This isn’t a playground! I smile to myself behind the screen of my laptop. A large part of me would like to get up and join the cheerfully hopping girl, holding her hand and giggling as we pounce all over the coffee shop in carefree abandon. This is the part of me that also thinks spending every day from now to eternity at the MET, blissfully ignoring the pressing matter of unemployment, is a wonderful idea. It’s the one that feels blindsided by my jump to the Real World, a currently planless New York existence. But with the endless number of possibilities this city offers, I can appease all of my parts and look at it as a playground of sorts. It’s different than the tiles on the café floor, but still with plenty of room for hopping about.

I stand to pack up my things; it is time to meet a friend for lunch.

The Art of a Deep Fried Pink Unicorn

My grandfather sat next to me on the worn blue couch, streaky afternoon light streaming in through the glass porch doors nearby. As he lowered himself down on the cushion, I heard the squeak of the metal springs deep within the familiar settling fabric beneath us. I felt his weight sink into the couch, causing an indentation that elevated me to a small, left-handed tilt. Sitting at that angle, I was high enough to see the top of my grandfather’s bald head. There was a small red freckle right on the crown of his skull; his thick rimmed glasses bore down on the curve of his ear. I was befuddled by his nose; it seemed its roundness, a strikingly human piece of a clown, was physically impossible in its perfect circularity. The room smelled like brisket, the same rich odors always wafting around the house when I came to visit, no matter the time of day. My grandfather sighed as he relaxed there next to me, straightening out his arthritic knees. I sighed, imitation in a higher key, stretching out my own little legs which barely reached out over the couch cushion. He smiled at me, casually patting my head, playfully tossing the protrusion of red ringlets held in the stylish side ponytail my mom had fashioned that morning. My OshKosh B’gosh overalls were bulkily hinged at the shoulders. I stared hungrily at the pile of pale white paper resting his arms, balanced on the tall side of his big belly.

Well, what’ll you have today Molly?

I clapped my hands in excitement. Um, can I have a unicorn? A unicorn with wings?

Well, of course. Nothing else?

A castle? A big castle with a palm tree in it?

A palm tree in the castle. No problem, kiddo.

And I crouched on my knees, my legs buried in the flimsy couch cushion, my head hovering over the paper in front of my grandpa. He wielded his pencil like it was built into his hand, confident strokes and quickly moving gestures. He created pictures with a reality that blew my little 6-year-old mind. The unicorn, I was sure, would hop right off the page and fly out into the late afternoon haze of that suburban estate. I watched in awe as he gracefully created a land of magical animals, a castle of architectural wonder. When he finished the drawing, he handed the page over to me attached to a clipboard. He opened a small sack of colored pencils that had been hidden from view behind his girth. Now it’s your turn, he said.

I spent hours at a time coloring in the sketched outlines my grandfather drew for me when I visited my grandparents throughout my childhood. The drawings transported me to another world; a gleeful one of pink ponies and purple castles. My grandfather was an artist his entire life. His little studio was connected to the living room, always filled with canvases swathed in oil paints, brightly depicted farms and deeply wrinkled portraits. In his own youth he gave up a career as an aspiring cartoon artist to go into the oil business and support his growing family. I think that was something he always regretted.

The genes of artistic vision, however, blossomed within his family. My Aunt Terry and Cousin David both went to RISD to pursue painting and design; my Aunt Pat is a high school art teacher. My grandfather himself still paints, arthritis making him switch to the relative comfort of digital art, deep into his 80s. He did his best to inspire the art within me; throughout my entire childhood he mailed me drawings, complete with fully illustrated envelopes, to help pass the time until I could return to upstate New York and draw with him, perched on the faded blue couch.

Beyond my forays into the world of pink unicorns, I am today sadly artistically stunted. Despite all that practice with my grandfather, I have yet to express the dominant art gene that should really be apparent in my genetic makeup. I have dappled in painting, pastel and pottery. My most successful foray into the art world was a drawing class I took while at Brown. My nude figure drawings tended to look more like glitched robots than anything near human; I didn’t last more than a semester.

I do, however, have one artistic medium in which I consider myself quite skilled. I am an expert Holiday Card Artist. I have the magical ability to make the most playfully beautiful block lettering, oozing with color and form. The cards are peppered with small, evocative sketches. They contain short but inspired literary messages, whether birthday poems or Hanukkah wishes. Just ask Becca; I put my soul right into those bubble letters. And in this year’s holiday season, due to my somewhat decimated monetary status, the art of my cards was all many could hope for. But damn did I do an excellent job; my grandfather would be so proud.

Charley, my mother’s fiancé, received one of my finest creations for Christmas this year. It was a homemade booklet of coupons, all meticulously illustrated. As he looked through the thick card on that chilly holiday morning in Vermont, I could see his lips twitching into a series of impressed smiles beneath his voluminous gray mustache. He may, I’ll admit, have been laughing at my attempts to portray his large black standard poodle named Elsie (who, even after a great deal of time home this year I cannot get to pay any attention to me). But I prefer to think that he was in awe of my artistic aptitude.

And last night Charley cashed in on one of his holiday coupons. It is three days before I officially move into the funky borough of Park Slope Brooklyn and he didn’t want to miss this opportunity. The coupon was for me to cook a dinner of his choice, no matter how fatty, red-meaty and fried. Generally, I lean towards the healthy side of things. I feel good when I eat well; fruits and vegetables, whole grains etc. (Though on a side note, I consider chocolate VERY healthy). I do greatly love Charley; but I do wish he wouldn’t be so vehemently opposed to trying a piece of tofu. Perhaps even one that wasn’t deep fried with a hunk of beef on top.

I did, however, enter into this coupon agreement with undiminished culinary joy last night. Deep frying is fun, I learned. There is a lot of action involved, an almost primitive sense of danger as the hot oil splashes up in the pot, a candy thermometer balanced carefully in the heart of the rippling bronze liquid. I made a juicy set of grilled filet mignon, topped with a thick pat of butter infused with scallion, garlic and parsley. I cut clean white potatoes into uniform matchsticks, soaked them overnight to ‘release excess starch’ (recommended by the Balthazar Cookbook), and fried them not once but twice. When I removed the french fries from the oil with my dripping slotted spoon, I was astounded by their golden hue. They were crunchy, tingling with salt and heat. For dessert, we cracked into creamy rich crème brulees with my favorite small silver espresso spoons. Wielding the small kitchen torch as I prepared their crust felt similarly primitive and dangerous, playing with fire in a technologically savvy manner. Kitchen tools fueled by butane are fun too, I learned. There was a lot of oohing and oily aaahing as we dug in. I even forgot, for a moment, to be nervous about my upcoming move.

It was an excellent meal. Spawned from an excellent (if I do say so myself) work of art. Not only would my grandfather love the museum-quality Christmas card that is now so magnanimously in Charley’s possession, but he would also be a fan of the steak frites and crème brulee. Brisket does get old after a few decades. I would have mailed him some, complete with an illustrated envelope. But I’m guessing steak doesn’t travel as well as paper.

shedding quiet strong

I met with a writer last week. We perched on dark stools at the bar of Legal Seafoods in Cambridge, stapled packets of my writing spread out between glasses of crisp white wine in front of us. He was wearing a loose fitting blue sweater with the logo of a magazine he writes for emblazoned on the side arm. A head of gray hair fully mopped his forehead; he peered at me through wide rimmed glasses. We met to critique my writing, to go over future options, to help me find my way in a world that is no longer going revolve mainly around vats of chicken stock. The time he took, in the midst of deadlines and book tours, was stunningly helpful. The comments he made rang true.

You put yourself on the sidelines of your writing, Molly. You don’t show yourself, not your real self, the one that becomes apparent when meeting you in person. Don’t be afraid to let it out there.

I know he’s right. It’s amazing what a slam of realization an unbiased, outside perspective can give. He asked me, after a poignant pause; Were you depressed after the accident?

What?

Have you ever been depressed?

You can’t tell from my writing?

No.

It struck me suddenly, without abandon, that I have become very good at masking what’s hard. I often use writing to make myself feel better about what is difficult. If I focus on hope and happiness, no matter its miniscule weight in the face of the mountain of difficulty, I do feel better. It makes sense and I don’t think that this is wrong, certainly not in my personal writing. Nor, in all likelihood, will I be willing or able to stop doing it all together. But it wouldn’t hurt to be a bit more honest with myself as I write. Lacking honesty may not be the best way to describe my tendencies; I don’t lie to myself, ignoring the difficult feelings when they come. I am simply not fully inclusive. It wouldn’t hurt to give some voice to the weakness and depression, to stop hiding behind a consistently quiet strong.

Yes, I have been depressed, I said. The words wanted to stay in my throat, confusing me with their unwilling stagnancy. They didn’t want to be expressed. There were a few weeks after the accident that I looked in the mirror and couldn’t remember who I was beyond ‘injured’; when I spoke I didn’t recognize my own voice it was too deep with pain, like a stranger had taken over my voice box.

If you are going to be depressed, Molly, be depressed. Don’t hide in your writing.

And so, in honor of my writer friend who wants some more dark honesty, at this moment in time I feel terrified. I’m moving to New York City in two weeks. I don’t have much of a plan beyond ‘find a job’. I bounced not one but two checks last week. One of my closest friends, Alex, who had been in Boston helping me throughout my entire recovery, moved recently to California, leaving me with the constant hum of loneliness. Becca is moving to Virginia in two weeks; she is now spending a transitional fortnight with her boyfriend’s parents in upstate New York. It is Valentines Day and I haven’t had a good date in over a year. As I write this post I am doing temp work in the window-less administrative office of a local university.

And still, in the name of honesty, I feel simultaneously good. Hopeful for what’s to come; proud of my stab at a new life sans injury.

Becca came to visit me this past weekend and, before the snow came and we were consumed with snow-shoveling duties, we went out to eat. I had a gift certificate to a local Vietnamese restaurant, a holiday present on hold, which we decided to use with thankful gusto. We sat at a small table in a dimly lit back corner of the loud, laughing room and perused the menu. I looked at the white cardboard certificate, contemplating the full dollar worth of options in front of us.

We could just get appetizers and entrees and have enough left over to come again some other time, Becca said, pragmatically.

True, I said, contemplating the possibilities; Or, we could get the most expensive bottle of wine on the menu and way more food than we could possibly eat.

Oh yeah?

Yes, lets totally do it. When in our lives will we ever again be able to order the most expensive bottle of wine on the menu as a celebration of a week that included bouncing TWO checks and moving in with your boyfriend’s parents. And we can always eat the leftovers for breakfast.

Alright, I’m in.

Toasting with the cool, money-laden bite of a chilled Pouilly-Fume, we ate crisp roasted quail with lemongrass and a lingering spicy crunch. We tried light pink shrimp cakes grilled around spears of sugar cane, oddly omelet-like in consistency, sweetly seafood. Crispy spring rolls, curried light tofu with a silken bite of peanut, a salty soy sauce finish; sweet crackling fried banana doused in honey-rum sauce and toasted sesame seeds.

It was delicious, extended. Hours later (when our waiter, bemused by the unstoppable laughter. asked us if you would perhaps like some hot water?) we were quite tipsy, quite full, and feeling at least somewhat at peace with our current unstable positions in life.

We had no food leftover at the end of the night. I figure we need to stock up, like bears before hibernation, for an immediate future devoid of luxuries such as restaurant gift certificates.

PS. I know this has a happy ending; I can't help myself. I'm working on it.

Remembrance of Meatballs Past

A knock at the door. Becca's quizzically raised eyebrows, not expecting company. A matronly dressed, thick woman with gigantic dark glasses stood in the hall. Becca’s landlady; she lives in the upstairs apartment.

Oh hello, she smiled hesitantly, I was walking upstairs to my apartment this morning and I could smell what you were cooking – like a fried meatball was it? – and it smelled exactly like my grandmother’s cooking. I went to my son and said; ‘Do you think grandma is downstairs?’ and I had tears in my eyes.

The words came pouring out in quick flowing jumble. She seemed to have tears glistening in her eyes right at that moment, standing there in the hall.

It reminded me so much of my childhood. I grew up here in the house, you know. It smelled like Grandma. And yesterday too – I swear I could smell stuffed peppers cooking down here. I could smell my family. It's Grandma, I said. It’s my childhood. You must be a great cook.

Becca smiled, touched. Oh thank you! Quite surprised, her landlady has always been distant, remote, communicating largely through tersely written notes. MOVE YOUR CAR. LOCK THE DOOR. But the surprising hint of tears glinting in the plumply dark haired woman was very humanizing.

When the door closed and the landlady returned to her second floor living space (where beginning around 7am sounds like a lot of floorboard thumping square dance practice goes on), Becca shrugged and laughed.

Well that’s the most she’s talked to me all year, she said.

Strange, though, how last night’s truffled risotto*, seared scallops and chocolate cake were the olfactory equivalent of stuffed peppers – and this morning’s frittata and orange muffins were fried meatballs.

Her sense of smell is a bit off, huh.

Better than mine though. I would kill to smell some meatballs.

But no matter how off she was, in the odors emanating from the tiny apartment kitchen she smelled her grandmother, her childhood. It was touching to see her strong reaction to the smells of our weekend of cooking. And I can relate to smelling memories.

Becca and I, clad in pajamas and never very far from a glass of crisp white wine, baked a tremendous chocolate cake on Saturday night. We stirred and evenly poured thick the cake batter into two round cake pans. We made a smooth, rich, brown icing that clung frothily to the beaters. This was all accompanied by some rousing singing duets (renditions of a few old time classics) that competed tunelessly well with the noise of the landlady’s early morning floor stomping. And when we, 35 minutes later, pulled the deeply colored cakes out of the oven, I was shocked by the overwhelming scent that fairly assaulted my nose. The warm, buttery chocolate odor hung around my head, swam down my throat.


Only recently have I been able to smell scents in the air – detecting odors without practically having to stick them up my nose and concentrating. I was sidelined in the grocery store the other day when I walked through the produce section and, all of a sudden, smelled laundry. Clean, strong, potent. I was confused, momentarily, until I realized I was a few feet away from a display case of detergent. Smelling something that far away from me is new. The moment I walked into the kitchen and smelled cake my smile took over my face.

And it was not only a smell – it was a memory of all those times Becca and I had baked, sang, laughed, danced around our shared college apartment with gleeful, worry-free abandonment. I haven’t felt like that in what now seems like a long time. But I saw it with clear vibrancy in that smell.

I stuck my nose right above those cakes, feeling the steam, breathing in the smell – a happy moment. It was, on a side note, one of the best cakes I’ve eaten.


In the touching vision of her grandmother, Becca’s landlady smelled a piece of her childhood, a sense of safety and home. And in that late-night chocolate cake I, too, smelled a similar feeling. A memory of past fun; the present of deep friendship and its future strength. Whether it is found in imaginary fried meatballs or concretely delicious chocolate cake, smell has the ability to paint a vivid picture of home.

*Yes, Becca keeps white truffle oil around in her pantry. (This is just one of the many reasons why I love her).



Chocolate Layer Cake
Recipe adapted from Epicurious

For cake
2 cups flour
2/3 cup unsweetened cocoa powder
1 1/2 teaspoons baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 sticks unsalted butter, softened
1 cup packed dark brown sugar
3/4 cup granulated sugar
4 large eggs
2 oz unsweetened chocolate, melted and cooled
1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla
1 1/2 cups well-shaken buttermilk

For frosting
2/3 cup whole milk
3 large egg yolks
1 tablespoon plus 1 teaspoon all-purpose flour
1 1/3 cups confectioners sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla
3 sticks unsalted butter, softened
8 oz dark chocolate, melted and cooled
2 oz unsweetened chocolate, melted and cooled

1. Put oven rack in the middle position and preheat oven to 350 F. Butter two round cake pans, line the bottoms with parchment paper, butter the parchment and then dust all with flour.

2. For the cake, sift together flour, cocoa, baking soda and salt into a bowl.

3. Beat the butter and sugars with an electric mixer until light and fluffy, about 5 minutes. Add the eggs one at a time, beating each until incorporated. Add chocolate and vanilla and beat until combined. On low speed, alternate adding the flour mixture and buttermilk in small batches until all incorporated.

4. Divide batter between cake pans and bake (until wooden skewer poked into the center of the cake comes out clean) 25-35 minutes. Let cool 10 minutes, remove from cake pans, peel off the parchment paper, and then let cool completely.

5. For the frosting: Heat milk over moderate heat until hot.

6. Whisk together yolks, flour, 1/3 cup confectioners sugar and a pinch of salt in a bowl. Add hot milk in a stream, whisking. Transfer to saucepan and bring to boil over medium heat, whisking again. Reduce heat and simmer 2 minutes (still whisking). Transfer to large bowl. [Here, Epicurious wants you to let the custard cool for 45 minutes before finishing the frosting. We have done that before while making this cake. Last weekend we didn't (we weren't really in a waiting-for-cake mood) - we used the hot custard to finish the frosting and everything turned out beautifully].

7. Add vanilla and remaining confectioners sugar and beat until well combined. Add butter, beat until smooth. Add chocolates, continue beating. At this point we left the room, the mixer on medium speed and came back around 7 minutes later. The frosting was light and fluffy - the perfect consistency for spreading on the cake.

8. Frost the cake. [Despite our generously applied frosting technique, we had quite a bit left over. We could even have halved the recipe, I think.]

Yak Butter with a Side of Bison

I was walking, crunching steps, on the freshly packed snow at the foot of Jackson Hole’s ski mountain one morning last week. It was bright out, the sun shining after a night of snowfall; the whiteness hurt my eyes. The air was crisply cold; a gentle mist of snow was tossed up by the skiers frequently flying by towards the close base lodge. I was following a bright red coat in front of me, walking in a small group of fashionably dressed women. My dad and step-mom take a trip out west every year to ski with a group of their friends. My brother, step-brother, step-sisters and I often come along. Despite the fact that I couldn’t ski (tragic in the face of all that powder) because of my knee, I went to Wyoming for some not often had family time.

During the day, however, I found myself in an oddly formed group of fellow non-skiers, mainly stylish career moms married to the more fanatical powder hounds. Our group ‘walks’ mainly hovered around the cluster of shops near the hill. It was an interesting jump into an unaccustomed slice of life for me, being 20 years younger and infinitely less monetarily endowed. I had, in the end, a good deal of thinking time in the company of my misplaced self. My mind wandered in disjointed musings while on these walks, the smallest comment inspiring a multitude of thoughts.

One morning I met up with my fellow non-skiers, my bright orange shoulder bag dangling in my hand, prepared to later plant myself in a coffee shop with a book.

That’s a nice bag, Molly, said one woman, ripe in a lime green fur-lined parka and Burberry scarf. It’s very bright. Um, very bright. A small frown of disapproval.

Yes, Molly, very bright, said another. Her white fur lined parka glistened against the snowy background. Very earthy. It looks… Tibetan. You look… Tibetan. Eyebrows raised. Did you buy that there? Have you… been to Tibet?

I could see that ‘Tibetan’ was not meant, really, to be a compliment.

Thanks, I said smiling. But this bag is from Italy.

***

The small room was filled with smoke. The evening light was fading; only a trickle reaching us through the gaping hole in the roof. The hazy darkness filled the space, pushing against the dirt floor and walls, flickering hesitantly around the small cooking fire in the center of the room. I could hardly see the people surrounding me. Their talk was quiet, a melodious harmony of a Tibetan dialect that I could barely register. A heavy black pot of boiling water added its steam to the already viscous air. There were children; I smiled as they crouched behind their mother’s backs, confused by my new presence. There were women; dark skin toughened by the sun, dark hair wrapped tightly on their heads, traditional deep red chupa dresses were draped around their earthy bodies. They smiled, laughed, exclaimed and whispered. They looked at me intently, touched my large curly head of hair curiously. Small postcards of Buddhist gods, larger ones of the Dalai Lama were perched by the walls. Chipped china cups clinked; the small blanket I was sitting on was hard. I was overwhelmed.

It was July of 2000, and along with six other American students and two ex-Peace Corp members, I had spent three weeks backpacking up rocky paths into the mountain range of Nepal’s Dolpo region. We were in a land without roads or runways, too high for easy helicopter travel, most often traveled by yak herders and foot-bound salt traders. We reached a small village close to the Tibetan border after a good deal of freeze-dried chili and a slow trudge over an airless, 18,000 foot pass. It was one of the few remaining communities of pure Tibetan culture and language, untouched by the Chinese, protected by Nepal’s boundaries. Each member of the group was ceremoniously deposited with a local family in a small, stilted hut. We were intensively submerged in rural Tibetan farm culture for a few weeks while we taught English in the local school. I spoke close to zero Tibetan; it was my first time manning a classroom. We were some of the first foreigners to visit the village. My white skin and glow-in-the-dark wrist watch were alarming to those around me. That first night near the smoky fire of my host family was one of confused communication and the constant patter of gentle anxiety somewhere near my lungs.

That first evening, lost in the haze of smoky Tibetan chatter, I watched as a small blue cup, steaming with frothy tan liquid, was placed in front of me on the protective stone of the fire ring. Next to it a matching bowl was clanked down, filled with a light brown powdery flour.

The men of the village, mainly salt merchants, were on their annual trading pilgrimage across the border to Tibet and I was in a world of women. A small group of them clustered around the fire in my host-family’s hut; they stopped what they were doing and looked at me intently. I knew I was supposed to do something. I knew, from the instruction of my Peace Corp leaders, that it was a special guest’s honor to be served first. In that subtle realm of politeness, it was imperative that I finish with relish the food given to me. And so I clasped the cup, smelling a strikingly savory odor in its loud steam. Thu-chi che, I said; Thank you. The women giggled, watching. I took a sip. It was tea, but oh what a tea. My eyes watered, my mouth shocked by the unexpected intensity. It was my first, but certainly not my last, taste of the Tibetan staple. Yak Butter Tea - salted black tea churned with a thick chunk of yak butter.

The brawny, altitude-loving yak has withstood the difficult living situation of the Tibetan plateau for centuries in a way no vegetable ever could. Therefore, a huge hunk of the culinary tradition there hinges on that hairy animal. Over time, I became intimately acquainted with all sorts of yak products. Yak beef, yak cloth, yak-hair rope, yak cheese, yak milk, yak jerky, yak hide, yak labor, and of course, yak butter. Six years later, I still clearly remember the shock of my first slick gulp. The texture of its thickly coating bulk coupled with the salty tang of its uncommon butter makes for an alarmingly unexpected tea experience.

I smiled widely, though, hiding my initial distaste with an overwhelming show of gratitude. The women around me clapped with excitement. I felt happy. Everyone else began to eat; my attention refocused on the bowl of flour in front of me. Without some kind of visual lead I never would have been able to consume that bowl of tsampa with any kind of grace. Tsampa, a roasted barley ground into flour, is another staple of Tibetan diet in the Nepalese region I was in. I watched as my host-mother, her newborn baby girl cradled deftly in her lap, poured some of her thick tea into the bowl of tsampa, creating a more congealed, dough-like conglomeration. She ate it with her fingers, my eyes watching her every move. I imitated her, sucking the flour off of my fingers. It tasted nutty and dry, sticking slightly to the roof of my mouth, bland without the salty tea.

After a week of little beyond the yak butter tea and tsampa I was more than ready to never lay eyes on the combination again. But that first night, surrounded by a strange culture, crackling fire and giggling children, yak butter and barley flour felt like a strangely celebratory entrance into an unknown world.

I left that village in Dolpo with priceless teaching experience, a smattering of Tibetan language knowledge, a dire need for donuts, and a deeply embedded respect for the women I lived with. I have never seen such hard workers. I watched them working from dawn til dusk in the fields, eyes watering constantly from the smoky cooking fire, subsisting on little more than butter and flour. Even Lahkpa, my 8-year-old host sister, worked with amazing diligence, caring for her newborn baby sister. She walked me to school every morning even though her duties kept her from attending, her short black hair tussled, her little sister strapped to her back with a large, dirt stained cloth. The constant companion of Lhakpa’s crooked smile is something I will never forget. She was always smiling, laughing. Always singing and moving. Perhaps yak butter does more for you than the initial cringe would suggest.

***

Despite the time I have had in the last few months, I was surprised during my stay in Wyoming last week to feel as if I was finally able to think – to think about things far removed from health, doctors, future plans. I was pleased by the turns in my memory; I had not thought about Nepal or Tibet in a long time. Jackson Hole itself was accompanied by a grand number of buffalo burgers and elk steaks. Bison carpaccio was an interesting jump into the unknown for me. But nothing, certainly, could rival that past novelty of tsampa and yak butter. Wyoming couldn’t give me any yak butter tea, but it did give me a calm chunk of time to think (and a newfound love of chandeliers made with antlers, of course).

The Power of the Truffle

A bright copper pan was gently placed on the portable burner, perched on a cart, silently wheeled to the edge of our table. The tall, gray-haired waiter wearing a hefty black jacket and white apron synched around the girth of his belly dropped a generous dollop of butter onto the pan. As it melted, bubbling yellow, he picked up a shining metal instrument and a small bobble of bulbous black. In a theatrically rehearsed gesture, he slowly shaved the coveted black truffle over the sizzling butter. He lifted the heavy top off of another nearby pan, exposing a mound of freshly made, steaming pasta. The slithering strings of egg noodles were ceremoniously dropped into the truffled butter, tossed slowly and fastidiously over the low flame until the entire dish gleamed. The pasta landed with a calm flop onto an enormous white plate, placed neatly in front of the wide-eyed Charley, my mother’s hungry boyfriend. The waiter smiled as he shaved a bit more dark truffle on top. I drank the unforgettable, earthy aroma of truffles into my very pores. That pasta was not even something that I had ordered; I probably passed over the simple dish for something more complicated, something of which I have no memory. I did help Charley clean his plate, however. And that meal certainly stands out in my mind.

The rich aroma and deep flavor of truffles – mainly the scorzone estivo, or mild black truffle, harvested largely in the Umbrian countryside of Italy during the summer months – were constant companions in my trip this past August. A truffle-studded pecorino cheese with crusty bread and red wine for a tipsily picnic lunch; a light, crispy pizza bubbling from the wood-fired oven and covered in light, sliced truffle; truffle paste on crackers, shaved over pasta, prancing through my sun-induced afternoon dreams. Even while hiking each day through the crackling Umbrian woods, my eyes were constantly drawn to small neon-yellow rectangles of plastic perched on long metal skewers, nestled alongside the trails at regular intervals. Raccolata Tartufi Reservata, they said, humming with possibility. We were in truffle hunting grounds. There are truffles everywhere, I often told myself. Never really having experienced that uniquely earth-bound flavor before that trip, I thought of them with awe. I was surprised and delighted by their abundance. I loved imagining their delicacy constantly underfoot in the woods, on my plate in restaurants.

***

And so in the last few months, glancing at the small glass jar perched hauntingly on the window sill of my kitchen, its red cap softly shadowing a luscious black Umbrian truffle, I have felt a wave of sadness. The flavor of truffle, I can only imagine, comes mainly from its unique aroma. After all, around 70% of taste is appreciated through smell. An odorless truffle cannot stand alone. I would not go anywhere near the thing. Being physically close to that truffle, thinking even a tiny bit about what I had wanted to use it for made me angry. It represented the proof of my loss of smell. And this, somewhere in the back of my mind, felt as if it rendered my trip to Italy invalid. It made that wonderful time cease to exist. I didn’t move the jar, though; I didn’t want to touch it. That poor little truffle, still sitting so calmly on the window, took a lot of mental heat for things it had nothing to do with this fall.

The truffle and I, however, are now on better footing. We seem to have made some progress. Perhaps even a glimpse of friendship lurking close by.

I spent New Year’s weekend in New York City. A few days of friends, museums and champagne; it was boisterous, fun, far from being injured. I even wore heels (quite a feat after the past months of limping around Boston I must say). And on that Friday night my friend John and I went out for a cozy dinner in Little Italy. We split a bronzed pizza, gooey with mozzarella and mushrooms, sprinkled with rosemary and truffle oil. Delicious in its own right, of course. But when a vivid image of that large, truffle-shaving Italian waiter immediately came to mind as I chewed, swallowed and slowly exhaled, I knew it was a bit more than that. I could taste the truffle; a rich, familiarly earthy aroma traveled from the depth of my throat out through my nose. It tasted like Italy; it fairly tingled with possibility.

***

Recently I’ve been thinking about my smells that have returned. The scents that I can detect most strongly these days are all tied to meaning greater than a simple odor. The fruity tang of wine is a thousand memories of friends, family, travel and cooking tied up in each sip. Rosemary’s smell blew through my consciousness even more frequently in Italy than that of truffles; the wildly growing rosemary bushes perfumed my hair, clothes, thoughts. The subtle perfume of soap, one of the first odors I regained, is the comforting familiarity of daily clean. The scents of chocolate, coffee and cinnamon, slowly coming back around to my olfactory registration, immediately conjure up thoughts of home, winter evenings with my mom. Truffles have become Italy; a country I fell in love with while studying art history in Florence, a place I’ll always return to. And I can’t help but wonder why I am so lucky as to get back the smells that mean the most to me. It is as if my emotions, memories and thoughts (however unconscious) are influencing the speed and strength of my olfactory neuronal growth. A strange thought; one that my mother the psychoanalyst finds strikingly interesting and one that I would love to be true. If I think about it really hard, perhaps I’ll soon stumble onto the smell of freshly baked bread, warm out of the oven. If my subconscious has the power to reinstate the truffle, truly anything is possible.