Gastronomie

 
 I don't usually write about people. The few times I have, it's been a family member, or else veiled by some food-related event that keeps this blog from become too personal. But once in a while, it's necessary to shed those safeguards, and write about people and events which have changed everything. Today is one of those days. 

The person who left an indelible impression on me in 2009 won't be a surprise to many people. She has a knack for changing lives, you see. 

• I met her 18 months ago at Elixir. I noticed her, we exchanged perhaps five words, and then Book Club proceeded as usual. I bumped into her on the BART platform that night as we were both Oakland-bound, and we chatted for a while. She was more alive than anyone I'd met in many, many moons.
• A couple of months later, after a few more Book Clubs, I was talking about Burning Man, and about how profoundly tortured I was over the fact that I couldn't really afford to go, but my soul was dying at the thought of not going. I remember saying to her, "you should really go; you belong there." It wasn't until much later that I learned she thought I was insane for putting myself through it.
• 2009 rolled around, and she was there to celebrate with us. We drank Mai Tais, Monkey Pods and Grogs at Forbidden Island and danced until the wee hours. It would set the stage for the next 12 months. 
• We whiled away many a Sunday at Heinolds; mid-week klatches at The Trappist often led to roast duck dinners at Yung Kee. And there was the particularly memorable evening that started with sushi and ended with Greyhounds at Cafe VanKleef. I felt like the Dynamic Duo of the DTO. 
• A mere 14 months after our first meeting, we packed up her trusty steed with two bikes, 15 gallons of water, shelf-stable "food", a first-aid kit, and enough music for the eight hour drive to the most unforgiving climate in the hemisphere -- Black Rock City. While there, we shared a tent, a sunrise, giggles, heartaches and frustration (we finally figured out that covering our bedding with one big sheet before a duststorm would help cut down on that last one). We drove home laughing and crying and exposed. She later told me she hated me for being right about her and Burning Man. I took it as a compliment.
• Most recently, I went to hear her read a collection of her short stories, and was reminded once again that I am blessed to know someone so profoundly talented and so incredibly alive. One of my greatest goals this year is to make sure I get to see her perform with her band. Yes, she's also in a band.

I have met a few amazing people in my life. I try to keep them close, for I am inspired by them and (I hope) become a better person by learning from them. It has been a few years, though, since I met someone so incredibly vibrant as her; someone so multi-faceted and impactful and non-judgmental and giving. She reminds me, almost every day, that life is a gift for which I should be grateful and with which I could do more. 

Her name is Eugenia Gratto, and I'm honored to call her my friend.

 
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This post is part of Gwen Bell's "Best of 2009 Challenge" 

Today, Gwen's challenge was to pick "a word that encapsulates your year. '2009 was _____.'"

There are plenty of words I could use to finish that sentence (2009 was bizarre. 2009 was topsy-turvy. 2009 was ridiculous. 2009 was harrowing. See?), but instead I'm going to talk about a phrase that came up with almost dizzying frequency this year.

"It is What it Is."

It's a loaded sentence, if you really think about it. From one perspective, it encapsulates the whole Serenity Prayer in five little words. It acknowledges that we can't always be in control, that we can't know what's to come or how we'll necessarily react to those unknowns.

On the other hand, it's also kind of a cop-out. It's the way we verbally shrug our shoulders, tell ourselves and whomever's listening that we've given up. That we have no more energy for the fight.

I think it was sometime in July that the profound conflict in those twelve letters, those otherwise inconsequential words, threw me for a loop. I started counting how often I said the phrase, and how often I heard it.

Would you believe me if I told you that in ONE WEEK,  seven different people used that phrase a total of 18 times? I won't even tell you how often I caught myself midway through that now-God-awful cliché.

"It is what it is" has come to symbolize the overwhelming greatness and awfulness that 2009 has been. The whole year has been a paradox of accomplishments and failures, delightful surprises and abject disappointments, daydreams and nightmares. And yes, it's been a lesson in the difference between giving up and letting go.

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This post is part of Gwen Bell's "Best of 2009 Challenge" 

Today's "topic" in the "Best of 2009 Challenge" is an interesting one for me. You see, I've been a fairly adventurous eater most of my life. From asking my parents to take me to sushi for my 13th birthday to discovering (and becoming addicted to) Ethiopian food my freshman year of college, I can't think of a time when I wasn't willing to try something new. There are the rare exceptions, of course, now mostly limited to runny egg yolks and fish with tiny bones. 

But the one flavor profile I never really developed a taste for until this year? Spicy. By which I mean hot-pepper-spice, not horseradish heat. Despite years of eating everything from Mexican to Indian, I was still ordering all my food "mild" when given the choice.

I'm not exactly sure when this changed. Not sure which dish or meal first introduced me to the endorphin rush that so often accompanies the delicious heat of capsicum. Or when I realized that, properly used, peppers have a delicate and beautiful flavor that keeps you coming back for more, despite the pain.

I recently made a Penne alla Vodka that I finished with vodka we'd infused with Rancho Gordo Chiles de Arbol. It was... scorchingly hot. It was bite after bite of intensely-building heat. Even C, who is generally immune to extreme heat, commented that it was crazy-hot. And yet, I couldn't stop eating it. That meal was a new milestone for me.

So what was my delicious discovery this year? Tortuous, flavorful, nervous-system-awakening heat.

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This post is part of the Best of 2009 Challenge.

After my dad passed away last year, I didn't dream about him for a long time. It made me angry that he wouldn't "visit" me in my sleep, and tell me that we had done right by him. That letting him go was what he wanted, and that he was at peace. I missed him terribly and spoke to him every night before bed, but the dreams just wouldn't come. 

As the year went on, I'd catch glimpses of him in my sleep but never really connected with him and he never spoke to me. It left me in such a state of limbo, and I felt tremendously unsettled by his death.

So as I trudged off to Burning Man this year, I made a commitment to spend as much time in the Temple as I needed to feel at peace with his loss. I can't say my father saw much redeeming value to Burning Man -- "you're crazy to put yourself through that," he'd say. But on the day that marked the anniversary of the day he entered the hospital (fully expecting to come home), I sat in the Temple and wept and spoke to him; to be honest, I might even have cursed him a little for his stubbornness. I walked around looking at the the tributes that were written to other fathers and loved ones lost, wondering if those people had found peace.

Finally, after wandering aimlessly for an hour, I sat on the edge of the second floor platform and leaned my head forward to rest against a beam, tears dropping from my eyes. I looked down and saw that my tears were falling on a box holding someone's ashes -- a mother who was loved and hated, and who was brought to the Playa and left to disappear in the ashes of the Temple burn.

In a split second, everything fell away and I was completely and utterly alone. The hundreds of people around me disappeared, and the world went silent. In that moment, I understood that my dad was there, had been there all along, and that it was my own anger and sorrow that had kept me from him. I understood that I needed to forgive him for leaving us too soon, and that I had to forgive myself for not having been a better daughter in the last year of his life. 

As the world came back into focus, I felt a profound sense of peace and quietude, and walked away knowing that I would never question my dad's presence again. It's one of the best moments I've ever had with my father. 

 
 

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This post is woefully late, which bums me out, but I've been swamped with two great projects for TimesTwo, and a short-notice trip to Florida. So, I'm cutting myself a bit of slack and getting the post up despite the lateness of it. This post is part of the Best of 2009 Challenge.

I'm a very lucky girl; please don't think I don't know this. 

I am surrounded by seriously amazing people with whom I've had seriously amazing experiences. I live in a place that routinely provides ridiculous opportunities, and if you're not too scared of falling down a rabbit hole, you just might find some serious magic in these parts. So coming up with a single "night that rocked your world" was more than a little difficult.

I managed to narrow it down to two nights which could not be more different from one another. One of them happened on the Playa, and I expect will become part of another post this month. The other happened fairly recently and brought together three of my social circles in a sort of warm, fuzzy Venn Diagram of life.

I was in San Diego, attending a conference I've been involved with for a decade. I knew that some of my favorite colleagues from a prior job would be there, and was looking forward to spending time with them. But my brother and my dear friend Thom (and his fiancee, Jen) live there too, and I really wanted to see them as well. The problem: I only had 36 hours on the ground.

So on my one night there, after the obligatory conference mixers and cocktail parties, two dear industry friends and I were picked up by T & J and met my kid brother and his roommate at Shakespeare's Pub & Grill for fish and chips, steak & kidney pie, and curry chips. 

What ensued was a night full of conspiracy theory debates, healthy competition over a couple of pool tables, a few Sláintes and finally, a proper SoCal burrito (no beans, no rice, grilled tortilla).

I fell into bed that night after posting this tweet:

I think that pretty much says it all.

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This post is part of Gwen Bell's "Best of 2009 Challenge" 

 
When I stopped to think about what article really moved me this year, made me sit up and take notice (and make sure all my friends did, too), it's actually not a particularly positive story. 

I walked by the corner of Market & New Montgomery streets every weekday for two years. Sometime in late 2008, this nicely dressed gentleman set up a mobile shoe-polishing shop on the corner. He was there every morning when I got off BART, and most days until sundown. I chalked him up to another victim of the economy; an enterprising businessman doing what he could to get by. 

Imagine my shock when I found out that Larry Moore was a homeless, recovering alcoholic who was doing his best to change his life. And imagine my disgust when I learned what the city was doing to him.

Now, here's the thing: I understand about rules. And I get that government bureaucracies are designed to enforce them. But they're usually not so good at it, and then they have to pick THIS guy to strong-arm? And then send him on a cat-and-mouse chase that would have frustrated lesser men? Bollocks.

I made sure everyone I knew saw that article. I made sure to stop by Larry's stand the next morning. He was SO busy that I just dropped off a pair of shoes and $10, telling him I'd pick them up that evening (they were ready promptly at 5pm).

But when I got to the office that morning, I found this gem; it turns out, the city (its people and its bureaucrats) had done right by Larry Moore. On Thursday, he made enough money to open a bank account, and get his first ATM card. He had enough to pay for a room for a week -- A WEEK, PEOPLE -- and not have to sleep under the Bay Bridge. 

I don't walk by the corner where Larry works every day anymore. But on the days that I do, I am reminded that the generosity of a few strangers can change lives. And I smile (both inside and out) knowing that even in the depths of this recession, there are a few success stories to tell.

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This post is part of Gwen Bell's "Best of 2009 Challenge".

Gwen Bell, who is a cool and inspirational woman for many reasons, has started the Best of 2009 Challenge, and against my better judgment, I'm taking the plunge. That means you're going to see somewhere in the neighborhood of 15-20 posts from me this month. Some of them will have to do with food, no doubt. Most of them, I wager, will not. 

I hope you'll follow me on this journey anyway, and perhaps play along. I'd love for you to link to your posts in the comments, or leave your own Best Of story for each day I write. 

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My best trip of this year was not much of a trip at all, or at least not in the traditional sense. 

It was the weekend I spent walking across San Francisco with 2800 other women during the Avon Breast Cancer Walk.

Over the course of 30 hours and 39 miles, I experienced a range of emotions that left me raw and exposed for the better part of two weeks afterwards. 

As we set off in the blustery fog on Saturday July 11th, I had no sense that the weekend would change how I would face both physical and emotional challenges for the rest of my life. 

As we braved the winds and incessant noise as we marched north on the Golden Gate bridge, our excitement and energy kept us going. On the way back, our spirits were flagging from pain and exhaustion, but the fog had lifted and the sun was shining like a beacon on Wellness Village, where we'd be spending the night. It was a lesson in faith.

As we crawled into our sleeping bags that night, feet blistered and joints aching, I had no idea how I'd be able to