Pink of Perfection

The first time I had St. Germain was on a renegade vacation. We were due to stay in our vintage-y Napa motor lodge another night, but at the last moment we decided to check out. We threw our bags in the car, and drove on a steep, winding rode through dense wooks to Glen Ellen. There, we ate a greasy spoon breakfast, a prelude to the main event: I spied M.F.K. Fisher’s Last House from across a two-lane highway and at the little memorial to her in town, had my picture snapped next to a portrait of her at a typewriter. My ultimate fan girl moment.

Then we drove on to Sonoma, where the midday sun was beating down hot in the town square. Down a side street, I fell in love with a charming, busting airy restaurant, sat at the bar and ordered a drink. It contained St. Germain, a delicate elderflower liqueur, poured from the most glamorously tall, art deco bottle. There was also some gin, a cucumber spear, and maybe a splash of Lillet or champagne, though the specifics are hazy now. I just remember being so happy there, surrounded by dapper, quick-footed waiters, air-conditioning, the spirit of adventure that came from casting our plans to the wind, and, oh, the smell of cheese.

This is my bare bones attempt to recreate what I think is one of the most cool, crisp, refreshing and ladylike of summer cocktails. Drink this in your garden, when the gals come over to knock croquet balls in their spectator heels and talk about the rakish men they adore. I didn’t really drink this garnished with edible flowers as illustrated in the picture, though wouldn’t that be grand?

Continue reading “Happy Hour at Home: Simplest Gin and St. Germain Cocktail” »

Someday, if I am lucky enough to have a houseful of kids and soccer practice to take them to, I will look back at my current Saturday morning routine and have a rip-roaring laugh. Here’s how it goes: I like to drink a cup of coffee in bed, read a bit, and give myself a tarot reading. It’s a morning tradition that can take upwards of two long, lazy hours. And then I ask my husband where he’s taking me for lunch, and look at that––it’s 3pm.

(Now, a word on the tarot for anyone who might want to hear it: I don’t think of it as some predictive, lady-with-a-crystal-ball-and-a-head-scarf hokum. It’s more like reading a really rich, wonderful piece of literature (although any formalist professor of mine would probably die to hear me say this): there are themes in the cards, and the way you choose to interpret and reflect on those themes creates a meaningful story. In other words, you make the meaning.)

In any case, the cards painted a picture in their yellows and reds that I was happy to see. It was a story of assessment and survey that I thought was worth sharing with a thoughtful, reflective bunch. In short form, we have made it halfway through the year: how are you doing?

There are two parts to the mid-year check-in as I see it: How are you doing with those goals you made seven months ago? (Oh, how they can be embarrassing to revisit, I know.) Do they need a little more attention? But perhaps more importantly, how are you moving through this year? How does it feel to be you alive at this moment? Are your actions matching up with what you care about? Are you embodying whatever word resonated with you?

I, for one, needed the reminder. When we’re intently focused on taking the next step, we forget to lift our eyes to the horizon and survey the landscape. We can get so caught up in walking a straight path that we forget to even check-in with ourselves: Do I even like this walk? Am I tired? Do I need a sip of water and some trail mix? Or am I fully caught up in the flow? It gives us the chance to ease what might not feel right or to apply more passion to what we’ve let slip.

One thing I know: I’m not writing here enough, and it breaks my heart. I needed the reminder that I was in control of that, and so my alarm got set a little earlier. (Though I’m still never this happy to wake up.)

What I needed was a long pause, time to sit on a rock with my sunglasses and a canteen and look at where I’ve gotten myself. I’m not even sure if the route needs adjustment yet, but I do know that I’d like to take the time to survey the view.

Do you have a tradition of stopping to reflect like this? How do you create that time and space for yourself? And what adjustments have you made after taking the long view?

I used to get irritated when the summer lifestyle magazines started showing up in my mailbox. An apartment-dweller with no outdoor space to speak of (save for a rickety fire escape) can go a little batty from so many recipes that use the grill. I could not simply throw a cob of corn and a beautiful piece of fish on the grill and call it dinner. And yet those slick magazine pages continued to sing a refrain about summer cooking being so simple, so effortless; I just didn’t get it. If anything, trying to figure out how to eat something substantial for supper without warming up the entire apartment seemed like it required an advance degree.

And then my wonderful aunts and uncles gave me an indoor two-burner grill pan, and I started to see the light. I hate to say that a piece of specialty equipment can make life easier, but in some cases it’s just the plain truth, (See: food processor.) I get that “summer simplicity” now: I throw something on the grill, make a salad, and dinner is ready in 15 minutes. Moreover, it feels grown-up and relaxed, like a woman with real standards and know-how was in charge of this dinner, instead of just post-work, grouchy me. And this is when I start to wax about the ability of a certain recipe to bring out the best in you, but really, it’s true. A simple, wonderful dinner can be elevating: it can help you shed the bleary-eyed, email-beset, hunched-shoulder workhorse stance, take a deep breath, and feel like a human again. A human who revels in the delights of summer––like juicy, ripe peaches––and throws together easily elegant salads like this one. Creative, seasonal, healthy––you’ll feel like some kind of genius.

This salad even works with peaches that are slightly underripe and still a little firm. Serve with grilled, sliced skirt steak, chicken, or a pile of shrimp. It really can be that easy.

Continue reading “Summer Simplicity: Peach, Basil and Red Onion Salad” »

We’re on day five of super hot summer days here in New York, and we have yet to see the worst of it. I’m so scared about the crazy heat wave coming this weekend, you’d think it was the apocalypse. To mitigate my fear of what’s coming, I’m keeping a pretty glass carafe of water in the fridge (fancy!), my Wednesday night swimming lessons couldn’t have had better timing, and there may be a trip to Rockaway Beach in the weekend cards. Still, I’m a wimp. So while I hope this list might offer you a gem or two, it is mostly to keep me from freaking out. How have you been cooling off this summer?

1. Daytime trips to the movies: If you haven’t seen Bridesmaids yet, take the next blisteringly hot afternoon as a sign from Melissa McCarthy that you could be laughing really, really hard in powerful air-conditioning. Plus: fountain soda!
2. A picnic at the beach: Sand in your sandwich! Greasy sunscreen! Summer reading! And then, a dip in the water. Heaven.
3. Slurpees from 7-11: Pull the lever on a Slurpee machine (put your cup’s top on first for the neatest execution) are you’re nine again.
4. Icy cocktails: Also, if you can find it, Leinenkugel’s Summer Shandy. So delicious.
5. Homemade lemonade: Here are 21 different recipes to suit your fancy. But I’m loyal to this one.
6. Find an open fire hydrant: And if you’re really enterprising (and brave) fill up an empty trash can and dunk yourself in it like I saw a kid doing the other day on a street corner. My heart kind of went out to him (I mean, it was a trash can), but I admired his spunk.
7. A dip in the pool: Why are people so against public pools? Us city folk have no other option, and really, what’s so scary? Besides, I like to think I look very fetching in my required swim cap and goggles. (Oh, if this were true.)
8. A bowl of ice water in front of a fan: I always think of that episode of SATC where Carrie’s perched in a chair, drinking iced tea and reading a magazine in front of a fan when Aleksandr Petrovsky calls for the first time.
9. Close the curtains and turn on the TV: There’s something decadently subversive about staying inside on hot, sunny days. Have a marathon (may I suggest Party Down?) or watch cold, wintery movies (Think Dr. Zhivago).
10. Cucumber ice water: Cooling, and you feel like you’re at a spa. Double whammy.
11. Kiddie pools: Got a backyard? Then you really need to set up a kiddie pool. And then you need to invite over your friends who don’t have backyards.
12. Cool baths: When no one invites me to their kiddie pool and the Y feels too far away, I like to just run a cool bath. A little too desperate and depression-era? Not when you bring a delicious beverage and a stack of magazines in with you.
13. Root beer floats: Or a straight up beer float.
14. Refrigerate your face products: Masks, sprays, toner, eye cream––it all feels better cold.
15. Cold Watermelon: Quintessential.
16. Ice cream: Practically medicinal.
17. Homemade frozen yogurt: A friend of mine insists it’s easier than you think (and suggests adding a little vodka to keep it from getting an icy consistency. Kinda genius.)

On Sunday night, I took a cab to a leafy street near the water in Brooklyn. I stood outside the red building and rang the buzzer, then climbed five flights of stairs and felt like I was in Barefoot in the Park. And then the front door opened into a kind of single woman oasis: there were gin and tonics, and a big closet, and a bathroom all to oneself, a big couch and television with no programming compromises, and the crowning glory: a rickety staircase that led up to a rooftop deck.

When I was in college sharing apartments with roommates, I always dreamed about the apartment I would have to myself. I would decorate it with thrift store finds and spend evenings listen to my records. I would have girlfriends over for happy hours and impromptu dinners. I would paint the bedroom a perfect ’60s pink.

What happened instead is that I fell cuckoo crazy in love with someone earlier in my personal timeline than I ever expected. I moved across the country to be with him, and when I arrived in our shared city, kept living with roommates. No princess phone, no solo evenings listening to Aretha Franklin; just more arguments about who didn’t wash the dishes. Until, that is, the lover boy and I decided to move in together, and that was wickedly fun in a million ways I hadn’t anticipated.

But washing my hands in the pedestal sink of my friend’s bathroom, standing under a skylight that carried down the laughter from the roof, I remembered all those daydreams from when I was younger about what it would look like to be young and living alone, to be the mistress of my domain, to eat guacamole for dinner and have no one to answer to. So for all of us who never got the chance, I’m asking the rest of you who once did or currently do to fuel our fantasy: What’s the very best thing about living alone?

There’s a bar a few blocks away from me that has kind of a weird vibe. I blame the inhospitable owner and the usual near-emptiness. But I keep going back there despite its handicaps. I’m seduced time and again by the white subway tile that lines the walls above the dark wooden booths-for-two, the bathtub planter in the garden, and the jukebox that, chances are, will play one of my all-time favorite songs. But most of all, I return for the creative cocktail inspiration. The bartender might not like me, but he sure makes a mean drink.

I met my friend there a few weeks ago on one of those thickly humid summer afternoons, the kind where a thunderstorm hovers like a sweet promise. We drank Monongahela mules: rye, ginger beer, a squeeze of lime and a garnish of crystallized ginger. We cooled off, they played my song, and it rained after all.

(That word is so intriguing, with its languorous, five-syllable waltz across your tongue, isn’t it? Here’s what I found out: Monongahela is a Native American word that means “falling banks,” like a landslide. The city of Monongahela is on Pennsylvania’s Allegheny Plateau, a few miles southeast of Pittsburgh on the Monongahela River that, when it meets with the Allegheny River, becomes the Ohio River. As for the mule––also known as a buck––it’s an old-timey term you might know that means a cocktail was made with ginger ale or ginger beer. But why the two came together, I just don’t know. Anyone?)

But here’s what you need to know about this drink, so that you will hopefully make one yourself. The ginger beer makes for a bracing cocktail. It’s spicy, and still a little sweet, and best consumed in the high, hot afternoon, preferably on a porch, with a guitar. It’s delicious with spicy, salty snacks, like these adobo peanuts or a pile of salty potato chips. Cheers!

Continue reading “Happy Hour at Home: Monongahela Mule” »

We are deep into the season of ice cream cones and fireflies! But, I confess, as unpopular a sentiment as it may be, sometime after July 4th we hit the patch of summer that begins to feel like a long slog to me. Vacation is far off in the distance, the air-conditioner is working overtime. It is, I imagine, how most people feel on January 3rd or February 15th. The air feels still; we’re treading water.

It’s not necessarily a seasonally-related thing, it’s a heart-centered thing, but for me, it always seems to hit in summer. Without warning or reason, life gets a heavy feeling. And it can be especially maddening when everything seems just fine. Life looks the same––hell, with the blue skies and lush geraniums and fresh herbs on the plate, it looks better than ever––but somehow it feels different.

When there’s not a big problem to contend with, I actually take a little comfort in knowing that something small might set me right again, like a yoga class or a frozen yogurt date with a friend. In fact, the obvious struck me the other day: if life feels out of balance, I’m probably not getting enough of what really sustains me and brings real, meaningful pleasure to life. It seems like a big duh, but it’s a lesson I have to learn again and again.

But sometimes you crave more than just a little reminder of what you care about. You crave a reboot, a clean slate, a pressing of the restart button. And despite being someone who loves familiarity and routine––the ritual of coffee in the morning and pulling the sheets back at night––the desire for a fresh start sweeps in in a way that surprises me.

The craving for neat, tidy newness must in some way be a reaction to life’s messiness. When we are overwhelmed with the reality of what is––the constant email flow, the what’s for dinner question, the pile of mail on the desk––the prospect of what could be is enormously appealing. A fresh start, for sure, would make things more manageable, more organized, happier, lovelier. That’s the thing about the unknown: we always think it could be better.

I set out here today wanting to ask about the healthy, productive ways we can approximate a fresh start in the day-to-day. I wanted to ask how you give yourself that clear, clean sense of a new beginning when you’re feeling stuck. And I still want to know, for sure. But it occurs to me that a question as worthy of asking is how to make peace with the untied ends of the everyday, the discomfort of a bad mood or a bad day, the ebb and flow of our moods and our progress, and the broken asymmetry of what it means to be alive and human.

The night I threw this together, this little blog o’ mine was the farthest thing from my mind. I was in a bad mood, and hungry, and wanted to be eating supper 30 minutes ago. I was not my best self, nor was I living in a state of splendor and gratitude. But, well: that’s life, and those moods need tending to just as much––if not more than––those charmed moments of delight and beauty. I mean, let’s get real.

On my walk home, I was conducting a mental inventory of the fridge. We had some leftover arugula––what super easy thing could I do with that? Wasn’t there half a lemon rolling around on the counter top, a little dried out but, eh, still usable? And wasn’t there an emergency pizza in the freezer? Couldn’t I almost throw together a quick little dinner inspired by the prosciutto and arugula pizza they serve at our cozy little neighborhood Italian restaurant that my best self frequents, wearing liquid eyeliner, a sexy little outfit, and feeling totally relaxed with a glass of wine?

Almost! So I laid a few slices of prosciutto over the top of the pizza (you could use basil, or skip it all together). I tossed the arugula with lemon juice and a little olive oil, dusted it with salt and pepper. And when the pizza came out of the oven, I overturned that bowl of peppery salad right onto the center of the pizza (another upgrade? Shave some parmesan over the greens), and perfectly respectable and really delicious dinner was ready in––I kid you not––15 minutes.

What I also love about this? I’m a big fan of a recipe that features veggies, protein, and carbohydrates all in one go. And while I wouldn’t exactly call this dinner healthy, it’s a hell of a lot better than chowing down on egg rolls and barbecue spareribs. In my book, that’s a total win.