Christy Krumm

Vegan Brownie Recipe

2012-01-31T13:40:00.000-08:00

To all of you who are scoffing at the idea, I say this: They're better than you think, and WAY better for you than regular brownies.

As someone who's been baking since the age of 7, it was my curiosity that led me to try this recipe more than anything else. The idea of baking something without butter, or eggs, or milk was a fascinating concept. I had to do it as an experiment, if nothing else.

Turns out, these brownies are pretty awesome, albeit best accompanied by a tall glass of milk. And no, I'm not talking soy milk or almond milk -- just good, old fashioned cow's milk, however, ironic that may be.

This is a recipe I've adapted slightly from Gwyneth Paltrow's cookbook. I've shared her recipes before, and will continue to sing their praises. The theme of her cookbook is eating healthy, but not sacrificing flavor, and these brownies are a nice testament to that concept. They do taste different than your run-of-the-mill brownie mix, but it's not a bad different. Think of it like comparing milk chocolate with dark chocolate. The vegan brownies fall more into the dark chocolate category.

But enough talk. Here's the recipe:

2 cups all-purpose flour
1 cup coca powder (I'm a big fan of Ghiradelli)
1 1/2 Tbsp. baking powder
1/4 tsp. salt
1/2 canola oil, or vegetable oil
1 cup pure maple syrup
1/2 cup Agave nectar (Hello Trader Joe's! They carry a nice, cheap selection of agave nectar.)
1/2 cup strong brewed coffee (It enhances the flavor of the chocolate. The 2 go together like love and marriage)
1/2 cup vanilla soy milk
1 Tbsp. vanilla extract
1 cup semi-sweet chocolate chips, divided (Once again, Ghiradelli rocks.)

Preheat oven to 350 degrees, and grease an 8" x 11" baking dish. Mix the flour, cocoa powder, baking powder, and salt together in a large bowl.

In a smaller bowl, mix together the oil, maple syrup, agave, coffee, soy milk, and vanilla, then add the wet ingredients to the dry ingredients, stirring until the batter is smooth and well-combined.

Pour half the batter into the baking dish, and then sprinkle with a layer of 1/2 cup chocolate chips. Pour the rest of the batter on top and then distribute the remaining chocolate chips as a garnish.

Bake for 30-35 minutes, and then let cool. When you put the tooth pick in to test if the brownies are done, remember that there will be a thin layer of melted chocolate on it from the chocolate chips. As long as you don't see batter on the tooth pick, you're good to go.

* If you decided to try this recipe, be sure to let me know/leave a comment below! I'd love to hear your thoughts, comments, and ideas for potentially making the recipe even better :)

Giving Thanks

2011-11-24T12:14:00.001-08:00

Gratitude—in its purest,truest, most profound form—is priceless. Priceless not only in its impact, butalso

in its obscurity. It’s the rare kind of gratitude because it falls uponyou so naturally and completely. It’s not the type you conjure up, or feelobliged to give or acknowledge. It’s not the fleeting type that makes you smileslightly and then move on with your day. No, this form of gratitude bubblesinside your chest. Like a corked up bottle of champagne on the verge of beingopened, it’s powerful, it’s overflowing, and it sends that cork flying half wayacross the room.

The last time I experienced that type of gratitudewas back in April. I woke up naturally that morning with the sun. It cast agolden haze that peered through the blinds and burst into each and everycrevice of the room. I felt the brightness from under my eyelids and itbeckoned me to open them. At first I squinted and shirked and turned my facetoward the dark comfort of my pillow. It took a few minutes for the foggy,sleepiness of my brain to fully clear, but when it did, I suddenly registeredwhere I was. I propped myself up on my elbows and stared at the beautifulmiracle that was my new bedroom in Long Beach.

A few weeks prior, I had arrived in California withlittle more than the clothes on my back, and a large blue suitcase that waspushing the fifty-pound weight limit the airlines imposed. It contained all ofmy favorite items of clothing, along with my laptop, camera, Bible, pillow, andtowel. Other than the few boxes of kitchen supplies, books, and decorativepillows that were being shipped from New York City, that suitcase was all Iowned anymore. I had sold or given up everything else.

This was all voluntary, mind you. I had voluntarilychosen to uproot myself from my comfortable, California life and try to hack itin New York City. That had lasted all of six months, and then I was ready tocome back to California. Except, when I decided to come back, I was faced withthe reality that I had sold my car before moving to New York. I had spent allthe money I earned from said car on monthly living expenses while I wasunemployed in one of the most expensive cities in the world. I had spent all mysavings on various things, like the enormous deposit I had to give for myManhattan apartment, and the expense of moving furniture from coast to coast.

When I left New York, I knew that I couldn’t affordto take all of that furniture across the country a second time, so I sold someof it for about a third of what I had originally paid for it, and gave away allthe rest. That was how I ended up back in Long Beach with virtually nothing.

Yet, here I was on this warm April morning in abedroom that contained all I could ever need. There was the brand new bed I wassitting on that my parents had decided to buy for me as a thirtieth birthdaypresent. There was the writing desk that my friend Claire, who was previouslyliving in this bedroom, had decided to leave for me. Not even knowing that Ineeded a desk, she had texted me a few days earlier while in the process ofmoving her furniture out.

“Do you need a desk by any chance?” she wrote. “Theone I have isn’t going to fit in my new apartment, so I can leave it for you ifyou want.”

I couldn’t believe my luck. I had just sold my deskto a guy on Craigslist in New York, and was hoping to buy another one once Igot to California. I picked up my phone and responded to her text with an emphatic“yes,” followed by a series of exclamation points.

That morning in April, as I looked upon my desk andthe bed I was sitting in, I felt exceedingly grateful for both.

My eyes then drifted to the massive closet that wasbuilt into my new bedroom, and it reminded me of all the apartments I hadlooked at in New York City that contained bedrooms without closets. Myroommate, for example, had to build her own bedroom closet. She spent hoursdrafting it out and then buying rods, shelves, and hardware at Home Depot. Shetransported all of these items on the subway and then walked them down severalcity blocks and up two long flights of stairs. After hours of hammering andmeasuring she finally had her makeshift closet. It was small, yet functional.

I thought about her, and then noted the closet inmy new bedroom in Long Beach with its perfectly mirrored and rolling doors—theone that I had done absolutely nothing for—and I was thankful for it, too.

I then turned around and looked out the enormouswindow that was behind my bed, and my gratitude for this, especially, wasunbounded. My bedroom in New York had been windowless, and thus constant in itsdarkness, void of any natural light. I grew accustomed to it after a while, butnever actually enjoyed it. I missed those little glimpses of people and oftrees and of the outside world moving along at its usual pace. This largewindow in my new apartment afforded me all of these luxuries, and once again, Igave thanks.

My final dose of gratitude for that morning was forsomething I couldn’t see from where I was sitting, but that I was aware of,nonetheless. It was of the car my friend and her husband were letting me borrowfor the next ten months because her husband would be in Afghanistan that wholetime. I would get to use their car while saving up to buy my own, which gave mea much needed financial buffer zone. The timing of this opportunity and the wayit all came together so flawlessly was nothing short of miraculous. I couldn’thelp but be thankful for it.

Each bit of gratitude piled on top of the onebefore, and they made me blissfully, unavoidably happy. I wanted to take thatmoment and fold it neatly so that I could carry it around with me in my pocket.I wanted to frame it and display it proudly on my wall so that I might notforget.

The danger of forgetting both humbles me andsaddens me, as time inevitably passes and all that used to be extraordinary—mywindow, my bed, my closet—starts to feel commonplace. That’s why this year, onThanksgiving, I am warring against that most natural of impulses and I amchoosing to remember. I am choosing to bring myself back to that moment in mybedroom in Long Beach when, for the first time ever, I experienced the beautyand simplicity of being grateful for absolutely everything.

Persimmon and Hazelnut Tart

2011-11-06T15:32:00.000-08:00

My friend, Liz, has a persimmon tree in her backyard, and around this time of year, it starts producing boatloads of fruit. There are clusters of orange persimmons crowding out the branches, falling on to the grass below, and lining her kitchen counter top. Last month, she was eager to be rid of them and started handing them out to all of her friends.

I agreed to take four of them, but wasn't sure exactly how I would use them. Persimmon cookies seemed too boring; persimmon pudding or bread sounded good, yet neither were really calling out to me. Finally, I came upon a recipe for Hazelnut Plum Crumb Tart on the Smitten Kitchen food blog, and alas, my moment of inspiration struck. I followed the recipe almost entirely, but I baked it in a pie plate instead of a spring form cake pan. Then, I substituted persimmons for plums, and took out half a cube of butter and a few tablespoons of sugar, as I generally have want to do. If you've never tried slightly reducing the amount of butter and sugar you put in baked goods, go ahead and try it some time--I dare you! Prior experience tells me that you likely won't even miss it.

Also, if you're wondering where on earth you can find raw hazelnuts, look no further than your neighborhood Trader Joe's. It's yet another new TJ's product that I'm quite happy about.

Otherwise, you can substitute pecans, as this is a rather versatile recipe. For example, if you don't have persimmons, you can try using apples or pears or whatever other fruit your heart desires. If you come up with any winning combinations, please be sure to tell us about them in the comment box below :)

Happy baking!

Persimmon and Hazelnut Tart

Crust and Crumb Topping
1/2 cup unsalted butter, chilled
1/3 cup hazelnuts, toasted
1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 cup white sugar
1/3 cup firmly packed brown sugar
1/2 tsp. cinnamon
1/2 tsp. salt

Filling
4 ripe persimmons, peeled and thinly sliced
1 Tbsp. all-purpose flour
1/4 cup white sugar
1 egg, lightly beaten
1 egg yoke
1/3 cup heavy cream
1/4 cup milk
1/4 tsp. salt
1/4 tsp. cinnamon
a few pinches of nutmeg

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Place the hazelnuts on a cookie sheet and bake them for about 10-15 minutes. Let them cool for a few minutes and then remove their skins. Once they have cooled, the skin should slide right off.

Next, grind the nuts up into a paste with either a food processor, or a coffee grinder. Transfer the paste to a large mixing bowl and add all of the dry ingredients for the crust. Mix well, and then use a knife to cut in the chilled butter. Use an electric mixer on low speed in order to make sure everything is evenly combined. Then spread about 3 cups worth of the crumb mixture on to the bottom and sides of a 9 inch pie plate. There should be about 1 cup left to use for the crumb topping, and you can just set that aside for now.

Place the pie crust in the oven and bake for 15 minutes. Let it cool in the freezer while you make the persimmon filling.

Use a vegetable peeler to take the skin off the persimmons, then slice them thinly and dump them inside the cooled pie crust.

Get out a medium-sized bowl and combine all of the remaining ingredients from the filling section. Pour that mixture on top of the persimmons.

Then take the remaining crumb mixture and sprinkle it evenly on top.

Bake the persimmon tart for 45-50 minutes, or until the filling is set and the outside is a nice golden brown. Let it cool for at least 25 minutes before serving, and enjoy it the next day, either warm or chilled.

2009 Trader Joe's Reserve Carneros Pinot Noir

2011-10-18T15:22:00.000-07:00

Last night I had dinner at my friend Claire's apartment. She is a costume designer and lives in a cozy studio that doubles as her work space. The living room is an eclectic mix of couches, coffee tables, industrial sewing machines, and clothing mannequins. I felt inspired the moment I walked in the door, as the whole space seemed brimming with possibility.

The four of us that came for dinner that night gathered a midst it all. We chatted and ate pasta with smoked Gouda and red peppers, followed by a rich pumpkin bread pudding topped with chai flavored ice cream. Every last bit was incredible.

I took the evening as an opportunity to bring two new items from Trader Joe's that I've been dying to try: The 2009 TJ's Reserve Blend Carneros Pinot Noir, and Creamy Toscano Cheese Dusted With Cinnamon. We had these as appetizers and they were a match made in heaven. Allow me to explain:

Creamy Toscano Cheese Dusted With Cinnamon (around $4.07 per block; only available for a limited time at Trader Joe's)

Toscano cheese has a flavor similar to Parmesan, except its texture is a bit creamier, so it has enough moisture to be eaten on top of a cracker or a sliced baguette. Trader Joe's carries several variations of Toscano cheese -- one soaked in Syrah; one coated with black peppercorns -- but I had never seen one dusted with cinnamon before, and I thought it sounded intriguing. It turns out that the cinnamon isn't at all sweet. Since there isn't any added sugar, the cinnamon in the cheese takes on a rather earthy note, which pairs fantastically with the Pinot Noir.

2009 Trader Joe's Reserve Carneros Pinot Noir ($9.99 at Trader Joe's. Obviously.)

My favorite grocery store has a special relationship with many of the vineyards in California. When these vineyards -- even the well-known, high quality ones -- have an overstock of certain wines, they agree to sell them to Trader Joe's at a discounted cost, but the caveat is that they have to remain anonymous. That's why TJ's repackages the wine bottles with their own label and sells them at a significantly lower cost. In the end, everybody wins, especially us because we get to buy excellent wine for half the cost -- woohoo!

In addition, this wine is extra special because it's from the Carneros region of Napa Valley. This region is well-regarded within the wine industry for the consistent quality of grapes it produces, and if a wine is labeled "Carneros," it means that 85% of the grapes used to make it must have come from that region.

It was a light and smooth Pinot with lots of flavor complexity. It wasn't just fruity; it wasn't just earthy, but a nice blend of both. Most importantly, the lightness of the wine was perfect with the cinnamon cheese because it complemented the flavor, rather than overpowering it.That, my friends, is the key to a good wine pairing.

Some shots of Claire's apartment

Pumpkin Chili Recipe

2011-10-11T13:24:00.000-07:00

Pumpkin is my favorite time of year. There's just something about the spicy sweetness that I can't get enough of. It smells and tastes of fall, even when fall seems nowhere to be found in Southern California. Every October, I race to the store and stock up on all the best pumpkin goodies: pumpkin spice lattes; pumpkin scones; pumpkin pancake mix from Trader Joe's; and my latest favorite -- pumpkin chili.

While it may not be possible to buy pumpkin chili, you can certainly make it yourself, and it's quite cheap and simple. I used my mom's chili recipe, added a few extra seasonings (cinnamon and oregano), and substituted canned pumpkin in place of the tomato sauce and tomato paste. The result is a creamier chili dish with a burst of cinnamon mixed into the spicy aftertaste. If you've only ever used pumpkin in sweet baked goods, then I urge you to try this savory recipe. I have a feeling it will be a new fall favorite :)

Pumpkin Chili

1 1/4 lb. ground turkey
2 Tbsp. extra virgin olive oil
1/2 yellow onion, chopped
4 cloves garlic, minced
1 green bell pepper, chopped
15 oz can stewed tomatoes (reduced sodium)
15 oz can pumpkin, plus another 1 1/2 cups canned pumpkin
15 oz canned pinto beans (reduced sodium)
15 oz canned, dark kidney beans (reduced sodium)
15 oz canned corn, drained (reduced sodium)
1 1/2 Tbsp. cumin
3 1/2 Tbsp. chili powder
1 Tsp. cinnamon
2 tsp. oregano
1 tsp. crushed red pepper (optional)
crushed black pepper, to taste
a few pinches kosher salt, to taste

In a large pot, brown the ground turkey until it is fully cooked, then drain off any excess fat. Transfer the cooked turkey to a plate, then place the empty pot back on the stove. Add the olive oil and use it to saute the onion, bell pepper, and garlic.

Dump the turkey back into the pot, and then add all the canned items along with their juices. The only can that gets drained is the corn. Next, add all the seasonings and stir everything together. Reduce the heat to Low and allow the chili to simmer for 3-4 hours, stirring every 15 minutes, or so.

You will likely have lots of leftovers, and will find that the chili tastes even better the next day.
If you want some cornbread to go along with it, I love Marie Callender's Original mix. All you have to do is add water, and it comes out great!

Target + Warby Parker = Makeshift Vision Care for Super Cheap

2011-10-04T23:46:00.000-07:00

I'll start off by saying that, yes, this is a random blog post. It has nothing to do with food; it has nothing to do

with faith, or travel, or any of the other subjects I generally touch upon. It does, however, pay homage to

two of my very favorite things: saving money and helping people.

It all started when I realized that five whole years had passed since my last visit to the eye doctor. My primary reason for this hiatus is because I haven't had insurance since I was 25 years old, and have thus been avoiding paying the $400-$600 it usually costs to get an exam and a pair of glasses out of pocket. At this point, those of you with insurance are probably reading those numbers and thinking that I'm nuts; but I assure you that I am not. A simple pair of prescription glasses really does cost that much. Most places charge $100 for the exam, $200 for the frames, and another few hundred for the lenses.

For those of us who have opted for the non-traditional career path (READ: those of us without insurance), we are left to either pay those prices, or get creative. That's where Warby Parker comes in. Founded by a group of four graduates from the Wharton School of Business, Warby Parker is a start-up company based out of Manhattan. They have an online boutique that sells quality prescription glasses for $95 a pop, and in the spirit of Toms Shoes, for every pair that is purchased, they send another pair to someone in need.

According to their website, "Glasses are one of the most effective poverty alleviation tools in the world." When people have difficulty seeing, it generally follows that they have difficulty working and learning, as well. Over 1 billion people in this world do not have access to the glasses that they need, and Warby Parker has partnered with various organizations in order to send glasses to people in 36 different countries, including parts of the United States.

The glasses I'm wearing in the photo above, are indeed from Warby Parker. They cost me $95, and I absolutely love them. Thanks to Target Optical, I was able to get an eye exam for only $55, which brought my grand total to $150 for both the exam and glasses. Not too shabby, eh?

If you're uninsured, unemployed, or just looking to save a few bucks on vision care while helping somebody else out in the process, then follow my step-by-step guide to makeshift vision care below. Also, from my research, Target is the cheapest, but if you know of anywhere in Long Beach that does eye exams for even less, please leave the info in the comment section of this blog so that we can all benefit from it :)
Email me if you have any questions, and enjoy!

Step 1. If you live on the West Coast, call up your neighborhood Target and schedule a routine eye exam for $55.

Of all the millions of reasons that already exist for loving Target, here is yet another: their optical department has the cheapest eye exams in town. Granted, not all Targets have an optical department, so visit their website first to determine which one is closest to you.

* If you live on the East Coast, then lucky you because an eye exam only costs $20 at Cohen's Fashion Optical. Who knew something could actually be cheaper in New York City??

Step 2. Don't leave your eye exam without obtaining the following information:

Your written prescription
A measurement for your Pupillary Distance (don't worry, the doctor will know what that is)

Step 3. Browse the frame selection at WarbyParker.com, and then choose 5 different frames you might want to buy.

If you happen to live in Brooklyn, Manhattan, Portland, Boston, or San Francisco, then you can visit the local Warby Parker Showroom and try the glasses on in person.

If you don't live in one of those amazing cities, then go to their website and use the virtual try-on software that enables you to either upload your picture, or take one of yourself using the webcam at the top of your laptop. Once your picture is uploaded, you can click on each pair of glasses and it will give you a basic idea of what you might look like with them on.

Next, select your top 5 favorites, and Warby Parker will ship them to you for free. You then have 5 days to try them on and send them back after deciding which pair to ultimately buy.

Step 4. Have your prescription and pupillary distance (PD) handy, then follow the steps to place your final order online.

You can either type the prescription and PD in yourself, or have them contact your eye doctor. If you do choose to type it in, they also ask that you scan a copy of your prescription and attach it along with your order. Just a heads up.

Lastly, if you're wondering about the name, Warby Parker, it was apparently inspired by the writings of Jack Kerouac. On the website, they write: "Kerouac inspired a generation to take a road less traveled and to see the world through a different lens."

Um, yeah. Can I be any more in love with this company?
Probably not.

Adventures in Food at a New York City Story Slam

2011-09-19T15:55:00.000-07:00

After five months of Southern California living, I felt myself jonesing for a little East Coast fix. Last week, I flew out to New York City and got to stay in my old apartment with my old roommate. I spent a week eating at my favorite restaurants, walking down my favorite streets, and absorbing the beauty of September. It really is one of the best months of the year, weather-wise.

On my last night in the city, I went with my friend, Rachel, to an event that featured a winning combination: stories and food. It was opening night of The Moth's latest season of real people telling true stories -- live, and without any notes.

The Moth is a nonprofit organization that transports us back to our roots, to a time before writing and books, when the art of oral storytelling was all that there was. It began in 1996, when poet and novelist, George Dawes Green, invited a group of friends to an hour of storytelling in his New York City Apartment. Green had grown up listening to stories on the front porch of his childhood home in Georgia. He and his friends would gather as the sun was setting and the moths were fluttering around, searching for light. They would spend hours recounting tales of hope and heartache and whimsy.

The popularity of Green's story hours grew quickly in New York, and gradually moved from his apartment, to coffee shops, Podcasts, and radio hours. The event I attended last Tuesday night was held at The Great Hall at Cooper Union, a building that dates back to 1858 and has watched many a United States president grace its stage. Even Abraham Lincoln has given a speech at The Great Hall.

Of course, the one downside to this awesomely historic building is that it holds close to 1,000 people, yet has only one bathroom. Believe me when I say that intermission was not a pretty sight. The line for the women's restroom seemed to linger into infinity.

On all other accounts, my first experience with The Moth was incredible. The theme for the evening was "Food Adventures of Epic Portions," and it was hosted by Padma Lakshmi, who is also the host of Top Chef. The storytellers for the evening were an eclectic mix of writers, stand-up comics, chefs, and New York City police chiefs. They each had 10 minutes to tell a food-related tale, the most moving of which was the story told by Steve Osbourne, a police lieutenant in Harlem. He was short and burly, with a bald head and an infectious smile. He walked on stage, paused for a moment, and then threw his hands out in a welcoming gesture to the audience.

"How you doin'?" he asked in a thick, New York accent.

A few people cheered, and the rest grinned and sat back in their seats as Osbourne recounted his personal experience of living through September 11th. He described the intricacies of his job as a law enforcement officer, and of the invisible wall he has to maintain between himself and his emotions.

On the morning of September 11th, directly after the Twin Towers had been hit, Osbourne had to pry himself away from his distraught and tearful wife and head to work. As he was running out the door, she told him to wait so that she could at least make him a sandwich.

The moment she said those words, he knew that if he stayed and watched her make that sandwich, his emotional wall would be broken, and he wouldn't be able to leave her.

"There's just something so human and so nurturing about making another person a meal," he said.

So, he didn't wait. Instead, he took a moment, gathered his composure, and walked out the door before she could even start.

A day later, Osbourne said that MacDonalds had set up a tent on the outskirts of Ground Zero and were handing out Happy Meals to all the rescue workers. When it was his turn for a break, he ate his way through the burger and fries, savoring every bite.

At the very bottom of the Happy Meal box, Osbourne peered inside and found a piece of folded construction paper. He opened it up to find a drawing done in crayon. It featured two towers with smoke coming out of the tops of them, and two stick figures standing right beside them. Underneath it, written in a child's printing, were the words, "Thank you. You are my hero."

As he held the drawing in his hands, he could feel his emotional wall beginning to crumble. Before he could stop it, before he could even try to reassemble it, a powerful surge of emotions ran through him, and he started to weep. He sat there for a few minutes, holding his head in his hands and sobbing -- as discreetly as possible, of course.

Osbourne was a police lieutenant, after all, and needed to maintain at least some semblance of his macho facade.

By the end of his story, most of the crowd was dabbing their eyes, and he was the only speaker of the evening to gain a partial standing ovation.

Food was not the central subject of Osbourne's narrative, but for celebrity chef, David Chang, it played a starring role in his account of the triumphs and heartaches of owning four restaurants in New York City.
Chang is the mastermind behind the Momofuku noodle bars throughout the Lower East Side, as well as one, high-end restaurant in Midtown Manhattan. In 2007, he was named Chef of the Year by Bon Appetit and GQ magazines, and has won two James Beard Awards, which are essentially, the Oscars of cooking.

Chang gave an earnest account of the night, Jean-Luc Naret, director of the Michelin Restaurant Guides, came in for a surprise dinner at one of his restaurants. Chang and his cooks were eager to impress him, as the Michelin Guide had already granted them 2 stars earlier that year. The highest number they give out is 3 stars, and only six restaurants in all of Manhattan have been given that honor.

When Naret finished his meal, he asked Chang if he would be interested in receiving a third star in the Michelin Guide.

At that point in the story, the ever-humble, David Chang, peered at the audience with a stunned look in his eyes, and let out an ironic laugh.

"How was I supposed to answer that?" he asked. "If I said no, and told him I was content with having 2 stars, he would think I was lazy."

The audience laughed.

"But, in all honesty," Chang continued, "I didn't know if I wanted a third. Once you get a third star, the pressure's on. You're expected to perform at a certain level, all the time, and it means you're at the very top -- so there's nowhere left to go but down."

I smiled; it was so true. The paradox of success.

In spite of all that, Chang couldn't let the opportunity slide. He told Naret they would love to earn a third star one day, and would work hard to achieve it. He then concluded his story with the ominous declaration that the Michelin Guide both gives and takes away. From year to year, not a single restaurant knows if they will keep their stars or lose them. In a few more weeks, the 2012 Guide will be released, and all Chang can do at this point, is wait.

As the evening of storytelling came to a close, it was 10p.m. and Rachel and I were hungry. Who wouldn't be after two and a half hours of talking about food?

Feeling famished and inspired, we exited the doors of the Great Hall at Cooper Union, and did something that is only possible in amazing cities like New York: We got out Rachel's iphone, looked up the address, and walked a few short blocks to have dinner at David Chang's Momofuku Noodle Bar.

Rachel got the Ramen Bowl, and I got the Ginger Scallion Noodles. They tasted of garlic mixed with vinegar, from the pickled Shiitake mushrooms. They were warm and soothing and flavorful. The perfect way to end my trip to NYC.

P.S.
In addition to hosting seasoned storytellers, The Moth also sponsors StorySlams in major cities throughout the U.S., whereby audience members who are drawn at random have the opportunity to tell a 5-minute story to a live audience.Their story are generally based around one central theme, such as "Struggles", "First Times", or "Near Death Experiences". At the end of the evening, a panel of judges votes to decide who was the ultimate storyteller. If you're interested in attending a Moth event in the Los Angeles area,
check out their website for details: http://themoth.org/events

Summer Favorites

2011-08-16T14:37:00.000-07:00

For this blog post, I'm going to try something a little different. Rather than showcasing one recipe or one wine, I'm giving a quick summary of all my favorite food and beverage discoveries of the summer. I've had lots of free time to experiment with new recipes and read cookbooks that use flavor combinations I never would have thought of. I've also been frequenting the local farmers markets and indulging in all the nectarines, watermelons, and blueberries I can possibly handle. It's been fun and savory, and made me incredibly grateful that I'm able to bike off all the calories as I ride around town! Without further ado, here are some of my current favorites, and I hope that you are able to try them and enjoy them before summer comes to a close:

1) Bok Choy and Pineapple Slaw

This recipe was in the July issue of Real Simple Magazine, and I've adapted some of the amounts of the ingredients. It's fresh and sweet and you will likely find yourself eating bowl after bowl of it.

3 raw baby bok choys, thinly sliced (use everything except the core at the very bottom)
3/4 of a pineapple, cut into small cubes
1 cup fresh cilantro leaves, diced
3 Tbsp. Extra Virgin Olive Oil
a few pinches of Kosher salt
Fresh ground pepper, to taste
pinch of red pepper flakes (optional)

Toss all the ingredients into a large bowl, mix thoroughly, and let sit in the fridge for a minimum of 15 minutes
before serving.

2) Wailua Wheat Ale by Kona Brewing Co. (on sale at BevMo, $6.99 for a 6-pack; regularly $8.69)

At first glance, it may look like your typical wheat ale, but what sets this Hawaiian beer apart from say, a Hefeweizen or a Blue Moon, is the tropical passion fruit that's added to every batch. It's super refreshing, and takes wheat beer to a whole new level.

3) My Father's Daughter: Delicious, Easy Recipes Celebrating Family and Togetherness

Gwyneth Paltrow's new cookbook is awesome. She provides a million healthy alternatives for everything under the sun, yet still manages to make it sound and taste really good. She'll have you substituting Agave syrup for sugar; spelt flour for regular white flour; adding flax seed to random meals; roasting heads of cauliflower; and eating entire bowls of brown rice and kale. Yes, she does use meat, though it is always organic, and the ingredients are bordering on gourmet, but the recipes are rather simple, and everything I've tried so far has been rich and flavorful. Below, is one of my favorites from her cook book, and once again, I changed some of the amounts of certain ingredients:

Best Stir-Fried Chicken over Fried Rice With Kale and Scallions

Fried Rice With Kale and Scallions
2 1/2 cups water
1 1/4 cups uncooked brown rice
10 0z. bag cleaned and cut kale from Trader Joe's
2 Tbsp. Canola Oil
2 cloves garlic, peeled and finely minced
3 green onions, chopped
2 Tbsp. soy sauce

Put the water on to boil for the rice. Once it boils, add the rice, cover and cook on low heat for 40 minutes. While the rice is cooking, add a small amount of water to a large pot and steam the kale for 7 minutes. Once it's cooked, drain the water and put it back on the heat. Turn it up to medium heat and add the canola oil, garlic, and green onion. Saute until garlic and onion are soft. Once the rice is finished, add it to the kale mixture and then toss in the soy sauce. Stir everything together and set it aside while you cook the chicken.

Best Stir-Fried Chicken
2 large organic chicken breasts, cut into small cubes
2 Tbsp. corn starch
pinch Kosher salt
fresh black pepper
1 Tbsp. Canola Oil
9 cloves (or 1/4 cup) garlic, peeled and minced
3 inch piece of ginger, peeled and minced
2 green onions, chopped
crushed red pepper flakes, to taste
1/2 cup rice vinegar
1/2 cup firmly packed, dark brown sugar
2 Tbsp. soy sauce
large handful, fresh cilantro leaves, coarsely chopped

In a medium-sized bowl, toss the chicken, cornstarch, salt, and pepper. Heat canola oil in a large, nonstick frying pan or wok over medium heat (as Gwyneth puts it,"this is a gentle stir fry"). Add garlic, ginger, green onions, and chili flakes and saute for 1 minute. Add the chicken and stir fry until cooked all the way through.

Add vinegar, sugar, and about 6 grinds of black pepper. Boil on high for 3 minutes until the sugar has carmelized and the vinegar has mellowed. The whole mixture should be dark brown and sticky. Add the soy sauce and cook for another 30 seconds. Serve over the fried rice and top with fresh cilantro.

4) Broadbent Vinho Verde (on sale for $7.99 at BevMo; regularly $9.99)

I first learned about Vinho Verde when I was living in New York. I worked at a South American restaurant called Nuela, and we were the only restaurant in Manhattan to feature a wine list composed solely of wines from South America, Spain, and Portugal. Vinho Verde is a white table wine from Portugal, and I loved it the moment I tried it. Just as in Spanish, "verde" means green in Portuguese, and the wine is affectionately called that because it is young and is meant to be consumed directly after it's been made. The Broadbent bottle doesn't even have a date on it, which means that it was likely made this year or last.

This bottle has a light, refreshing taste with a little dose of fizzyness resulting from the carbon dioxide that wine makers add to it right before bottling. It pairs well with seafood and salads, which makes it the perfect wine to sip on a hot summer day.

For the Love of Food Trucks

2011-07-18T17:11:00.000-07:00

I'll admit that the whole food truck phenomenon is not something I have been steadily following. Unlike my roommate, Brigid, who wrote a killer piece about the rise of the food tuck scene in Los Angeles over a year ago, my problem with them was a matter of logistics. I wasn't in the mood to track these trucks on twitter and drive all the way out to whatever random street they happened to be parked on. It seemed silly. It was too much work.

Last weekend, however, 20-30 different food trucks graced the city of Long Beach with their presence, and I will gladly say that it was worth the mile walk from my apartment to Rainbow Lagoon. The Long Beach Street Food Fest was held last Saturday afternoon and was sponsored by the Long Beach Junior Chamber Charitable Foundation. Admission to the festival was $7, and all the proceeds benefited the Adopt a Teacher Program, the AIDS Food Store of Long Beach, and student scholarships to Long Beach City College.

Once inside, the cost of whatever you wanted to eat from the food trucks was entirely separate, and I'll admit I did quite a bit of splurging that day -- in terms of spending and calories! It was hard not to. Eating at a food truck festival is like embarking on a culinary adventure. Most all the food is gourmet, and involves fusions of multiple cuisines. Think: Asian sauces meet Mexican concepts; thus, the Korean taco was born on a food truck that also serves quesadillas and nachos with an Asian twist.

A "Chimale," as in Chinese Mexican tamale by Don Chow Tacos food truck

One of my favorite dishes of the day was from the meatball truck called Great Balls on Tires. It stands to reason that everything this truck creates is amazing, as they happen to have a celebrity chef that developed the menu. The dish I tried and loved was also a fusion concept that took the Italian meatball and infused it with a bit of Middle Eastern flair. They call it the Ballywood and it comes with two, chicken Masala meatballs served with coconut curry, cilantro chutney, and Basmati rice. It was heaven, and it only cost $5.50.

Where to find it: On Monday nights, they're parked at 1348 14th Street, Santa Monica, CA. Otherwise, check their website or twitter stream.

My second favorite truck was Auntie's Fry Bread, which features Native American cuisine. It was rated Food Truck of the Week by Zagat, and was started by a family from Montana who had been making fry bread for over twenty years. Fry bread is sort of a cross between funnel cake and pizza dough, but isn't as dense. It's airy and fluffy, with a slight sweetness to the batter. The full-sized fry breads looked huge and intimidating, so I opted for the 3-inch slider version, which was topped with their signature chili, lettuce, tomato, and cheese -- the perfect mixture of sweet, savory, and spicy. It came with two sliders and also cost $5.50. My advice: track this truck down and try it! You won't find anything else like it.

Where to find it: All over the place! Check their website or twitter stream

Moving on to dessert, my top pick of the day was an ice cream sandwich truck called Chunk-n-Chip. In the world of food trucks, it is practically a senior citizen as it has been operating since 2007. Most other L.A.-based trucks started within the last year or two. Chunk-n-Chip makes their own cookies with all natural ingredients and serves them with various flavors of ice cream stuffed between them. They also boast of using biodegradable spoons and paper products, and only buy ice cream tubs made of reusable plastic. I ate the Mumbo Jumbo which features chocolate brownie cookies and peanut butter cup ice cream. The cookies had a hint of cinnamon mixed in with the chocolate, which really stood out. If I were to do it over again, I would probably get the same peanut butter cup ice cream, but with regular chocolate chip cookies instead.
The cost of this delectable treat? $4

Where to find it: This week, they will be in Orange County at the OC Fair on Thursday, and parked in front of Best Buy in Fullerton on Friday. Otherwise, check their website or twitter stream.

If you're interested in potentially starting your own food truck, or just want to learn about how it works, check out the Frysmith food truck's website for their 3-part blog series on start-up costs, licensure, city regulations, marketing techniques, etc.

Lastly, if you live in the area and are bummed that you missed out, fear not! Long Beach will be hosting yet another Street Food Fest on Sunday, October 9th, from 10:30am - 5:00pm.
I know I'll be there. With bells on.

My roommate, Brigid, and me

Mango Chicken Curry (paired with Hogue Riesling)

2011-05-17T13:47:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, I attended the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books. As I was browsing through the tents full of $5 books, I was lucky enough to come across this gem of a cookbook: Williams-Sonoma New Flavors for Chicken. Not only are the recipes arranged by season so that you can theoretically buy all the ingredients for them in farmers markets, but there is also a wine pairing glossary in the very back that tells you what wines to drink with every single recipe, along with flavor profile for each wine that explains why it pairs so well.

I pretty much died and went to cookbook heaven.

In the Spring section, there is a recipe for "Thai Green Curry With Chicken and Asparagus." I borrowed a few elements from that recipe, and combined them with a few elements from another recipe I found off the Allrecipes website, and voilà! An excellent rendition of one of my favorite dishes was born.

Next, I needed to find a wine to go with it. The Williams-Sonoma cookbook was suggesting a light German wine with high acidity to balance the spiciness. I was originally hoping for a Gewürztraminer, but as luck would have it, they were all out of that varietal at the wine shop down the street from my apartment. Thankfully, the manager over at District Wine was able to suggest a nice, light Riesling from Washington State, and it turned out to be the perfect combination.

2009 Hogue Riesling ($8.99 at BevMo)

According to my Wine Bible, all the rainfall that is typically associated with the state of Washington happens in the western part, leaving the eastern half of Washington with an average rainfall of only 6 inches per year! It is in this drier part of the state that all of the vineyards are located, and over the past few decades, Washington has made quite a name for itself in the wine-making industry.

Rieslings generally have a low alcohol content with fruity flavors and high acidity. They can be either dry or sweet, which is characterized by the amount of residual sugar in each bottle. Anything under 2 percent residual sugar is considered a dryer Riesling, and anything over that is considered sweet. Some German dessert Rieslings can have upwards of 30 percent residual sugar.

The Hogue Riesling from Columbia Valley has only 2 percent, giving it a perfect balance of sweetness and crispness. The flavors of apricots noted in the wine also apired nicely with the mangoes and the coconut milk-base of the curry sauce. With mangoes being in season and currently on sale at most grocery stores, go grab some and give this recipe a whirl!

Mango Chicken Curry

1 cup uncooked brown rice
2 Tbsp. canola oil
1 yellow onion, chopped
1 red pepper, chopped
2 chicken breasts cut into bite-sized pieces
fresh ground black pepper, to taste
4 Tbsp. red curry paste (you can find this at Whole Foods)
2 Tbsp. Asian fish sauce (you can find this at Whole Foods)
2 tsp. grated ginger root
3 cloves garlic, minced
1/8 tsp. cayenne pepper (optional)
2 mangoes, chopped and peeled
14 oz. can lite coconut milk
2 Tbsp. tomato paste

Put two cups of water on to boil in a sauce pan. Once it starts boiling, add the brown rice, reduce it to a simmer, cover and cook for 40 minutes, or until all the water is absorbed.

Saute onion and red pepper in canola oil until softened. Add the chicken and cook until it is browned on both sides, seasoning with black pepper as you stir it. Add the curry paste, fish sauce, ginger, garlic, and cayenne. Stir and continue cooking for about 5 minutes on med-low heat. next, stir in the mangoes, coconut milk, and tomato paste, then reduce heat, and let the sauce simmer until the rice is finished cooking.

Top each serving of rice with the curry sauce, and enjoy!

Shauna Niequist's Ode to Artists

2011-05-05T13:56:00.000-07:00

Last December when my friend Brittney came to visit me in New York, she suggested I read a book by a writer named Shauna Niequist. Shauna has written two memoirs. Both are beautiful essay collections, small snippets of her life and faith. I relate a lot to her voice and her style and sometimes when I'm stuck with my own writing and I can't find my voice, I pick up one of her books and she slowly helps me find it. She points me in the right direction and reminds me why I am writing in the first place.

In her first book, Cold Tangerines, tucked away in one of the final chapters, she presents what I would call an "Ode to Artists." I love it so much that I decided to share a small section of it here in hopes that you might find just as much inspiration from it as I did:

"We're desperate for great storytellers, great painters, great dancers, great cooks, because art does something nothing else does.

"Art slips past our brains straight into our bellies. It weaves itself into our thoughts and feelings and the open spaces in our souls, and it allows us to live more and say more and feel more. Great art says the things that we wished someone would say out loud, the things we wish we could say out loud . . .

"Art matters, art does, so deeply. It's one of the noblest things, because it can make us better, and one of the scariest things, because it comes from such a deep place inside of us. There's nothing scarier than that moment you sing the song for the very first time, for your roommate or your wife, or when you let someone see the painting, and there are a few very long silent moments when they haven't yet said what they think of it, and in those few moments, time stops and you quit painting, you quit singing forever, in your head, because it's so fearful and vulnerable, and then someone says, essentially, thank you and keep going, and your breath releases, and you take back everything you said in your head about never painting again, about never singing again, and at least for that moment, you feel like you did what you came to do, in a cosmic, very big sense.

"I know that life is busy and hard, and that there's crushing pressure to just settle down and get a real job and khaki pants and a haircut. But don't. Please don't. Please keep believing that life can be better, brighter, broader, because of the art that you make. Please keep demonstrating the courage that it takes to swim upstream in a world that prefers putting away for retirement to putting pen to paper, that chooses practicality over poetry, that values you more for going to the gym than going to the deepest places in your soul. Please keep making art for people like me, people who need the magic and imagination and honesty of great art to make the day-to-day world a little more bearable.

"And if, for whatever reason, you've stopped---stopped believing in your voice, stopped fighting to find the time---start today. I bought a mug for my friend, from the Paper Source in Chicago (which is, by the way, a fabulous playground for creative people), and the mug says, 'Do something creative every day.' Do that. Do something creative every day, even if you work in a cubicle, even if you have a newborn, even if someone told you a long time ago that you're not an artist, or you can't sing, or you have nothing to say. Those people are bad people, and liars, and we hope they develop adult-onset acne really bad. Everyone has something to say. Everyone. Because everyone, every person was made by God, in the image of God. If he is a creator, and in fact he is, then we are creators, and no one, not even a bad seventh-grade English teacher or a harsh critic or jealous competitor, can take that away from you . . .

"'Thank you for writing, for taking the time and spirit and soul to write, because I love to read, and I'm so thankful to writers like you, for writing things for me to read. And keep going. Even when people make you feel like it's not that important. It might be the most important thing you do. Keep going.'

"So to all the secret writers, late-night painters, would-be singers, lapsed and scared artists of every stripe, dig out your paintbrush, or your flute, or your dancing shoes. Pull out your camera or your computer or your pottery wheel. Today, tonight, after the kids are in bed or when your homework is done, or instead of one more video game or magazine, create something, anything.

"Pick up a needle and thread, and stitch together something particular and honest and beautiful, because we need it. I need it.

"Thank you, and keep going."

Diary of My Camera Fatalities

2011-04-18T18:24:00.000-07:00

I love to take pictures. Looking back, I can't pinpoint the exact moment when I discovered this passion, but I do know that it was born during the semester that I studied abroad in Europe. Perhaps it was because Europe forced me to pay attention to the world around me in a way that the United States never had. While I was studying in Florence, I walked slowly, I examined arches and doorways, I became enchanted by crowded piazzas, I savored every bite of food. It all fascinated me to the point that I just had to capture it. I had to immortalize the way the sun was angled over the Arno River as it set into the Tuscan hillside, or the way that April in Paris was filled with white-blossomed trees that surrounded the Notre Dame. I couldn't allow myself to be the only one who saw this; these moments had to be shared.

Almost a decade later, I still haven't taken an actual photography class, but I've experimented with different settings, read instructional books, taken thousands of pictures, and mourned the loss of three different cameras.

The first I lost because I was being silly and irresponsible. It was a small, pink Nikon Coolpix, the kind Ashton Kutcher is always sporting in his commercials. I took it on my very first trip to New York City and decided that it was far too much of a pain to keep the camera in my purse, so I decided to slip it in my coat pocket instead because it gave me easy access. Granted, it meant I had to keep a watchful eye on it, always double-checking my pocket to make sure it was still there at various points throughout the day. It stayed firmly in place for the majority of the trip, but one fateful day, I ended up losing it in the 3-story playground that is Forever 21 in Union Square.

My friend Alena and I ran around the store for hours, trying on clothes, fishing for sizes, lavishing each other with compliments. During the course of it all, my camera fell out of my pocket, never to be seen again. I still wonder if someone swiped it, or if it innocently fell into a pile of sweaters and was discovered, weeks later, by one of the salesgirls. I guess I will never know, but I did buy a replacement for it and that camera quickly suffered an even worse fate.

Shortly after buying it, I went to visit my parents in Northern California and decided one afternoon to take my sister-in-law's dog for a walk. His name is Tommy and he is a small yellow mutt with bundles of energy.

While I was walking him, I figured it would be the perfect opportunity to photograph the little lamb that lived down the street at our neighbor's house. This lamb had become the talk of the town because it had been raised like a dog, and was rumored to behave like one. Essentially, the lamb's mother had abandoned it because she wasn't able to feed it, so my parents' neighbors decided they would care for it themselves. They bottle-fed the lamb and even allowed it to sleep in their bed when it was first born.

As a result of all their tender loving care, this lamb developed a strong bond with them and absolutely adored humans. In addition, it palled around with their pet dog, and whenever anyone walked past their fence, it was rumored that the lamb and dog would come over in tandem, bleating and barking and begging to be pet.

The sappy female inside me was positively dying to photograph this.

So I gathered Tommy and my camera and off we went. Just as predicted, I was greeted by the energetic pair of animals who literally tripped over each other with excitement. The lamb was every bit as cute as I'd hoped, and I picked up my camera, attempting to photograph the erratic animal that kept moving and bleating, and doing the very opposite of what I wanted it to do, which was sit quietly and pose.

In my other hand was Tommy's leash, and just as I was about to score the perfect picture, Tommy saw something that interested him and decided to lunge violently, tugging on his leash. The sudden jerk surprised me and pulled me forward a few steps, causing me to loosen the grip I had on my camera -- just the tiniest bit. Before I knew it, the camera had slipped from my fingers and crashed onto the pavement below.

It took me a while after that to buy a new one, but when I did, I decided I was going to splurge and get one that took killer night photos and had an awesome zoom lens. I vowed to take impeccable care of it, and even paid extra money for the Best Buy insurance policy, just in case I didn't. I figured I had all my bases covered, and have thoroughly enjoyed using it for the past eighteen months that I've owned it. Together, we have photographed San Francisco, Seattle, Portland, and New York City. I can certainly say that my food blog would not have been as colorful or as interesting without it. However, I am sad to report that during a recent trip to Costa Rica, my third camera suffered an unexpected demise.

I was a bridesmaid in my friend's Costa Rican wedding, and was naturally snapping pictures all throughout the reception. Towards the end of the night, the groomsmen started to get a little drunk and feisty and decided it would be fun to throw Dan, the groom, into the pool.

The second I caught wind of this scheme, I picked up my camera and headed for the poolside. I got some decent shots of Dan being flung in the water, and even one of the bride when she decided to jump in and join him. The rest is a complete daze because all I know is that I somehow got caught amidst a group of rowdy wedding attendees who were trying to shove people into the pool.

I don't know what happened to everybody else, but I do know they succeeded in shoving me into the pool, right along with my camera, which was fully submerged.

Words cannot express my grief at that moment. I was thankful that I was sopping wet and that my mascara was running anyways because I was crying up a storm and it was conveniently disguised. The worst part about it was that I couldn't blame myself. In the other two circumstances, there were clearly things that I could have done differently, but in this situation, I was coming up short. My camera was ruined simply because fate had rendered it so. And that just didn't seem fair.

My friends at the wedding were quick to offer advice. We tried sticking my camera in a bowl of rice so that it might absorb some of the water. Apparently, it works wonders for iphones that have gotten wet.We removed the battery and the memory card and were able to preserve all of the pictures I had taken. Dan's brother even offered his fancy camera cleaning kit, and dried out all the parts and crevices as best he could.
But all of it was to no avail. I turned the camera on and was met by a foggy gray screen instead of a view finder.

Just as I was escalating into a deeper fit of depression, I remembered something: my Best Buy insurance policy.

It ended up being the best $70 I ever spent. I turned my camera in to the Geek Squad and they spent about a week trying to fix it. When that didn't work, they gave me a giftcard that matched the value of my camera, and low and behold, I was able to buy the newer, updated model for a very small amount of additional money. This new one shoots high definition video and has a 36x zoom lens. I combined the giftcard with a 10% coupon I had received in the mail, and was able to get a brand new, $400 Nikon P500, for a grand total of $50. Not a bad deal. And finally a bit of silver lining to a very, very dark cloud.

Dedicated to All of My Favorite New Yorkers

2011-03-02T14:15:00.000-08:00

Well, it’s been three months since my last blog post, and a lot has changed in my life. As most of you know, I decided to move back to Southern California, and it hasn’t been the easiest of decisions. When I flew home on Monday, I actually had a mini-breakdown at JFK that involved the airport security guard kindly informing me that I had a wine opener in my carry-on. It had a small knife blade and was therefore considered a weapon. He told me I could either pay thirty dollars to check the bag—“Was the wine opener worth it?”—he asked. Or, I could simply give it up.

That was when I lost it and started crying.

“Maybe I should give you some time to think about it,” he said.

But there wasn’t any thinking about it because I knew I couldn’t justify paying thirty dollars to keep a wine opener that I had gotten for free from the restaurant where I worked.

“But if it has sentimental value,” he continued.

He was quite possibly the nicest security guard I have ever met, and as I walked away from him, rolling my carry-on, tears steadily flowing, it occurred to me that this was not at all about the wine opener. It was about loss. It was about the fact that I was leaving something that I hadn’t realized I valued so intensely.

That something was New York City and all of the amazing experiences I had there. The friendships, the heartache, the struggles, the drama. I was humbled, I was unemployed, I grew spiritually, I was forced outside my comfort zone, I landed a steady writing gig, I found a little romance, I made some amazing friendships. It was sort of like living an entire lifetime in only six months. That’s how jam-packed it was. That’s how full it was. And I am incredibly grateful for all of it, and am mourning the loss.

I didn’t expect that the city and the people I met would get under my skin so much, but I’m really glad that they did. I filled my final days in New York with packing and working and drinking and talking till 4:00a.m. on multiple evenings. As a result, I didn’t have any time to process what I was feeling, or to actually recognize the reality that I was closing this very short chapter of my life.

Many claim that living in New York can be a lonely, isolating experience, but I never found that to be true. On the contrary, I saw it as a city marked with solidarity—with a collective yearning that cries out from its vagabond group of citizens who are all adapting to the weirdness together. The schlepping, the lack of sunshine, the tiny apartments without windows, the exorbitant rent prices, the delayed and re-routed subways, the proverbial light at the end of all our tunnels. The one that flickers and fades with each passing day, as some grow closer to where they wish to be and others remain stagnant, or simply fight just to keep going.

I think of New York City as one great paragon of desire. It’s the starving artist hoping for the success story. The American Dream, sweetly spun. In many ways, this makes it the very opposite of Los Angeles, where people can be rather lazy and blinded by the sunshine. As someone who has spent most of her life in that environment, I developed a strong appreciation for the dedication and determination I saw in most of the New Yorkers I encountered. The fellow writers I met at coffee shops in Brooklyn; the friends who tireless auditioned for plays; the dancers who spent eight hours waiting tables and then went to ballet and tango classes in the evenings.

It's never easy, and the city of Manhattan doesn't make it any easier. Sometimes I think of Manhattan as a great big bully that’s taunting and haughty and unrelenting. It likes to push and prod its inhabitants—especially its newcomers—flexing its muscles and putting them in their place. The city knows it is the possessor of many people’s dreams. It holds them in its hand and often dangles them in their faces.

“You want this?” Manhattan asks. “Then you’re gonna have to sacrifice for it.”

And somehow, we all agree to its terms. At least for a while, anyway. In the process, many get weeded out, or they simply get tired of playing its games. On my good days in Manhattan, I played, and I did so with my head held high, even in spite of what the city was asking of me. When I first moved out from California, I worked a crazy serving job that required me to spend eleven-hour days on my feet, scrape gum off the underside of tables, and get home at two in the morning. All for the glorious sum of five dollars an hour, plus tips.

On other days, I was not so cooperative, and rather than dealing with Manhattan’s crap, I was more likely to give it the middle finger. “You can take your dreams and shove them,” I would say.

Those were the days when I could almost feel the city smiling down on me, saying, “Good. It certainly took you long enough.”

My pastor puts it this way: “When you first come to New York, it will beat you up and kick you down until you feel like you just can’t take it anymore. And then, one day, it will open it’s arms wide and say, ‘Welcome!’”

Then he adds, “But the majority of people leave before that actually happens.”

Indeed, it is one of the most transient cities in the nation. People come from all over the United States and all over the world to chase success in New York City. They sleep in bedrooms that aren’t really bedrooms but are more like closets that fit little more than a bed. They pay around $900 a month for these closets—if they’re lucky.

They sacrifice modern conveniences like elevators and dish washers, and basic joys of life that the rest of society likely takes for granted, such as staring at the stars or having a little garden in the backyard.

The pressures of city life, coupled with the less-than-ideal living conditions, are enough to drive some to tears. I spent many a Sunday afternoon with the girls in my Bible study group crying and talking, crying and praying, crying and laughing, and then crying a little more. There were generally around 10-15 of us, and none of us were born in Manhattan. All of us had come here to pursue various things, and all of us had rotating breakdowns.

Some weeks we were confused; some weeks we were jobless; and some weeks we were incredibly excited because one of us had landed a really great role in a play, or met a cute guy, or been published for the first time. And we celebrated those moments just as passionately as we cried.

I loved those afternoons with those women. In a way, I think the backdrop of New York City actually enriched them. It gave them a larger context and allowed them to shine brighter. They were prime examples of beauty and triumph breaking through—in spite of Manhattan being a big old bully.

The more I started to pay attention, the more I began to see that those moments were all around me as I walked through the streets, rode the subway, and went about my day in New York City. They could be found in the random street musicians having a jam session at 1:00a.m. in the middle of the subway platform. Plucking away at their instruments, smiling, tapping their feet, closing their eyes, and harmonizing as their whole bodies started to move and sway to the beats that they were creating. There was so much joy stemming from them that it seemed to multiply and spread throughout the subway platform. It motivated the elderly gentleman with his white hair and glasses to start smiling and quietly singing along. It motivated the hipster girl with the side ponytail and the flashy, 80s-inspired jewelry to open up her wallet and drop a little offering into their guitar case before stepping onto the next train.

Yet, I never expected to be as sad as I am to leave. If someone would have asked me a few weeks ago to describe my attitude toward the city in two words or less, I would have said, “cool” and “unattached.” I found rather quickly that living in Manhattan wasn’t for me. Not that I didn’t love it for what it was and all it had to offer, but I could never quite visualize myself planting roots and building a life there.

Manhattan, to me, is the absolute perfect place to vacation because it is all about indulgence, and because I don’t know that I could have loved it until I knew that I was going to be leaving. Leaving took the pressure off of our relationship.

When I first moved out and was fully dedicated to the idea of living there forever, I became despondent and slightly resentful. I had a hard time enjoying myself because I was too busy squirming and fighting and trying to adapt, while at the same time not really wanting to. I was slightly in denial of my feelings for months. I smothered my desire to leave and hoped it would go away, or at the very least be cajoled into some form of cooperation. But, I believe that trying to convince yourself to love a city is a bit like trying to convince yourself to love a person. It either happens naturally, or not at all.

Ultimately, I am a California girl at heart and it’s nothing personal against Manhattan. Of course, if Manhattan were a human being, I highly doubt it would take this personally. The city is far, far too sure of itself for that.

Its residents, however, are a bit more protective of it, and I don’t blame them for a moment. I get over-protective of Long Beach, and will forever be a faithful advocate of it. I get defensive when people start calling it ghetto and making references to Snoop Dogg. I remind them that it is a city of 500,000 people with poverty and million dollar homes and everything in between. Like a proud parent whose child just took his first step, I brag about Long Beach with all the same ardor. Because of all the cities I have ever been to, I love it the most. It’s comfort; it’s home; it just feels right. In many ways, my decision to move back is a lot more about what Long Beach is, than what New York isn’t.

On that note, I want to close by sharing some photographs I took of New York City in all its uniqueness and grandeur:

Views from the Manhattan Bridge

A little Williamsburg graffiti

My roommate on Halloween

Upper Manhattan, on the way to the Cloisters

Central Park in fall

At the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade

a window display at Bergdorf Goodman

Christmas at Rockefeller Center

Commemorating September 11th

Sunset on the Hudson River

Walking the Brooklyn Bridge

Me and my roommate, who I will miss very much :)

Post Road Pumpkin Ale With Butternut Squash Lasagna

2010-11-05T10:26:00.000-07:00

Since my wine blog seems to have evolved into more of a commentary on life in New York, I figured I could branch out one degree further by reviewing beer this week -- Post Road Pumpkin Ale from the Brooklyn Brewery, to be exact.

I will be the first to admit that I know very little about beer. Sure, I've been working in restaurants for years, serving it to millions of customers, and partaking in a few pints myself during respective happy hours, but I honestly have no idea how it is made or what exactly constitutes a "good" beer. Of course, I have my taste buds to guide me, but my particular taste buds generally gravitate toward wheat beers with ubiquitous pieces of citrus fruit along the rims, much to the chagrin of many of my male friends.

With that in mind, I decided that I couldn't possibly respect myself as a blogger/pseudo journalist if I wrote a review of a beer with nothing but my own personal likes or dislikes to judge it by. So, I caught the next subway over to Williamsburg and took a free tour of the Brooklyn Brewery!

They offer free tours in the afternoon on Saturday and Sunday, and open up their tasting room to the public. I happened to go on Halloween, so my tour was led by a young female bartender who was dressed as a 1920s flapper girl. She led all of us -- a ragamuffin group of visitors from the greater New York area, the Central United States, the West Coast, and the UK -- over to the distillery room, and told us stories of how the Brooklyn Brewery began.

Essentially, it all started with a writer. That's right, a writer who happened to be living in the Middle East during the 1980s and working as a Foreign Correspondent for the Associated Press. His name was Steve Hindy, and he spent six years reporting on the Iran-Iraq War and learning to brew beer in his apartment (as alcohol is outlawed in many Islamic countries). He made friends with some U.S. diplomats stationed in Kuwait and Saudi Arabia, and they taught him everything they knew about brewing beer in their homes.

I don't want to give away too much of the story because I would highly advise going to the Brooklyn Brewery and hearing it for yourself (or reading about it online through this link); however, I will say that Steve later settled down in Brooklyn and joined forces with his friend and neighbor, Tom Potter. The two of them had the courage to follow their hair-brained dreams, and ultimated created one of the top successful breweries in the United States. (Brooklyn Brewery is currently listed at #17 in the Brewers Association's list of Top 50 U.S. Breweries).

Post Road Pumpkin Ale ($8.99 for a 6-pack at Trader Joe's)

Though they feature a wide array of craft beers, I chose to sample the pumpkin ale simply because it was the most festive. It begins with the same process as all their other beers: they take barley malt and wait for it to sprout, then dry and roast it. The roasting part is especially important because this is what determines the flavor intensity and color of the beer. For example, a beer that is lighter in color and flavor, such as a lager, would only have lightly roasted barley malt, whereas a stout beer would get completely charred. This is also the part where the natural sugars are released and where the beer takes on various natural flavors, such as chocolate and coffee.

My flapper girl/tour guide said that chocolate stouts generally do not have chocolate added to them -- they just naturally start tasting like chocolate from the whole roasting process. However, Post Road Pumpkin Ale does have fresh pumpkin added to it -- over 100 pounds, to be exact -- but this is not added until after the other key ingredients: hops (cone-shaped flowers that make it bitter), unfiltered New York City tap water, and yeast.

There are many other steps that follow, such as straining, fermenting, and kegging, but I will leave the rest of it for you to discover when you come visit me in New York and we tour the brewery. (Did you like that subtle, subliminal message?) In the meantime, let me just say that I love this beer! It has a rich flavor with bursts of spice and cinnamon that complemented the pumpkin and paired excellently with my Butternut Squash Lasagna. I'm learning more and more that specific beers can do much to round out a meal and add flavor complexity -- it's all a matter of being open to branching out beyond wine!

Butternut Squash Lasagna With Spinach and Caramelized Onions
(my own adaptation of Martha Stewart's recipe)

3.5 pounds butternut squash peeled, seeded, cubed
2 Tbsp. Extra Virgin olive oil
sea salt and crushed black pepper, to taste
16 oz. part-skim ricotta
1/2 cup half n' half
2 eggs
2 cups part-skim mozzarella
1 tsp. nutmeg (but feel free to be as liberal as you like with the nutmeg!)
Another 3 Tbsp. Extra Virgin olive oil
12 oz. bag, fresh baby spinach
1/2 yellow onion, sliced
1/2 tsp. brown sugar
1 Tbsp. butter
handful of fresh sage leaves
2.5 cups chicken broth
1/2 box Trader Joe's No Boiling-Oven Ready Lasagna Noodles

First off, if you own a machete, I would consider utilizing it to cut up the butternut squash. Otherwise, prepare yourself to break a sweat as you battle your way through slicing it into thirds and then into sixths to scoop out the seeds. This will not be an easy task, my friends, so I give you fair warning. (I also give you full permission to spend twice the amount of money and buy a container of already cut, peeled, and cubed butternut squash -- but that is entirely your prerogative.)

If you do choose to brandish your muscles and attempt a face-off with said vegetable, I would suggest watching this YouTube video for a step-by-step guide to preparing butternut squash. The woman in the video suggests microwaving it first -- which I absolutely wish I had done -- but at any rate, before you start preparing the butternut squash, remember to preheat your oven to 425 degrees.

After you've got that sucker chopped up into small cubes, place them atop a cookie sheet and drizzle 2 tablespoons of olive oil on top of them. Top with salt and pepper and then place in the oven for 25 minutes.

While the butternut squash is baking, mix ricotta, half n' half, eggs, mozzarella, and nutmeg in a large bowl until evenly combined. Next, saute the sliced onions in one tablespoon of olive oil for about 2 minutes. Lower the temperature and then sprinkle the onions with brown sugar. Let them slowly soften and caramelize on medium-low heat for the next 20 minutes.

Once the onions have caramelized, add a little more olive oil to the pan and then add the bag of fresh spinach to the mix, sauteing until it has fully cooked down.

In a separate sauce pan, melt the butter and add the sage leaves to it, cooking on low heat until they become golden and crisp.

Next, remove the squash from the oven, reduce the temperature to 375 degrees, and dump the squash in a medium bowl. Add the chicken broth and sage, then mash it all together with a potato masher or an electric mixer. The consistency should be thick, like lumpy mashed potatoes.

Get out an 11"x 8" casserole dish and spread a very thin layer of the ricotta mixture along the bottom of it. Next, place a layer of lasagna noodles on top, then cover them with more ricotta. Add a layer of squash directly on top, then cover the squash with a layer of spinach and caramelized onions. Begin the sequence again with a layer of pasta noodles, ricotta, squash, then spinach/onions. Keep doing this until the casserole dish is completely filled and you have used up all of the ingredients. Place it in the oven (375 degrees) for 35-45 minutes. The lasagna should be bubbly and golden on top.

Even if the weather in Southern California doesn't reflect it, the pumpkin ale and butternut squash lasagna will surely put you in the mood for fall!

Autumn in New York

2010-10-28T14:04:00.000-07:00

Fall is in the air here in New York City! The leaves are changing, the pumpkin ale is making its annual appearance on grocery store shelves, and to top it all off, I got to experienced my very first East Coast apple-picking trip a few weeks ago. It came complete with hay rides, petting zoos, and apple cider donuts (dunked in homemade apple cider, of course). The whole day was beautiful and fun, although I didn't quite pick any apples because I was too busy taking photos the whole time -- shocking, I know. Thankfully, my roommate Tiffany picked enough for both of us while I documented the day's events with my digital camera. Ah, the beauty of teamwork . . .

But in spite of all that, I am slowly becoming convinced that nothing can top the radiant charm of Central Park on an Autumn afternoon. Tiffany and I had been lounging around all morning long, drinking coffee and applying to jobs on the Internet, when I decided that it was high time to tear our eyes away from the brightly lit screens and get a bit of fresh air. So, we strapped on our running shoes and headed over to Central Park.

As we speed-walked our way through the paths, we passed men standing behind little carts and roasting chestnuts that smelled of toffee and donuts. We passed a small pond surrounded by rocks of all sizes. Some were smooth and flat -- perfect for sitting and reading a book on -- while others were large and majestic and covered with red ivy that swirled along the sides of them. As we made our way deeper into the park, we came across one of the quintessential white bridges that are shown in many movies of New York. This one was filled with people who were clearly watching and excited about whatever was going on below them.

We walked closer and heard the faint sound of musical instruments playing -- a violin, a piano, perhaps? It was accompanied by a slow, sweet voice with the hint of a Southern drawl. When we finally reached the large crowd of people, we found a young girl with blonde wavy hair playing the piano on a stage underneath the bridge. She had a small orchestra behind her and a smattering of fans sitting on the concrete below. There were film crews and lights and fences to keep all of us bystanders at a safe distance.

I turned to the woman standing next to me. "Do you know who's singing?" I asked.

"It's Taylor Swift," she said.

And so it was. Her new album was being released that day and she was doing a live performance/video recording of some of the songs. Just another average day in Central Park.

I can't say I've been a huge fan of Taylor Swift, but I certainly gained a new respect for her that day. In between songs, she made multiple efforts to interact with her fans and waited patiently while the directors chose the perfect group of autumn leaves to place strategically atop her piano. She came off as sweet and genuine, and I read in the paper the following morning that she actually wrote all the songs on her new album. Tiffany and I listened to about three of them, and each seemed to have evolved from the "Poppish" teeny-bopper stuff she usually plays, to more of a singer/songwriter feel with lyrics that are earnest and, well . . . mature. Yes, that's what it was. Our Taylor Swift has grown up and is no longer singing of high school crushes, but of failed relationships and twinges of regret.

Of course, I had left my camera at home that day because all I was really supposed to be doing was taking a quick break from job hunting and emailing out resumes. Unfortunately, I do not have any photos of this occasion, so I leave you instead with this link to someone else who is apparently a much better blogger than I am because he brought his camera that day! There's some pretty awesome photos that will at least give you a sense of what it was like.

Speaking of being a bad blogger, I realize I have not updated this in more than a month, so I will be posting a new recipe within the next week, and then very likely taking a break. Now that I'm here in New York, I really want to prioritize working on my book. It's going to be a massive undertaking combined with working part-time and taking two classes at NYU -- yes, I did get a new job, and I am very excited about it!

More details on all of that later, but for now, thank you for following my adventures over the past ten months because it wouldn't have been nearly as much fun without your love and support :)
Stay tuned for my Butternut Squash Lasagna recipe paired with a review of Post Road Pumpkin Ale coming up next week!

Miss and love you all,
~ Christy ~

And now, some pics of our apple picking trip to Hurd's Family Farm in New Paltz, New York

Tiff in the trees

Some new friends from Trinity Grace Church

Reflection of clouds in a pond

(Tornados And) Pear Almond Crisp With Dried Cranberries

2010-09-19T12:33:00.000-07:00

Ever since I moved to New York, I've been neglecting my blog something fierce. I'll be the first to admit that. However, it has been an insanely busy month of going on job interviews, training for the new job (man was that exhausting!), hunting for apartments, negotiating with apartment brokers, jumping through multiple bureaucratic hoops until they finally broke down and gave me the place, and finally, learning the art of "schlepping" through life in the big bad city.

Schlepping is a Yiddish term that is commonly used by many New Yorkers. The Urban Dictionary defines it as both a noun and a verb.

Noun: "A long and tiresome walk"
Verb: "To carry, bring, or otherwise transmit something which is difficult to move."

I am becoming intimately familiar with each of those definitions as the weeks go by and am having to schlep bags of dirty clothes and containers of liquid Tide for several blocks just to get to the nearest laundromat. I find myself schlepping groceries back to my apartment and mentally calculating the cost/ benefit analysis of buying certain products in the produce aisle: It's the end of summer and this is probably the last bit of watermelon I will eat this year, but should I buy it? Is it really going to be worth it . . . ?

Life in NYC has been a major adjustment. There's the general craziness, the fast pace, the learning to adapt, the figuring out where I'm going and how I'm getting there, and most of all, the creating of my own routines that are slowly become familiar. Yet, in the midst of it all, I am beginning to carve out my space, and loving the city more and more each day. I had the past two days in a row off of work, and for the first time since I got here, I didn't have anything major to accomplish. It was a beautiful feeling.

So I kicked back, I read a book, I enjoyed a Pumpkin Spice Latte from Starbucks, I listened to the new Ray LaMontagne album that my roommate just burned me a copy of, and I experimented in the kitchen.
The soulful sounds of Ray's amazing voice filled the room, while blasts of thunder grumbled through the streets of Brooklyn. At first, I thought it was merely a subway car barreling beneath the streets, but then it kept getting louder.

I remember seeing a bright flash out of the corner of my eye as I was slicing some pears. I glanced out the window and found that it was lightning. Perhaps that wasn't a subway car making all that noise? My eyes widened at the prospect because I didn't even know it was going to rain that day. I set down my knife and walked over to the window to see what might come next.

As I did, an enormous gust of wind proceed to tear through the trees, violently pressing them to one angle, as though an invisible hand was forcing its palm against their branches. This was followed by a sheet of rain so thick I could see nothing else -- not even the trees. The first thought that came to mind was this: Wow, storms are pretty intense on the East Coast.Cool!

I later found out from my roommates that this was an actual tornado that broke the windows of the Brooklyn Industries boutique that is one block away from our apartment, and sent all the salesgirls to the hospital. Yet, as this ball of wind and energy was whipping through the streets, knocking over trash cans, breaking store windows, and causing all sorts of havoc, I was in my cozy kitchen, baking a pear crumble. They say ignorance is bliss, right?

Pear and Almond Crisp With Dried Cranberries

6 pears, 3 Bosch and 3 Bartlett, thinly sliced
1 Tbsp. white sugar
1/2 cup dried cranberries
1/2 cup flour
1/2 cup raw oats
1/4 cup packed brown sugar
1/4 tsp. cinnamon
1/4 tsp. nutmeg
4 Tbsp. butter, cold
7 oz. tube Odense Almond Paste, grated (found at gourmet grocery stores and Italian Delis)

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Mix the sliced pears, white sugar, and dried cranberries together in a large bowl and let it sit while you make the crumble/crust.

In a separate bowl, combine the flour, oats, brown sugar, cinnamon, and nutmeg until thoroughly mixed. Cut in the butter, then use a butter knife and your hands to mix everything together. The batter should feel crumbly and dry. Next, add in the grated Almond Paste, and continue to mix with your hands.

Divide the batter in half, and use one half to create a bottom crust by coating the bottom and sides of a 10"x10" Pyrex baking dish. (You'll notice in the pictures that I used a round pie plate because that was all we had on hand, so you can technically use either.) Add the pear mixture to the baking dish and then top with the remaining crumble/crust batter. Just sprinkle it on top until all the pears are evenly coated.

Pop the dish in the oven and bake for 30 minutes. Take it out and top it with some vanilla ice cream. Festive and delicious!

And some random tornado pics thrown in for good measure:

Swimming in the Atlantic Ocean

2010-09-09T17:22:00.000-07:00

After one of the coldest and dreariest summers on record in Southern California, I was finally able to get to the beach this season . . . on the other side of the country! It was Labor Day weekend, and I joined some good friends out on the Jersey Shore, and no, it was not the Jersey Shore you are thinking of. This particular section of the New Jersey shoreline was about ten minutes outside of Atlantic City, and the atmosphere was that of a mellow tailgate party. I mean that in the most literal sense because we did, in fact, drive our cars out onto the sand and then set up our beach chairs right in front of our vehicle.

We found a small opening amidst the long row of other parked cars -- right in between the family who was barbecuing sausages, and the chef who had hauled in a deep fat fryer and was in the process of cooking up a batch of chicken wings that he graciously shared with everyone around him. (I don't even like chicken wings, but these were seriously delicious.)

For a moment, I felt like I was back at the Hollywood Bowl, sharing food with large groups of picnicking strangers -- except for the fact that I was on a beach in the Eastern United States, rather than in an amphitheater in the Hollywood Hills, but hey -- details, shmetails. The waves crashing in front of me were also reminiscent of Southern California, and the large silhouettes of casinos in the distance reminded me of Vegas; yet, this tiny little town of Brigantine Beach, NJ seemed to be a patchwork of all of them with its own unique vibe.

The water was warm and clear, and thanks to the residual effects of Hurricane Earl, the waves were rumored to be larger than usual that afternoon. As I dipped my head beneath the salty water and playfully fought with each wave as it came crashing towards me, I couldn't help but marvel at the fact that this was my first time swimming in the ocean all summer long. Here, on the Atlantic Coast, in a place where I rather snobbishly thought the beaches could never compare to my dear, Southern Californian ones.

Just for the record, they definitely held their own, and I couldn't have asked for a better Labor Day weekend.

2008 Salmon Run Riesling

2010-08-31T14:18:00.000-07:00

Yep, you read that title correctly; this is not an Italian wine I'm reviewing! I decided that since I am now living on the East Coast, I should embrace my new home by trying their wines. As I wandered down 7th Avenue in Park Slope, Brooklyn yesterday, I came across a little shop called Shawn's Fine Wine and Spirits. I went inside, chatted with the staff about their recommendations for East Coast wines, and was led to a delicious Riesling that is produced in the village of Hammondsport, New York.

Hammondsport is the center of the New York wine industry, and is located next to the Finger Lakes, a group of long and narrow bodies of water that resemble fingers on a hand when seen from an aerial view. The Finger Lake region is home to over one hundred different vineyards, and also contains a number of colleges, including Cornell University in Ithaca.

They produce many different wines in this region, but one of their best known is the Riesling. Riesling grapes hail from Germany and are usually on the sweeter side. Although they often flourish in a cold climate, they did not alway grow well in the Northeastern part of the United States. In the early 1950s, a European immigrant and expert in Viticulture, Dr. Konstantin Frank, moved to New York to take a teaching position at Cornell University.

Earlier in his life, Dr. Frank had conducted research while trying to grow European grape varietals in the Ukraine, and decided to apply his findings to the climate in Hammondsport. His techniques were largely successful, and as a result, he ended up revolutionizing the wine industry in New York. In fact, his son and grandson are still running their family vineyard to this day, and are the geniuses behind this fine bottle of Riesling I am trying this week.

2008 Salmon Run Riesling

Let me just start by saying that I love this wine! It tastes of pears and honey, and is the perfect balance of acidity with a sweet finish. It also paired exceptionally well with the summer salad I made for lunch today because, to be perfectly blunt, it was far too hot to cook anything! We had a high of 95 degrees in New York City, and I don't know what the humidity level was, nor do I want to, for that matter.

Rather than turning on ovens and stoves, I took advantage of the great selection of summer fruits -- that likely will not be available much longer -- and made my own adaptation of my sister-in-law's fruit salad. Use whatever fruits you like, and don't forget to throw in the roasted peppers. They will give it a smoky, saltiness that will round out all the sweetness of the fruit. On a hot day like today, it was delicious and SO refreshing!

Spinach & Summer Fruit Salad With Piquillo Peppers

6 oz. bag of fresh baby spinach
16 oz. package of strawberries, sliced
6 oz. raspberries
3 nectarines or peaches, chopped into bite-size pieces
5 oz. jar of piquillo peppers or roasted red peppers, sliced
1/2 cup feta cheese
crushed black pepper, to taste
Trader Joe's Cranberry, Walnut & Gorgonzola salad dressing, to taste

Simply mix everything together in a big bowl, and enjoy!

What I learned From My First 48 Hours in New York City

2010-08-26T17:48:00.000-07:00

1. When your Rough Guide to New York City warns you that the month of August gets an average of 4.1 inches of rainfall, BELIEVE IT. Do not flippantly disregard those statistics as being "impossible" simply because you have been living in drought-ridden California all of your life: Rather than reading the weather chart and automatically thinking -- Four inches of rain? In the month of August? That can't be right. Must be a typo -- try heeding this book's advice and packing appropriately.

I woke up yesterday morning to a light rain that continued for most of the day. As I looked out the window and saw the many pedestrians with their umbrellas and rain boots, it occurred to me that the only close-toed shoes I have at the moment are a pair of running shoes and a pair of high heels. That is it. The rest of my boots, Converse, etc. are packed away at my future roommate's house in Newport Beach where they are waiting to be shipped to NY in October with the rest of my things. Not exactly my finest moment in packing . . .

2. Do not attempt to walk around the city all day in high heels -- especially if you have no idea where you are going.

I essentially walked 30 blocks in heels, and now have the blisters to prove it! Why I ended up walking so very far leads me to my next point:

3. When entering a destination into Hopstop.com, or any other online navigational site, take special care to enter the address fully and completely, as there may be two numerical addresses that are the same, but in separate locations -- depending upon North/South versions of a major street.

Apparently, there are TWO 370 blocks on Park Avenue. One, located near Park Avenue and 53rd Street; the other, located near Park Avenue and 27th Street. I was supposed to be at the 27th Street location; yet, Hopstop had directed me to 53rd Street because I forgot to put the word south at the end of the address. Ooops. Longest 30 blocks of my life.

4. If you decide to bring a change of shoes in your purse, remember to place them in a plastic bag before depositing them inside your purse. Why? Well, not necessarily because your change of shoes will be dirty, but because the shoes you are wearing to trot around Manhattan just might be. In fact, as you are exiting the subway, you may be in a rush and not notice that there is a giant wad of gum on the pavement, and you are ever so gracefully placing the ball of your foot into it. Then, once you get to your final destination, you will be forced to put on said change of shoes and take this sticky, yucky, germ-infested flip-flip and either stick it in your purse, or throw it away.

I was on my way to a job interview and really couldn't think of any other options.

5. Do as the New Yorkers do and have a book with you at all times. It will likely come in handy throughout the course of the day because you will be waiting. Waiting for the subway to come; waiting on the subway; waiting to buy groceries at Trader Joe's when the checkout lines are wrapped around the entire store and practically spilling onto the street.

I'm not kidding. They had a dozen different registers going, plus an attendant whose primary job was to direct everyone to the next available checkout stand. It was truly amazing. And through it all, people were reading! (As a book lover, I find this kind of exciting.)

6. And the last and final thing that I have learned from the past 48 hours in New York City: eat a bagel for breakfast; it will brighten your day.

I woke up yesterday morning, threw on some clothes, and walked downstairs to La Bagel Delight in Brooklyn. I ordered an Everything bagel with sun-dried tomato cream cheese and a slice of lox. It was absolute heaven :)

Ode To My Decade In Long Beach

2010-08-19T12:07:00.000-07:00

In August of 2000, at the tender age of nineteen, I loaded up my 1986 Honda hatchback and headed off to college. The car was packed with all my favorite clothing and shoes, some inspirational books I had received as high school graduation presents, a collection of magazine clippings to decorate my dorm room walls, a blow dryer, some toiletries, and a new comforter and sheet set that my Mom had bought for me at the Target back-to-school dorm sale. Everything was strategically placed, as my dad had made sure I could see out the rear windshield during my eight-hour trek from Auburn to Long Beach, California.

He also gave me his standard lecture on speeding—primarily because he is a major speed demon, himself—and told me for the fiftieth time about how he had been zooming along I-5 one fateful day, and had later received a ticket in the mail. No one had even bothered to pull him over because they didn’t have to, he reminded me. The highway patrols were being flown around in small airplanes that day, hovering above the freeways and using radar to check for speeding vehicles. They didn’t give warnings; they just gave tickets.

I smiled and nodded as I listened to his speech. I knew I would see my parents the following weekend when they would be driving down to help me move into my dorm room; yet, it was still difficult to leave them that day. I had to go down early for an introductory course called University 100. All freshmen were required to take it to get acquainted with university life and with Cal State Long Beach, in general. The class was held one week prior to the start of the regular semester, so they didn’t allow us to move into our dorms just yet.

The good news was that my best friend, Sara, had gotten into Cal State Fullerton, which was about thirty minutes east of CSULB. Fullerton started classes one week before us, which meant that Sara was already settled into her new apartment and was more than willing to lend me her couch for the duration of University 100 class.

Although I knew that I was heading somewhere safe, to be with my best friend and to embark upon an awesome new adventure, I still felt a little scared and somewhat apprehensive. My parents gave me big hugs, assured me they would see me in another week, and then waved as my car pulled away.

The tears started flowing less than five minutes into my trip, and it quickly became apparent that speeding tickets were the least of my worries. I was crying so much that my vision was blurred and could barely see the road in front of me. I gripped the steering wheel tightly, told myself to pull it together, and turned the radio up really loud to use as a distraction. Rather than thinking about all that I was leaving behind, I used my imagination to try and visualize everything I had to look forward. I saw myself going to the beach, exploring the CSULB campus, and enjoying the newfound freedom of living on my own for the very first time. It was my personal version of a guided meditation, and it did help to lift my spirits.

Days later, as University 100 class was well underway, I found myself completing random assignments, such as scavenger hunts around campus that required my classmates and me to collect various artifacts from major buildings. We had to find a bookmark from the Writer’s Resource Lab and a pamphlet from the Health Center. This was the bulk of the curriculum, and in addition to these activities, we were given sage advice about being successful college students.

Our professor warned us to take heed of the many pitfalls most freshman fall prey to, such as ditching class because no one would be forcing us go, or partying incessantly when we should be doing homework. We were adults now, he continued, and for the first time in our lives we would need to learn to do our own laundry and keep track of our spending.

As the unrelenting nerd that I am, I sat in the very front and scribbled down every word about the importance of time management and setting goals for oneself.

On the last day of class, my professor led us all to the Japanese Gardens on campus, sat us down in a shady little corner bordering a pond and a bamboo hut, and said to us, “Always remember that college is what you make of it.”

While the rest of my classmates were rolling their eyes and staring blankly at the imported Japanese flowers, I have to admit that I was thoroughly captivated by his speech. It was empowering and rather fun to think that I was able to mold my college experience into whatever I wanted it to be.

Nine years later, after I had earned both my Bachelor’s and Master’s Degrees at CSULB, I was asked to teach a Writing Skills class during Summer Session. This class was designed specifically for incoming freshman that did not pass the placement exam for English 100 and would need to take Writing Skills before being admitted to English 100 in the fall. By this time, the state of California was in the middle of the major budget crisis we are still battling today, and University 100 classes had been cut entirely. It occurred to me that my students would not be getting much of an introduction to college life, so I dedicated the last day of class to integrating some of the things I had learned in University 100 into my writing course.

After passing back their final exams and issuing their course grades, I decided on a nostalgic whim to tell them we still had one more thing to do, and proceeded to march my troupe of incoming freshman down to the Japanese Gardens. I sat them in a shady little corner, right beside the pond and the bamboo hut, and told them that the one thing they must always remember is that their college experience was going to be whatever they made of it.

I know, I know. But I couldn’t resist.

I also hosted an impromptu question and answer session where they could ask me all their major concerns about parking on the first day, buying textbooks, and locating all their classes.

The whole experience was both ironic and amusing, as I was inevitably struck by the realization that my time at Cal State Long Beach had come full circle. Somewhere in between that fateful day when I arrived in Southern California and barely knew how to navigate the freeway system, I had transformed into the university instructor who was now running the show and dispensing advice. It was rather strange to consider; yet it had happened.

So much has happened over my last decade in Long Beach. I have lived in dorm rooms, condos, houses, and apartments—some spacious and beautiful, others located on the border of the ghetto—with mice scurrying around in the middle of the night. That was definitely one of the lower points, in case you were wondering.

I’ve had my share of ridiculous moments, like the time in college when my roommates and I had a Halloween party and I got so inebriated that I ended up puking in the planter right outside our apartment. Apparently, it all landed atop a Birds of Paradise flower, and my roommate says that even to this day, that image of me is inextricably linked to every Birds of Paradise plant she sees. (Sorry, Trisha.)

Since I’ve moved to Long Beach, I have gotten my heart broken, was turned down by multiple creative writing programs, dyed my hair black in a state of melodramatic depression, and to mention it one more time—because it was rather traumatic—lived in an apartment that was infested with mice!

Visualize, if you will, my Taiwanese roommate and me crouched on the floor, peering underneath my bed, and trying to lure a mouse out with cheese. Picture us both screaming when the mouse actually appears, capturing it eventually, humanely letting it outside the door, sighing in relief, and waking up the next day to discover that this mouse has not only found its way back inside our house, but has also given birth to a litter of baby mice on our kitchen floor.

As Joseph Conrad (and Marlon Brando, for that matter) so aptly put it: “The horror, the horror!”

Yet, I have also had some truly amazing experiences in this city. I’ve fallen in love, found a wonderful church, grown in my faith, earned two academic degrees, and learned to parallel park like a champion. I’ve participated in clichéd, Southern Californian activities, such as surfing, roller blading on the beach, and auditioning for a reality TV show.

Yes, I did audition for MTV, but it wasn’t my idea. It was the casting director’s. He came whizzing through the drive-thru window one day when I was working at In-N-Out, and as I handed him his Double-Double, I told him he could have his people call my people.

Just kidding. But I will admit that MTV was far from interested in my reserved and practical answers to their scandal-inducing questions:

MTV interviewer: “How far would you go on a first date?”

Me: “Ummmm, I would kiss someone . . . Maybe.”

MTV interviewer: “Okay, and what if a guy tried to push you to do more? How would you react?”

Me: “I guess I would tell him to stop.”

MTV interviewer: “I see you left this part blank on your application, so would you like to add anything about what turns you on, any sexual fantasies you have, etc?”

Me (looking visibly annoyed and glancing at the video camera that is recording my every word): “I’d really rather not.”

Needless to say, MTV didn’t call me back, and I didn’t really want them to at that point.

All jokes and crazy stories aside, this really has been an amazing decade that I’ve spent in Long Beach, and I dedicate this blog post to the city, itself. To the city that embraced me with open arms when I showed up crying on its doorsteps. To the city that watched me grow from an awkward post-adolescent, to an actual capable adult. And to all of the friends I have made and the people who have helped me along the way, I dedicate this to you, as well, because you are awesome and I will miss you like crazy.

Until next time.
Thank you, and all my love,
~ Christy ~

Trisha and me

Me and the roomies at Christmas

Our Condo decorated for Halloween

My Dorm at CSULB

2007 Michele Chiarlo Barbera D'Asti Superiore "Le Orme"

2010-08-12T10:04:00.000-07:00

Since we've spent quite a few weeks tasting the wines of Tuscany, I felt it was high time we moved on to a new region of the Italian countryside. Piedmont is located in Northern Italy, surrounded by the Alps and bordering Switzerland and France. Its name means foot of the mountain, and according to my Wine Bible, much of the land in this area is not conducive to growing grapes because the climate is too cold and the hills are too steep. However, there is a small section of the region that manages to grow and produce some of the most revered wines in all of Italy. Granted, I won't be blogging about these wines because most of them -- especially Barolo -- need to be aged upwards of ten years before they can be consumed and are also quite pricey.

2007 Michele Chiarlo Barbera D'Asti Superiore "Le Orme"(on sale for $9.99 at BevMo; regularly $14.99)

Instead, I've opted to try a lighter wine that is widely imported to the United States and that many residents of Piedmont drink every night with their dinner. This wine is called Barbera. It is light to medium bodied, filled with fruity goodness, and ultimately quite drinkable. As mentioned in a previous wine blog, Italians often like to nickname their wines, and this particular bottle is called "Le Orme," which means, the fingerprints. In addition, it happens to be the only Italian wine that has ever been designated "Best Value" by all the major wine magazines in the world. Not too shabby, eh?

Just to back track a tiny bit, if you're wondering what on earth I meant when I referred to Barbera as being "medium bodied," I will try to explain as my manager did at the restaurant where I work. He gave us the analogy of comparing different types of wine to different types of milk or cream, as both have a wide array of density in terms of their thickness. For example, cream is certainly heavier and thicker than nonfat milk, or even two percent milk, for that matter. The body of a wine is exactly the same way. You've got your light bodied red wines that have a bit of translucence to them, your medium bodied wines that appear darker and thicker, and then your full bodied wines that are completely opaque and bear a heaviness in both flavor and density.

When it came to choosing the recipe for this week, I must admit that I was inspired by Nilay Gandhi, a blogger and Wine Consultant, who wrote an awesome article called, "How to Choose Wine, For Vegetarians and Those Who Love Them." I took his ideas and ran with them -- all the way over to Whole Foods in Manhattan Beach where I had a ridiculously fun time perusing the wild mushroom section of the produce department. I decided to be adventurous and cook with mushrooms I had never used or even heard of, such as dried Porcinis and fresh Maitakes. If you decide to try this recipe, I suggest you do the same. Go exploring at Whole Foods and see what you come up with. Any collection of wild mushrooms will do!

Wild Mushroom Gnocchi

2 Tbsp. extra virgin olive oil

2 Tbsp. butter

3 cloves garlic, minced

2 small leeks, chopped

2 cups wild mushrooms, sliced (I used Crimini, Baby Bella, classic white mushrooms, dried Porcini, and Maitake, but feel free to get creative and use whatever combo you like!)

1/4 cup red wine (cheap cooking wine will work)

1/2 cup chicken broth

handful fresh thyme

sea salt and fresh ground pepper, to taste

1/2 cup half and half

2 lbs. potato gnocchi
freshly shaved Parmesan, Romano, and Asiago (you can find a preshaven container at Trader Joe's and use it to top each serving)

Maitake mushroom and chopped leeks

Put a large pot of water on to boil for the gnocchi, then get out a large frying pan and sautee the garlic and leek in butter and olive oil. Add the wild mushrooms and allow them to brown for about ten minutes. Add some salt and pepper, then use the red wine to deglaze the pan. Let the wine simmer for another 5 minutes until it is almost all gone.

Next, add the chicken broth and thyme and keep allowing it to simmer. Simmer for another 5 minutes, then add the gnocchi to the boiling pot of water and follow the cooking directions on the package. While the gnocchi is cooking, add the half and half to the mushroom sauce, then simmer for a final 5 minutes.

Drain the gnocchi and top each serving with the wild mushroom sauce and the Parmesan/Romano/Asiago mixture.

Stacy and me, enjoying our last meal together before I leave for New York

Stacy and Bentley -- our honorary dinner guest

old friends :)

A Child's Take on Justice

2010-08-06T15:28:00.000-07:00

Some of my favorite commercials as of late are for Ally Bank. They feature a charismatic, yet shady salesman who tricks various children into thinking he is going to give them something. The first in the series shows two young girls sitting around a table and talking with a man wearing a nicely pressed suit and sporting a hairstyle reminiscent of Bill Clinton’s.

He asks the first girl if she wants a pony, and she says ‘yes.’ He proceeds to give her a plastic toy pony that is the size of her hand, and then asks the other girl if she wants a pony, as well. She also says ‘yes,’ so the man makes a low whistling noise and then a real live pony walks into the room, right on cue. The second girl smiles in excitement, while the first girl looks up at the man and scowls.

“You didn’t say I could have a real one,” she says.

“Well, you didn’t ask,” he answers.

The commercial ends, and then another Ally Bank commercial generally airs directly after it. This one features a little redheaded girl sitting on top of a pink bike. The same man asks her if she would like to take the bike for a ride, and she happily puts her feet on the pedals and begins to move forward. Before she is able to ride the bike a full foot, the man stops her and tells her that if she wants to ride beyond the red lines that are surrounding her on the ground, she must pay a penalty fee. Those lines make up a small rectangle that is quite constricting and technically would not allow her to ride the bike at all. The girl looks up at him incredulously, and it becomes painfully apparent that he is the one in charge and she is powerless to do anything about it. The tag line of each of these commercials is different, but each relays the same overarching message: even kids understand when they are being swindled. Even kids can spot injustice.

And this is absolutely true. In fact, ask any adult if she can remember a time from childhood when she was a victim of some unfair, unjust situation, and she will likely be able to come up with at least a few harrowing tales of siblings that got preferential treatment, or classmates who “swindled” her in one way or another. As the commercial states, children are keenly able to recognize when something makes sense and when it doesn’t. If and when it doesn’t, they often demand some sort of explanation.

“Why?” they often ask.

Perhaps it is because asking is all they really can do. Even in the midst of their ability to spot unfairness, most children are powerless to stop it on their own. Like the girls in the Ally Bank commercials, they are completely at the mercy of the slimy salesman, and each commercial ends with an unhappy child who must sit there and learn to deal with it.

When I was in the first grade, I felt there were a few major injustices thwarted upon me, and both of them were standard operating procedures at the private school I attended in Pasadena. It was owned and operated by the Worldwide Church of God, and had two practices that both puzzled and infuriated me.

The first was that we had to wear uniforms. I didn’t say they were both legitimate complaints on my part, but when I was six years old, wearing a uniform felt stifling to an unjust degree. This uniform consisted of a white sailor shirt, a thin cotton tie that was either navy blue or red, and a plaid jumper. I saw little point in requiring everyone to wear the same thing—especially because I had been reading Little House on the Prairie and was obsessed with dressing like Laura Ingles Wilder every minute of the day. I had a collection of calico dresses that my mom had found for me at a thrift shop, as well as an actual bonnet that my aunt had sewn for my cousins as a part of their Halloween costumes. I even went the extra mile and wore my hair in two braids, just as Laura did on the Little House on the Prairie television series.

My get-up was so authentic that a year later, when my family moved to the small town of Auburn, California, all of our new neighbors on the street actually thought that we might be Amish or Quaker because they saw me walking down the road one day wearing my calico dress, bonnet, and braids. When I heard that rumor, I was brimming with pride. I would have no doubt worn that ensemble day in and day out, had it not been for the uniform stifling my freedom of expression.

I know you can all hear the little violin playing already as I recount these tragic experiences, but I must warn you that my second complaint is of a bit more serious note.

Essentially, the private school I attended practiced corporal punishment, and although I thankfully never experienced it firsthand, I always viewed it as a tremendous injustice that both frightened and infuriated me. The way it worked was that if a teacher decided that a student was deserving of a spanking, then the teacher was required to get another teacher to come in and witness to ensure that the one doing the spanking did not go crazy and start wailing away on the kid out of anger. They were allowed to spank the student once, and that was all.

As a critically thinking six-year-old, I didn’t necessarily object to the idea of spanking as a form of punishment, but what I did highly disagree with was the public nature of it. The humiliation of it. For, it was always done in front of the entire class and I hated every minute of watching this ritual play out—especially if one of my friends was getting spanked—or even worse, if the spankee started crying afterwards. I would be flooded with a sense of empathy and a desire to hug them and comfort them. But I couldn’t. I had to just sit there in my desk, like a good little student, with the rage boiling inside me for the injustice of it all.

The problem with this rage is that it builds when you don’t have an outlet for it. I would feel anger for the spanking and then I would feel more anger for having to wear uniforms, and one fine afternoon, the anger inside me collided and I decided to stage my own little protest. I remember we were working on a craft project that day that involved scissors. Perhaps we were cutting little shapes out of construction paper, or making snowflakes—I honestly can’t remember. But what I do remember is that in the midst of it all, I became tempted to cut my stupid tie in half. I looked down at it, hanging below my neck, acting obtrusive and relatively pointless. It was directly in line with whatever I was cutting, and I thought to myself, These scissors could easily slip and just cut this tie right in . . . half. I watched as the scissors I was holding sliced my tie directly in two, and I was left with the bottom half of the tie in one hand, and the scissors in the other.

This was it, ladies and gentlemen: my moment of protest, my single rebellious act against the system, and rather than smiling in glorious triumph, I was instantly struck with the reality of my looming punishment. I had done something wrong, and I could get spanked for it.

From the very first day of kindergarten, I had made a pact with myself that I would never ever, under any circumstances, allow myself to get spanked. In that moment, it occurred to me that all of my efforts to evade punishment had been completely in vain because here I was, impulsively stepping out of line and putting myself in jeopardy for spanking. I couldn’t allow this to happen, so I did the only thing I could think of: I lied. I hatched a little plot, and in fear and trepidation, walked up to my first grade teacher, tapped her on the arm, and told her in the quietest, tiniest voice that I had accidentally cut my tie with my scissors and that I was very sorry.

Even in the midst of saying it, my conscience was screaming at me, She’s going to know! She’s going to see right through this little masquerade and you are going to get the whipping of your life!

But that isn’t what happened. Instead, my kind teacher looked down at me with compassion and told me it was okay. We all make mistakes, she had said.

I walked back to my desk that day feeling a mixture of relief and confusion. On the one hand, I had succeeded in avoiding punishment, but on the other hand, my protest had completely failed. I had ruined my tie for no reason and now my parents would have to buy me another one. This was yet another troubling thought, as they were most certainly going to ask what happened when they saw half a tie hanging around my neck when I came home from school that day. The enormity of it all made me want to cry.

I tell this story not because I learned some great lesson from it, but because I think it had a significant impact on the way I viewed rules and regulations—even the way I viewed God—later in my life. When my family moved to Northern California a year later and I started attending a secular public school full of students who were allowed to do and celebrate tons of things that I wasn’t, my sense of injustice became even more prominent.

In addition, the Worldwide Church of God, like most churches, equated all these rules with God’s commandments, and that made me view God as being mean and distant. Sometimes I would imagine him as an angry judge presiding over a courtroom with a frown and a giant gavel that he would slam onto the podium whenever we got out of line here on earth, which was often since the rules were numerous and the temptations to break them were equally so. I carried that picture with me for decades of my life, and it was a very long journey before I finally recognized that perhaps God could be different than the way man-made religion had presented him, or even the way I envisioned him to be.

2008 Occhio A Vento Vermentino Rocca Delle Macie ($13.99 at The Wine Crush)

2010-07-30T17:02:00.000-07:00

This week's bottle of wine seems to have an exceptionally long title, so I thought I would start off by simply breaking it down for you. Occhio A Vento means "eye of the wind," and it was a nickname given to this wine because of the Mediterranean sea breezes that blow over the vineyards each day. The vineyard -- Rocca Delle Macie -- is located in Tuscany, just as the last two wines I've reviewed have been, and the name of the grape used to make this wine is called Vermentino. See, that wasn't so bad, was it?

Once all the words are broken down, it's actually not much longer than the names of many Californian bottles, but a primary difference between the Italian bottle-naming system and the one we use in the U.S. is that we tend to start with the name of the vineyard (think, St Francis Merlot and Cambria Chardonnay).While we rarely deviate from that system, the Italians like to get creative and keep wine drinkers on their toes: sometimes they put the name of the vineyard first, sometimes it comes last, and sometimes they throw in clever nicknames. Many times, they will create a wine that is composed of multiple grape varietals, so they can't just call it a Chardonnay or a Vermentino because there are three or four other grapes involved; thus, they must invent another title for it all together.

When I do my research each week, I decide on an Italian wine I want to try, write down every single word in the title -- including the year it was made -- and then take it with me into the store to be certain I'm getting exactly what I want. This week, however, I was running short on time and needed a wine to take for a picnic at the Hollywood Bowl, so I paid a visit to The Wine Crush, which happens to be two blocks from my apartment. When I told the man behind the counter that I needed something light and dry that would pair well with bruschetta, he guided me to the Occhio A Vento, and it was every bit as summery and refreshing as I hoped it would be. It was dry and crisp, with hints of apples and pears. I would definitely recommend it for a summer picnic, especially if you happen to be eating bruschetta . . .

Speaking of which, this week's recipe comes courtesy of my friend and co-worker, Ashlyn Bolender, who has so many great cooking ideas that I figured I would go ahead and use one of them for my blog this week! (With her permission, of course.) She takes an average, run-of-the-mill bruschetta and tops it with a sweet balsamic glaze that ties all the flavors together -- sort of like what salad dressing does for lettuce and what milk does for chocolate cake. You just can't have one without the other.

Ashlyn's Brilliant Bruschetta

1/2 cup balsamic vinegar

1/2 cup brown sugar

2 pints grape tomatoes, sliced long-ways into thirds

3 large garlic cloves, minced

2 handfuls fresh basil leaves, chopped

1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil

sea salt and freshly ground pepper, to taste

1 baguette, sliced

Preheat oven to 400 degrees.

Pour the balsamic vinegar into a small sauce pan on high heat, and wait until it starts lightly simmering. Add the brown sugar, stir it together, and then turn the heat down to low. Let it simmer for about 20 minutes.

While the glaze is cooking, get out a large bowl and add the sliced grape tomatoes, garlic, basil, olive oil, salt and pepper. Mix everything together and put it in the fridge so that the flavors can marinate while the glaze continues to cook.

Once the oven is preheated, arrange the baguette slices onto a cookie sheet and bake them for 5-10 minutes, until they are crisp and nicely toasted. Top each baguette slice with the tomato mixture and then use a spoon to drizzle the balsamic glaze on top. Oh, and if you are taking this on a picnic, be sure to package the bread, the tomatoes, and the glaze all in separate containers.

Wishing They Sold Actual Time on Craigslist...

2010-07-26T09:03:00.000-07:00

I woke up this morning fully intent upon finishing and posting my next blog. I started hand-writing it while I was camping in Big Bear over the weekend, and got about half way through a story of the time I almost got in trouble in the first grade. It was kind of a big deal because I attended a private school that actually allowed corporal punishment back in the 1980s, and was affiliated with the church I grew up attending, the World Wide Church of God.

As much as I wanted to finish this blog post today, I am confronted with the reality that I must move out of my apartment in less than a week and have more on my to-do list than seems humanly possible to accomplish. At this point, I have been awake for two full hours and have been searching for apartments, posting ads for my furniture on Craigslist, discovering random things in my closet that I completely forgot I had, and sorting multiple items into piles that are worthy of packing and worthy of discarding.

My final conclusion for this morning: I wish I could buy a little extra time to finish my writing. Why isn't anybody selling that on Craigslist? At this point in the economy, I'm betting there are unemployed people or students who have a little extra to spare, and I would gladly purchase it from them. Perhaps we could even barter with some of the things I am trying to get rid of? I could put up an ad that reads something like this:

"I'll trade my Ikea bookshelf for your three hours of free time that you will spend lying on the beach this afternoon?"

If only this were possible.

But, since it is not, I will simply leave you with a poem I keep thinking about as I anticipate my move to New York. It's an excerpt from a book that my mom gave me a few years ago when I was going through a rough break up with my boyfriend. She said that this book had helped her through the tough times in life, and she hoped that it would do the same for me.

It absolutely did.

This book of poetry is called The Prophet, by Kahlil Gibran, and is the same book that Reese Witherspoon's character was emphatically praising in the movie, Walk the Line. It's a beautiful book filled with philosophical musings on every aspect of life. It is narrated by a fictional character who has been sailing the world and is finally returning home to share all that he has discovered. His friends and family ask him to tell them what he has learned of love, of work, of joy, of pain, and of many other timeless topics. When they ask him what he has learned about houses and homes in distant lands, rather than launching into a description of them, he asks the village people about their own homes. He says:

"And tell me, people of Orphalese, what have you in these houses? And what is it you guard with fastened doors?
Have you peace, the quiet urge that reveals your power?
Have you remembrances, the glimmering arches that span the summits of the mind?
Have you beauty, that leads the heart from things fashioned of wood and stone to the holy mountain?
Tell me, have you these in your houses?
Or have you only comfort, and the lust for comfort, that stealthy thing that enters the house a guest, and then becomes a host and then a master?

Ay, and it becomes a tamer, and with hook and scourge makes puppets of your larger desires.
Though its hands are silken, its heart is of iron.
It lulls you to sleep only to stand by your bed and jeer at the dignity of the flesh.
It makes mock of your sound senses, and lays them in thistledown like fragile vessels.
Verily the lust for comfort murders the passion of the soul, and then walks grinning in the funeral."

That is just a brief excerpt from a much longer poem, but it is keeping me focused when I feel overwhelmed with moving and the uncertainty of where I am going. I don't want to stay here simply because it is comfortable. I don't want to pass up this opportunity to move to New York because it might not be so comfortable at various moments in time, and I definitely don't want my lust for comfort to "murder the passion of my soul"! I will admit that I have allowed it to in the past.

Have you? Any thoughts on this subject are welcomed (especially because they will distract me from packing, which is quite boring in comparison).

2006 Ruffino Chianti Classico Riserva Ducale

2010-07-19T12:42:00.000-07:00

This week's wine blog is extra special because it was made possible by a culmination of efforts from multiple friends. It began a few weeks ago when my friend Nic and I wandered over to Omaha Steaks in Long Beach. We met with the general manager, Phillip Goodman, who just happened to be in my Creative Writing class many moons ago when we were both students at Cal State Long Beach. Phillip gave us a great discount and helped Nic and I choose a selection of NY strip steaks and 6 ounce filet mignons -- all nicely marbled and flash- frozen to preserve their freshness.

I left Nic in charge of creating the menu for this week, as he is an amazing chef and admitedly knows more about cooking steak than I do. After brainstorming various culinary combinations, we took our final list of ingredients to the Redondo Beach Farmer's Market to purchase some fresh grape tomatoes, corn on the cob, green onions, and shallots.

Nic at the farmer's market

Me and my bouquet of basil that only cost $1!

The view from the market

I acted as sous chef and eager student, while Nic explained the perfect method for cooking a tender filet mignon. I felt as though I was back in Florence at the cooking class I took many years ago when I was studying abroad -- jotting down notes, and being verbally quizzed from time to time:

Nic: "Why are we letting the steaks rest for 6-8 minutes after cooking them?"

Me: "Because it allows the juices to settle. If we cut into the steak immediately after taking it off the heat, all the juices will pour out of it and onto the plate, which causes the meat to lose some of its natural tenderness and juiciness."

I got that one right, by the way.

After all of the chopping and mincing and searing and flambéing, the result of our efforts, was an incredibly delicious meal shared with great friends. It was also the last meal consumed at my beloved dining room table. I ended up selling it the very next day in preparation for my move to New York.

This was my first time eating Omaha Steaks, and I was quite impressed. Both steaks were flavorful and tender, even with the minimal amount of seasoning we used.

Although it seems natural to give you the recipes at this point, we must pause for a moment to remember that this is a wine blog and we haven't yet covered this week's selection. Without any further ado --let's talk Chianti, shall we?

2006 Ruffino Chianti Classico Riserva Ducale ($22.99 at Trader Joe's)

Like the Vin Santo we discussed last week, Chianti also hails from the beautiful region of Tuscany. Italians have been making this wine since the twelfth century, and it has since undergone multiple changes in production and even ingredients. In the 1800s, white grapes were blended together with Sangiovese, which is a red grape and is the primary ingredient in Chianti. Unlike in California -- where Chardonnay is made from Chardonnay grapes and Merlot is made from Merlot grapes -- in Italy, they like to blend multiple grapes together and then call the wine something entirely different. Very few wines in Italy are made from a single grape varietal, as they are here. That is why learning about Italian wine is both more interesting, and more complicated.

In addition, my Wine Bible says that Italy has extremely strict laws that govern wine production and they have been in place for centuries. Like a stubborn old man who is set in his ways, the Italian government would not allow for any deviation from these traditions, less the vineyard owners wanted their new creation to be labeled "table wine" (quite an insult!), rather than the distinguished title of Chianti.

It wasn't until the 1970s that a group of renegade winemakers decided they didn't care and dared to experiment against government standards. Their table wines were nicknamed the "Super Tuscans" by the press, and were so successful that they eventually convinced the government to adapt some winemaking laws, and ultimately helped create the Chianti we know and love today. And no, it does not have white grapes blended with it anymore, just in case you were wondering.

This particular Chianti is made by Ruffino. I knew it would be a safe bet because it's from an extremely reputable vineyard, and was given 90 points from the Wine Spectator. It is smooth and delicious, with hints of blackberry and a touch of earthiness. It paired quite nicely with the filet mignon and NY strip.

Peppercorn Crusted Filet Mignon With Brandy Cream Sauce

4, 6 oz filet mignons, patted dry and at room temperature
Kosher salt, to taste
1 oz. whole peppercorns, cracked with rolling pin
2 Tbsp. canola oil
1 Tbsp. butter
1/4 cup brandy
1/2 cup heavy whipping cream

Brush each side the filets with canola oil, then sprinkle with kosher salt. Place the whole peppecorns on a sheet of wax paper, then cover with another sheet of wax paper and use a rolling pin to crush them into chunky pieces.

Once they have been broken down, firmly press each filet into the peppercorns until both sides are heavily crusted.

In a large stainless steel pan, melt the butter and canola oil on med-high heat. Cook the filets for 4 minutes on each side, and then take them off the heat to rest for 6-8 minutes (Hint: you'll know why this is important if you were paying attention earlier. Just making sure you're all paying attention . . .)

The filets should come out med-rare.

While the steaks are resting, start the brandy cream sauce in the same pan you cooked the steaks in. Drain off any excess fat, then use the brandy to de-glaze the pan. Take it off the heat and light it on fire. This burns off all the alcohol, and it's also rather fun.

When the flames have gone out, return the pan to the stove and reduce the heat to med-low. Let the brandy simmer for a few minutes until it becomes dark and syrupy, then whisk in the heavy whipping cream and allow it to continue simmering for about 5 more minutes.

Top each filet with the brandy cream sauce, and enjoy!

Seared NY Strip Steaks With Fennel Succatash

4 NY strip steaks, patted dry and at room temperature
canola oil
kosher salt and crushed black pepper, to taste
2 Tbsp. extra virgin olive oil
1 fennel bulb, chopped
1 cup green onion bulbs, chopped
1 lb. grape tomatoes, halved
4 corn cobs, kernals shaved off
sea salt and crushed black pepper, to taste

fennel

Use a large cast iron skillet that is suitable for putting in the oven. Preheat oven to 500 degrees with the skillet inside the oven while it is preheating. It should take around 30 minutes for the oven to actually get that hot. (FYI, you may also want to disconnect your smoke detector for the evening because there will be lots of smoke once you start cooking the steak.) Don't say I didn't warn you.

While waiting for the pan to heat up, brush each steak with canola oil, then lightly salt and pepper each side.

Once thirty minutes has passed, remove the skillet from the oven and place it on top of the stove on med-high heat. Allow it to sit on the stove for 5 more minutes, continuing to get hotter, then drop each steak on the skillet and count to thirty seconds. Flip them, then count to thirty seconds on the following side. Next, place the whole pan back in the 500 degree oven and bake for 2 minutes on each side. Remove them, and let the steaks rest for 8-10 minutes. They should come out about med-rare.

While the steak is resting, start making the fennel succatash by sauteeing fennel in olive oil until it is transluscent. Add the green onions and continue sauteeing until it is soft (about 2 more minutes). Season the raw corn kernals with salt and pepper, then add them to the pan. Continue sauteeing for another 2 minutes, add the grape tomatoes, and cover. Simmer for another 2 minutes and then serve with the NY strip steak or filet mignon.

If you want to learn more about Omaha Steaks, or to find a location in your neighborhood, click here.

Brigid and Nehemiah

Keeping Faith in Faith

2010-07-14T21:04:00.000-07:00

In the book, The Artist’s Way, Julia Cameron describes every work of art as already existing in its entirety, even before the artist creates it. She says that creating is merely an act of discovery—of the artist slowly chipping away at the rock and earth that is covering her masterpiece—just as scientists do on an archaeological dig. The archaeologist never knows exactly what he or she will find, but simply continues working until the object finally reveals itself.

I often feel like that when I write. Especially with this particular blog post. I always knew that at some point in my life I would want to broach the subject of my religious upbringing, but the question was always, how? With what stories? From what place in time? And most importantly, with what objectivity?

You see, my childhood experiences with organized religion were very . . . how shall I say this . . . unique. I grew up attending a church called the Worldwide Church of God (now referred to as Grace Communion International) and it had very rigid, unorthodox guidelines for how its members were expected to live their lives. It was run by one man, Herbert W. Armstrong, who died in 1989. I was eight years old at the time.

After his death, Armstrong’s appointed predecessor, Josheph Tkach, began running the church and within a few years of being in power, he decided that many of Armstrong’s ideologies were actually inaccurate and not Biblically sound. This of course enraged and confused the massive congregation of people who had sacrificed so much and had built their lives around principles that were now seen as obsolete. The church split into various groups of angry and wounded people. Allegations were made; families were broken apart; atheists were born.

I grew up in the midst of all of this and have been waiting for a time when I felt ready to write about it. One thing I have learned about writing is that it is absolutely essential to have a sense of distance from whatever subject I am discussing. I need to be able to write about it objectively; otherwise, nothing I say is going to be wholly accurate. Its accuracy would be clouded by my own hurts, worries, anger, and bitterness.

That was, in fact, the first question that came to mind when I thought about writing on this part of my childhood: am I still—even just a little bit—bitter? I kind of was as a kid. Not that being bitter really got me anywhere, but like many children, I had difficulty with seeing the bigger picture and understanding that my present situation wasn’t all there was ever going to be.

And if I am carrying even slight remnants of bitterness on this topic, then the next question to consider before starting to write is the following: will my blog posting be a carefully crafted story, or will it be an overly candid therapy session that I’m inviting the whole world to peer in on? These are rather important questions for any writer to consider. Oddly enough, I began answering them by surfing the Internet, which is always the surest and fastest form of introspection.

I’m kidding.

Googling will usually not be the key to unlocking your innermost feelings, but in this specific situation, I knew it would be a good start. The church I attended when I was growing up was cloaked in controversy, and is therefore, highly Googleable. Go ahead and try it: type “Worldwide Church of God” into your browser and see what you will find.

You will likely find multiple references to it being a cult. If you let your eyes fall a little farther down the screen, you will stumble upon the blog of a man named Robert McNally who grew up in the WCG and is now an atheist. The tag line at the top of his blog is, “Losing faith in faith since 1997.” His blog is primarily a forum for ex-members to rant and rave about their bitter experiences. To lament the ways religion has ruined their lives.

On the opposite end of the spectrum, you will find another website of a girl who grew up in the WCG and has learned to overcome her grievances through art. Her name is Andie Redwine, and she wrote and produced a film called Paradise Recovered. It’s about a girl who grows up in an oppressive, fundamentalist church and later meets an “unlikely source” who “teaches her what it really means to experience faith, love, and life.” I couldn’t find the date for when it is being released, but I think I’d like to go see Ms. Redwine’s film.

Plus, I think she has a cool last name. Sorry, I had to say it.

Next, in Google’s long line of choices, comes the blog of those who still adhere to the original principles of the Worldwide Church of God, and who think that Herbert W. Armstrong is a sacred prophet. Granted, the author of this blog seems to be exceptionally racist, as a few of his posts are openly bashing African Americans, as well as partially justifying the Holocaust.

At this point in my research, I am feeling thoroughly depressed. Every single thing that I am finding seems to point to the fact that this church was a horrible institution, including the Wikipedia articles that document all of the administrative controversies that went on behind the scenes. For example, it states that in 1979, 60 Minutes did a report on how the Worldwide Church of God was financially manipulating its members.

Of course, I knew nothing about all of that when I was a child. All I knew—like my fellow ex-members who are blogging about it on the web—was that I felt like I was never allowed to do anything. All the activities and customs that were part of the normal, every-day lives of the people around me, seemed to be off limits in my own life.

I didn’t celebrate my first birthday until I was eleven years old. I never believed in Santa, and celebrated Christmas for the first time at fifteen. I participated in my first Easter egg hunt when I was living in the dorms in college, and still have yet to partake in the time-honored tradition of watching Saturday morning cartoons. Watching television was prohibited on Saturdays because it was considered the Sabbath day; therefore, most activities were forbidden outside of attending church.

Granted, there are many people on this planet who have never done any of these things and probably never will, yet still lead completely healthy and fulfilled lives. I know that now. The problem is that I didn’t know that as a child growing up in a teensy-tiny, all white, all Christian town. When we came back to school from Christmas break and all of the other kids were excitedly comparing stories of the cool Christmas gifts they had gotten, it felt like my brother and I were the biggest odd balls on the planet. We didn’t have any stories to tell.

But this is all a rather lengthy tale—much more than I could possibly say in one blog post. Therefore, I will leave you with this as an introduction to my own journey of growing up in the Worldwide Church of God and how, in spite of it all, I am still “keeping faith in faith,” since sometime around the late 90s.

2001 Fattoria Viticcio Vin Santo "Dolce Arianna"

2010-07-12T11:25:00.000-07:00

For those of you who read my blog primarily for the autobiographical/creative nonfiction posts, I assure you that one of those will be coming up very shortly. For the rest of you, here's another wine and recipe combo!

This week, we have finally landed in Tuscany--Italy's most renown wine region. As someone who was lucky enough to study abroad in this region, I can attest to the fact that it is every bit as idyllic as it seems. I'll never forget the day my Art History class took a field trip to the village of Vinci-- you know, Leonardo's hometown? We visited the Leonardo Da Vinci museum, as well as the home he grew up in. It was surrounded by rolling hills of grape vines amidst cottages with rust colored roof tops. It was classic and serene. It was the Italy of my imagination.

One thing about Tuscany that I can say with utmost confidence is that as long as the world keeps on spinning, it probably won't change. The Italians won't be plowing down cyprus trees and leveling out mountainsides in order to build new shopping centers. In fact, most of their buildings don't even have elevators because they were built hundreds of years ago. My apartment in Florence didn't have an elevator or a phone line. Everything was antique and simple, and in Tuscany, there's a certain beauty to that.

2001 Fattoria Viticcio Vin Santo "Dolce Arianna" ($24.99 at Wine Country)

Vin Santo means holy wine and was given its name because Catholic priests have been drinking it for centuries during mass. It is a sweet dessert wine that is typically served after the post-dinner round of espressos. It's the most expensive bottle of wine I have tasted so far for this wine blog, and also the most difficult to find. I had to go to a specialty wine shop to get it, and for your convenience, I've posted links on the left hand side of this page to other awesome wine shops throughout California (for those of you who don't live in Long Beach and can't drive down the street to Wine Country).

You're welcome.

According to my Wine Bible, the main reason Vin Santo is so expensive and not mass-produced is because it takes a very long time to make. The winemakers begin by drying the grapes so that the water inside them evaporates, leaving the remaining sugar to be extra concentrated. Then the grapes are crushed and placed into various types of wooden barrels where they are left to ferment for a period of three to five years.

When I read the words "Italian dessert wine," I was expecting it to resemble a sweet Muscato, but now that I have tasted it, I would say Vin Santo more closely resembles a port wine. It has an extremely high alcohol content per volume (this one has 17.5%) with a tangy vanilla scent. It is the color of scotch -- a golden brownish hue -- and tastes like syrupy brown sugar. With a kick, of course.

In all honesty, I wasn't enamored with this wine. It was a bit too strong for my taste. However, my friend Stacy and I did thoroughly enjoy the Cantucci Biscotti we paired with it. Vin Santo is meant to be paired with biscotti, and I have a quick and easy recipe for you, below. Even if you don't decide to try a bottle, I would still highly recommend the biscotti for dipping in coffee, or even milk. It tastes like almondy deliciousness, and is very low in calories.

Cantucci Biscotti (adapted from this recipe)

2 cups flour
1 cup white sugar
1 tsp. baking powder
2 eggs
2 tsp. vanilla extract
1/8 cup Amaretto (drive your butt over to BevMo and check out their selection of teeny, tiny 50 ML-sized bottles of liqueur)
1 cup unsalted dry toasted sliced almonds

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Combine the flour, sugar, and baking powder in one bowl, then get out a separate bowl to combine the eggs, vanilla, and Amaretto. Gradually add the wet ingredients to the dry ingredients, and as it becomes more sticky and doughy, add the almonds and thoroughly mix it all with your hands.

Shape the dough into a long rectangle that is 3 inches wide and 15 inches long, then place it on a greased cookie sheet. Bake it in the oven for 20 minutes, then take out and let cool.

Once it has cooled, slice the rectangle cross-wise into 3/4 inch slices.

Place these pieces on the cookie sheet slice-side down and then bake them again for 15 minutes.

Serve them dipped in Vin Santo or a big cup of coffee.

2006 Tenuta Rapitala "Nuar" Nero D'Avola/Pinot Nero

2010-07-07T18:08:00.000-07:00

Instead of region hopping this week, we are going to remain in Sicily to try one of Southern Italy's most popular red grapes: Nero D'Avola. Nero D'Avola is rightly named after the region it comes from and is usually considered a bold wine with intense flavor and high alcohol content. According to Best of Sicily Magazine, the traditional method of producing Nero D'Avola resulted in a thick, syrupy- sweet wine. It remained that way from Antiquity to the 1980s when winemakers finally adopted a newer method of production and started placing the wine in cooled vats that prevented it from fermenting as quickly.

2006 Tenuta Rapitala "Nuar" Nero D'Avola/Pinot Nero (on sale at BevMo for $13.99, regularly $14.99)

The version I chose is actually a blend of Nero D'Avola and Pinot Nero -- the Italian version of Pinot Noir. I absolutely loved this wine in every respect! The two wines complemented each other nicely, as Pinots tend to be light and fruity and Nero D'Avolas -- as we discussed above -- are the very opposite; yet, blended together, they produce a balanced wine that tastes like sweet black cherries and plums.

BUT, before you open the bottle and start pouring, do note that this bottle is a 2006. Translation: it has been corked up for the past four years, which means that it either needs a decanter -- a handy little contraption that filters aged wine by separating the good stuff from the sediment that naturally builds up over time -- or, it simply needs to sit a while and breathe. Yes, breeeathe, or aerate, to use the more technical term

I actually don't own a decanter (and I'm assuming that most of my readers don't either), so I simply opened the bottle and allowed it to sit for a while before I partook of it. Plus, I sort of had to open the bottle early so that I could marinate the lamb in it the night before -- which brings me to the killer Lamb Couscous reicpe I made for my two best girlfriends! One of them was visiting from the East Coast, so I had them over for lunch during 4th of July weekend.

Did the wine pair well with the food, you ask?
Absolutely!
Lamb Couscous With Mint Leaves and Dates

1 lb. boneless lamb sirloin, cut into bite-size pieces
1.5 cups chicken or beef broth
3/4 cup of the wine mentioned above (or basic red cooking wine)
crushed black pepper to taste
1 cup couscous
2 lemons, juiced
1/3 cup extra virgin olive oil
sea salt and crushed black pepper to taste
large handful of Italian parsley, finely chopped
large handful of mint leaves, finely chopped
2 green onions, chopped
10 oz. Fancy Medjool Dates, pitted and sliced (refrigerator section at Trader Joe's, although you could probably get them other places)

Begin making this meal about 8-10 hours before you wish to serve it. Chop the lamb sirloin into bite-sized pieces and then toss it into a crock pot. Add the crushed black pepper, chicken broth, and red wine. Cover it, turn the crock pot on low, then let the lamb sit for a minimum of 8 hours. This will break down the tendons in the meat and help it become tender.

About 10 minutes prior to serving the dish, put one cup of water in a sauce pan and wait for it to boil. Once it does, take it off the heat and add one cup of couscous. Stir it evenly with a fork, then cover it and let it sit for 5 minutes. While it sits, use a slotted serving spoon to scoop the lamb pieces out of the crock pot and place them in a bowl. Add the green onion, mint, parsley, and dates.

After 5 minutes, uncover the couscous and add the lemon juice, olive oil, sea salt, and pepper. Thoroughly mix together, and then add to the lamb and date mixture. Combine all ingredients evenly, and then serve.

A few other photos, just for fun:

Swapping Clothes: My Favorite Form of Recycling

2010-07-03T19:41:00.000-07:00

They say shopping is a good deed because it stimulates the economy, and I'm willing to bet that there are many women on this planet who wouldn't argue with that line of reasoning. I know I never have—especially not in our current economic recession when I can almost get away with patting myself on the back for going on a spending spree. Watch me raise the NASDAQ. Just watch! But what if we could shop without actually spending any money, and what if that shopping trip could make a pretty awesome impact—not on our economy, but on our environment and in the lives other women?

Earlier this week, I was drawn to an event that elevated shopping to yet another level of philanthropy, and that is the Clothing Swap I attended a few days ago in Hollywood. The concept behind this event is just as simple as it sounds: women from all walks of life come together to swap clothes, shoes, and accessories that they no longer want or need. Every woman is required to bring a minimum of ten items that are freshly washed and in decent condition. The items are then collected and organized by the Clothing Swap volunteers.

About an hour into the evening, all attendees are allowed to start sifting through the wracks of dresses and piles of blouses and pants. If they find something they love, they may keep it. All the remaining clothes and accessories are donated to various charities and women’s shelters.

When I heard about this, I pretty much loved everything about it and began my Wednesday morning by digging through my closet to identify the pieces I was willing to part with—never an easy task for a pack rat such as myself. I have long adhered to the notion that if you keep something long enough, it will come back into style; yet, this event seemed to encourage me to stop hoarding and be a bit more generous. I reasoned that if I wanted to receive something cute and trendy, I would need to donate something cute and trendy. It was shopper’s karma 101.

After purging our respective closets, my friends and I arrived at the Falcon Restaurant to find a group of eager women drinking $5 cosmos and apple martinis as they waited for the clothing to be organized. The swap took place on the restaurant’s outdoor patio area, a charming, moss-covered alcove with dark wooden tables and comfy couches along the back wall. Various salon vendors were advertising their services by giving complimentary makeovers to anyone who wanted one. They worked intently with their brushes and their make-up palettes, right beside the many trees on the balcony that were wrapped in white Christmas lights.

When it came time for the main event, everyone gathered together and was then set loose with three simple words: “Ready, set, swap!” Upon hearing them, we rushed for the inventory, frantically sorting through tables of blouses, holding each one up to check the size and imagine whether or not we could see ourselves in it. There were women trying to cram their feet into pairs of platform shoes, and other women in the dressing room area, asking each other for advice as to whether or not a certain pair of jeans fit them correctly. A San Francisco-based dj was also spinning music in the background, adding to the overall energy and rhythm of the evening.

Every one of my friends took home at least something they adored. Out of all my new loot, this t-shirt and pair of high heels were my two favorite items:

Towards the end of the night, I started chatting with a girl I had never met before. She was standing in front of me in the line for the bathroom, and I figured talking to her would help pass the time.

“Did you find anything you liked?” I asked, pointing to the brown paper bag she held loosely in her hand.

“Yes,” she said, “and my favorite is this dress. . .” With that, she dipped her hand inside the bag and pulled out an article of clothing I instantly recognized because it had come from my very own closet.

I told her that I was the one who brought the dress, and we shared an ecstatic moment of smiles and exclamation points:

“OMG, that was mine!”

“It was?! No way!”

To add to the cheesiness, I have to admit that it made my night to see how happy she was to get a dress that I never really wore or appreciated because it simply didn't look good on me. (I know, the cheese factor is off the charts at this point, so I'll just move on.)

The evening concluded with the founder of Clothing Swap, Inc., Suzanne Agasi, thanking all of us for coming and sharing a bit about her swapping adventures. She has been hosting clothing swaps since 1994. Yes, that’s right, folks. Way before it was trendy to be eco-friendly and philanthropic—back in the nineties, when green was merely a color of the rainbow—Suzanne was inviting friends to swap outfits in her San Francisco apartment.

I interviewed her after the Hollywood event and she told me that her very first clothing swap was interesting, to say the least. Only three of her girlfriends showed up—one of which had an allergic reaction to her cat and had to leave shortly after dropping off her things. The other two girls stayed, but it worried Suzanne that they seemed to have a completely opposite sense of fashion. One was an ex-Peace Corps volunteer and was rather conservative in the way she dressed, while the other girl's style was what Suzanne describes as,“Fredrick’s of Hollywood sexy.”

“I was mortified they wouldn’t find anything they would like,” Suzanne recalled; but on the contrary, their opposing tastes ended up working to everyone’s advantage. “The conservative girl actually had a few sexy items in her closet that she really never wore, while the sexier girl brought conservative items that she wanted to get rid of. Everyone found stuff they really liked, and what’s even better is that we ended up having a large donation to give to the women’s shelter.”

Since 1994, the popularity of clothing swaps has grown, and Suzanne has proudly hosted 225 swapping events in nightclubs and restaurants all over the United States, from New York City to Denver, Los Angeles, and of course, San Francisco.

“My hopes are to tour more cities, coast to coast,” she says, “and to take the fun, fashionable, philanthropic, eco-chic concept worldwide.”

I asked Suzanne if she’s always been “green,” and the answer to that is a resounding yes. She said she has always been a tree-hugger who rides her bike to work and who prides herself on running Clothing Swap, Inc. in the most sustainable way possible. “We advertise almost entirely on Facebook and Twitter instead of using posters or fliers to promote our events.” Suzanne also plans to update the website to include information for women who want to host clothing swaps in their own homes, as many are already doing across the country. In fact, there is likely a Meet Up group for clothing swappers in your own hometown, and if there’s not, the beauty of MeetUp.com is that anyone can start one.

As Suzanne’s motto states, “Be good. Be green. Be glam!” And why not? At the very least, it gives us all a reason to de-clutter our closets, and maybe even start calling ourselves “eco-chic.”

Eco-chic. Excuse me for a moment while I go add that description to my Twitter profile. I’ll be right back.

2007 Mandra Rossa Fiano

2010-06-28T07:24:00.000-07:00

This week, we are taking a hop, skip, and a leap all the way down to Siciliy -- you know, that little landmass that is being "kicked" by the boot?

The climate in Sicily is a winemaker's dream, plus it has strategically located port cities that make it ideal for trading. The most famous wine produced in this region is one you have likely heard of, and it's called Marsala -- as in Chicken Marsala. Over the years, it has become more of a cooking wine than a "sipping and enjoying wine." I believe this is partially because it is fortified, which means that alcohol is added to it. Fortified wines are also called port wines, and port wines are an acquired taste. They are very strong and from my experience need to be expensive, otherwise they simply do not taste good.

For all of those reasons, I decided to skip the marsala tasting and opt instead for a lesser known Sicilian varietal called Fiano.

2007 Mandra Rossa Fiano (on sale for $7.99 at BevMo; regularly $11.99)

This wine has an interesting history. The fiano grape originated over two thousand years ago and was called Vitis Apiana (translated as, beloved vine of bees). The grapes were so sweet that swarms of bees were actually attracted to the vines. And -- just as a sidenote -- before I even read that little fact, I happened to describe this wine as being a "golden honey color." Coincidence? I think not.

Indeed, Fiano does taste sweet, but it is also highly acidic. The acidity makes it pair well with richer foods, like creamy cheeses and sausage dishes. I found it to be rich in texture, as it seemed thicker and heavier than most white wines. I enjoyed it for its uniqueness, and thought it paired well with the following salmon dish:

Baked Salmon with Black Bean Mango Salsa

4 salmon filets
4 Tbsp. extra virgin olive oil
4 tsp. honey
sea salt and crushed black pepper, to taste
3 cubes Dorot frozen cilantro (Trader Joe's freezer section)
1 lime, cut into 8 thin slices
4 small cloves of garlic, sliced in half
15 oz. can black beans
15 oz container Papaya Mango Salsa from Trader Joe's
1-2 oz. goat cheese (optional)

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees and cut 4 squares of foil, each large enough to loosely wrap the pieces of salmon individually and create a "foil tent" around each one. We're going to be baking the salmon in the oven, and by loosley wrapping it in a foil tent, all of its natural juices will be preserved and it will actually marinate in them and be tender and delicious by the time we take it out. Just you wait!

Use one tablespoon of olive oil per piece of fish. Half of that tablespoon should be spread evenly along the bottom of the foil so that the fish doesn't stick. The other half should be brushed along the top of the filet. Next, add one teaspoon of honey per salmon filet and evenly spread it along the top, as well. Place the frozen cilantro cubes in a microwave safe bowl and melt them down. This should only take about 10 seconds.

Stir them up, spoon a small amount onto each filet, and then top with salt and pepper. Lastly, add two slices of lime to each filet, and two garlic halves. Each piece of fish should look something like this:

Next, fold the sides of the foil together to create a loose tent around each piece of salmon. It kind of looks like a foil-wrapped baked potato, except minus the potato.

Plop them all in the oven for 20 minutes. While they are cooking, get out a medium-sized sauce pan and add the black beans and papaya mango salsa to it. Mix them together, thoroughly, and let the sauce simmer on med-low heat so that all the flavors come together.

When the fish is finished, take the sauce off the heat and only if you want to, add an ounce or two of goat cheese to the salsa to make it creamy and rich. I mainly did this so that it would pair better with the wine, but if you don't like goat cheese, then skip it all together! The sauce tastes awesome even without it, although I warn you that it is a tiny bit spicy. The goat cheese helps to tone down the spiciness.

The salmon is fully cooked when the oils inside the fish start to turn an opaque white. Once that has happened (it really should only take 20 minutes), unwrap each piece of fish and then throw away the lime and garlic slices. Top the salmon with the black bean mango salsa, and enjoy!

They Say Admitting It Is the First Step

2010-06-25T08:07:00.000-07:00

Hello. My name is Christy and I am a compulsive overachiever.

I figured I might as well just come out and say it. I get rather obsessive when it comes to obtaining something that I really want, and I spend hours preparing for and working towards said goal. In many respects, this is a good thing. It demonstrates my sense of drive and passion and ambition. It shows that I am dedicated and probably wouldn’t be described as lazy (except in regards to playing sports, as has already been discussed in previous blogs). However, the down side is that once my overachieving mode gets kicked into gear, I do not know how to turn it off. It’s as if the ambition lever gets set to high and then the handle breaks, deeming it impossible to move up or down or any other direction, for that matter. It is simply stuck, as am I.

If this all seems utterly ridiculous, I assure you it is not; and furthermore, I present the following story of a moment in time when I tried really hard to slack off—yet failed.

In the fall of 2001, I was taking general education classes at CSULB and knew from the start that it was going to be a grueling semester. My class schedule was loaded with fun-filled courses, such as: American History, Political Science, Beginning Italian, and Physical Science—the one subject I was dreading the most and was quite bitter about having to take. I figured that in high school I had already memorized the Periodic Table of the Elements, dissected a frog, and built a stellar model of a papier-mâché plant cell. What more could a college science class offer? I mean really.

During the first week of classes I sat in my dorm room and anticipated the long hours of memorization that would be required for me to get an ‘A’ in History and Political Science. That went double for Italian class because I would actually be studying abroad in Florence the following semester and wanted to absorb as much of the language as possible. With that thought, my mind shifted to a vision of myself shopping for shoes in an Italian market and using all of the brilliant phrases I would be learning to negotiate a lower price on them. I also saw myself talking to some cute Italian boys at a bar and impressing them with my obvious mastery of their language. (As a side note, I later learned that Italian boys in a bar are actually not that difficult to impress. But that is another story for another time.)

As I was envisioning these things and lamenting the injustice of having to take a Physical Science class that may, horror of all horrors—lower my GPA—it occurred to me that I could sign up to take it as Credit/No Credit. The university had a policy that a certain number of units could be taken as Credit/No Credit, which meant that I wouldn’t receive a grade for the class. As long as I earned seventy percent or above, then I would get credit for the class on my transcripts. If I received anything lower, then I wouldn’t.

It seemed like the perfect solution, so I picked up the form and set out to get it signed by all the proper authorities. I needed a signature from my instructor, one from Enrollment Services, and then one from the department I was majoring in, which was English. When I arrived at the English department, the secretary sent me down the hall to see Dr. Caron. I knocked on the door to his office, introduced myself, and then kindly asked for his signature.

He looked at me skeptically and then glanced at his officemate. “You know,” he said, “I don’t really agree with this whole idea of allowing students to take classes as Credit/No Credit. It’s sort of like deciding from the start that they’re not going to try, or get anything out of the class.”

“Oh, no, that’s not at all what I think or why I want to do this,” I lied.

“Really?” he said. “Then tell me why exactly you want to take this class for credit only.”

I very sweetly relayed the details of my class schedule that semester. I told him about how difficult it would be for me to get by, especially combined with all the hours I worked at my part-time job at In-N-Out. I talked about my GPA and how I didn’t want this one course to negatively affect it.

He again looked at me as thought he wasn’t buying any of it. “What do you think?” he asked, turning to his officemate who was also an English professor.

“I think that part of college is learning how to balance the stresses of life,” his officemate said. “And if it were up to me, I probably wouldn’t sign it.”

This was not at all what I expected. I had to think fast. “But this is an opportunity that the university gives to all students,” I protested. “If they didn’t, then I absolutely would make it work and just plain deal with all the stress, but why should I go through all that if I don’t have to? I’m merely asking to take advantage of a little bit of relief that the university offers me.”

The two exchanged glances, and Dr. Caron sighed. “Alright,” he said, “I’ll sign it under one consideration: you have to agree to take my Survey of American Literature class next semester and you have to get an ‘A.’”

My eyes widened. This was bad. This was really bad.

I stuttered and stammered and told him that I couldn’t because I was going to be studying abroad in Italy next semester, but that I absolutely positively would sign up for his class in a year from now and would most definitely work hard to get an ‘A.’

“Do you believe this kid?” He said. “First she wants to skate through Physical Science, and then she wants to run off to Italy.”

I couldn’t help but smile. I’m always a fan of sarcasm—even when it works to my disadvantage. “It’s not like that,” I told him.

“Here’s your signature,” he said, passing me the form.

He doesn’t think he’s going to ever see me again, I thought. I looked him straight in the eye and said, “I really will take your class, and I really will get an ‘A.’”

And with that I left his office, and didn’t see him again for another six years.

What happened is that Dr. Caron was sent to teach and lead the study abroad semester in London that fall, so at the same time that I was flying back from Europe, he was boarding a plane to the UK. I went to register for his class that semester and found out he wouldn’t be teaching it. Granted, I still took it with another instructor—and yes, I did receive an ‘A’—but the high grade didn’t make up for my lack of vindication in Dr. Caron’s eyes.

For whatever reason, and perhaps it is simply because the English department at Cal State Long Beach is so large, I didn’t get the opportunity to take another class with him until 2007. By then I was a graduate student and had signed up for his seminar on American Literature in the 1950s. It ended up being one of my favorite classes of all time, and the Credit/No Credit debacle seemed to be a part of ancient history for Dr. Caron. When I saw him on the first day of class, he didn’t even recognize me. Throughout the whole semester, I kept wanting to say something to him about that day in his office, but he showed absolutely no sign of remembering it. So I let the whole thing go and carried on as usual. It was probably best that he didn’t remember—even though I did earn my ‘A,’ and in a graduate seminar that culminated in writing an 18-page research paper, no less. I’m just saying.

However, while I may have been right about my character and integrity as a student, Dr. Caron was spot-on about his assessment of whether or not I should sign up for Credit/No Credit. By taking Physical Science that semester and opting not to receive a grade, I actually screwed myself over royally. Do you want to know why? Because I got an ‘A’ in Physical Science—or, at least it would have been an ‘A’ had I not signed up for Credit/No Credit.

After everything I had gone through to get that signature from Dr. Caron, I tried my hardest to slack off and found that I just couldn’t do it. I was working like a mad woman to get ‘A’s in all my other classes, so my body and brain and whole being didn’t know how to do anything else. What, me, not study the night before a test? Me, not turn in homework? I tried doing both of those things, and the guilt overwhelmed me so much that I couldn’t handle it. So I broke down and studied. And completed every single assignment. And ended the course with a ninety-something percent.

Yes, I’m a chronic overachiever; when the ambition lever gets stuck in one position, there simply is no preying it loose.

Currently, the lever is stuck in “I need to find a job in New York” mode, and I am obsessively researching industries and companies and tips and tricks to writing the perfect resume. I want key words; I want pizzazz and glitter and impressive facts, but more than anything, I just want to get called for an interview. I want my cover letter to stand out among the hundreds of other applicants because it shines like a diamond in the rough. So, I’m ceaselessly trying to make all of that happen within the next month.

No pressure.

I’ve been doing nothing short of eating and breathing my job search for the past few weeks, and now I’m beginning to realize that it’s time to take a break. It’s time to let go a bit and stop with the crazy, obsessive, overachieving and simply spend a day at the beach. Yes, that beach—the one that is going to be long gone the second I board the plane to JFK. I’m going to be landing into a concrete jungle and from then on, all my lazy days in the sand will be nothing but a distant memory. I’m finally realizing that I don’t want to spend my last month in Los Angeles in front of a computer screen obsessing over whether or not my cover letter is the best thing any company has ever seen.

So for the next month, I’m going to try and slack off. I’ll let you know how it goes.

Reggiano Lambrusco Le Grotte Rosso Dolce

2010-06-20T18:02:00.000-07:00

This week we are drinking the number one, most popular wine imported from Italy and sold in the United States. No, it is not Pinot Grigio or Chianti. (Those would have been my two guesses.) It is called Lambrusco and is produced in the beautiful region of Emilia-Romagna, just north of Tuscany and home of many culinary delights, such as balsamic vinegar, parmesan cheese, and prosciutto, which is a deliciously cured Italian meat.

Reggiano Lambrusco Le Grotte Rosso Dolce ($4.99 at Trader Joe's):

Lambrusco is slightly dry and incredibly smooth. I tasted a little bit of strawberry or raspberry in the mix, so I would certainly label it fruity. It is also rather unique because it comes in every color of the wine rainbow, meaning that there is a white version, a pink version, and a red version of Lambrusco, which is what I tasted. Whichever color you choose, all Lambruscos are frizzy because they are made in pressurized tanks. They come with a champagne-style cork, yet are not considered a full sparkling wine because they only go through one bubble-inducing fermentation. Champagne and sparkling wine go through two. (Just a fun little fact -- in case you ever go on Jeopardy, or something.)

As I mentioned in my last wine blog, I'm visiting my parents at the moment, so I joined forces with my sister-in-law, Beatrice, and we made a big Italian dinner for the whole family. I specifically choose Lambrusco for this week because I knew that everyone would love it. You pretty much can't not love Lambrusco. Even my parents who generally don't like red wine were reaching for the bottle all evening long to refill their glasses. Oh, and I'm sorry -- I forgot the very best part -- it's only $4.99 a bottle!

Beatrice came up with the recipe for this week, and I think you will enjoy it.

Sicilian Pasta with Sausage and Sundried Tomatoes

4+ Tbsps. extra virgin olive oil
6 cloves garlic, minced
6 cubes Dorot frozen basil (from Trader Joe's freezer section)
1/2 tsp. dried oregano
handful fresh Italian parsley, finely chopped
1/2 tsp. crushed red pepper flakes
crushed black pepper to taste
1 pkg. Italian sausages (chicken or pork), removed from casing and crumbled into pieces
16 oz. bag chopped frozen spinach
5 oz. sundried tomatoes in Italian herbs, sliced (reserve the olive oil inside the jar)
2 Tbsp. parmesan cheese
1 lb. bowtie pasta
2 cups pasta water, reserved

Begin by using kitchen scissors or a knife to make a thin slice along the top of each sausage, just enough to be able to peel the outside casing off.

If you buy Sicilian-style sausages, the inside will already be crumbly and ground up, so you can just toss all of it into a bowl. If you buy the firmer sausages, you will need to run them through the food processor after you peel the outside casing off. The idea is for the sausage to be very finely ground.

Next, put the pasta water on to boil and start cooking the sauce. Completely cover the bottom of a frying pan with olive oil -- about 4 tablespoons should do it. Sautee the garlic, parsley, oregano, crushed red pepper flakes, black pepper, and basil cubes on medium to low heat for about 10 minutes. It should closely resemble a pesto sauce at this point.

Add the sundried tomatoes and sausage meat and let the sauce cook uncovered for another 5 minutes. Add the frozen spinach, parmesan cheese, and the majority of the flavored olive oil that is inside the jar of sundried tomatoes -- just drain it directly into the pan.

Once your pasta water has started to boil, let the sauce simmer and cook the pasta however long is recommended on the back of the package.When the pasta is finished cooking, place a bowl in the sink underneath the colander and drain the pasta so that all of the water is reserved.

Measure out 2 cup of the pasta water and add it to the sauce, then place the pasta in a serving dish and top it with the sauce. Add a little extra parmesan cheese to each individual serving. Salute!

The fam

Beatrice and me (not sure why I'm making that face . . .)

Tommy, our assistant chef, lounging under the dinner table

Waiting (Tables, That Is)

2010-06-16T09:18:00.000-07:00

This may be a bit surprising, but I actually have a sister who is twenty-one years older than I am and her name is Sherry. She is technically my half sister and no, we did not grow up together. But I do have some fond memories of her coming over to visit when I was younger. She would take me ice skating and teach me to make spaghetti sauce and garlic bread. Her mom is Italian—maybe that is where I got it from?

One of the earliest memories I have of Sherry and also one of the most vivid, is of her teaching me how to carry three plates at one time. I was five years old, which would have made Sherry about twenty-six. She was working as a server at Black Angus and balancing multiple plates of food was an important part of her job.

I can still see the empty Tupperware plates she held in her hands—a rainbow of orange, green, and gold. She delicately balanced one on her left forearm, the second on her left palm, and the third plate she grasped with her right thumb on top and other fingers tightly gripping the bottom. Of course, the plates were empty and they hardly weighed anything, so I was able to master this balancing act relatively quickly and with few imaginary spills. We proudly sauntered through the hallways, carrying our plates.

When that became too easy, we decided to up the ante by trying to balance them while walking down stairs. This proved to be a bit more challenging, but I loved every minute of it, and it naturally made me want to become a server when I grew up—partially because balancing all those plates was super cool, but even more so because Sherry was a server, and I thought absolutely everything she did was cool.

As I grew more steadily into adolescence, my dream of waiting tables was replaced by various other career ambitions. When I started reading Little House on the Prairie, I wanted to be a teacher and a writer, like Laura Ingles Wilder. Then I wanted to be a hairdresser, an interior decorator, a fashion designer, a columnist for Seventeen magazine, and then a buyer for a major department store. By the time I was fifteen, I had forgotten about serving all together, but was swiftly reminded of it one afternoon while watching an episode of Oprah.

The show was all about tipping. It covered the customary percentage to give in various situations and how many people in America tended to under-tip their servers, hairdressers and taxi drivers. I don’t always love Oprah, but for that show, God bless her. She featured a variety of scenes with people eating out at restaurants around the country, and at the bottom of the screen, the total amount of the bill was highlighted and underneath it was the “expected tip.”

As I was watching, I started to mentally add all of the expected tips until it finally showed a group of about six people eating at a sushi restaurant in L.A. The estimated tip that they were supposed to give their server was seventy-five dollars.

For one table?? I thought to myself.

That was all it took to convince me. I started seeing dollar signs and knew that serving would be the perfect way to put myself through college.

A few years later, I was in college and had just returned from my semester abroad in Italy when my friend told me that his buddy, Ricky, was opening up a bar in Downtown Long Beach. They needed cocktail servers and he thought I should apply.

“I’d love to,” I told him, “but I have to admit that I don’t have much experience outside of working at In-N-Out and Round Table Pizza.”

“So you know how to take orders, handle cash, and give customer service, right?”

“I do!” I said.

This friend of mine was named Ian, but he went by Gents as a means of distinguishing himself—think of it as his own personal branding technique. He could sweet talk his way out of a death sentence and had a born entrepreneurial spirit.

I originally met him when I was living in the dorms at Cal State Long Beach, although Gents didn’t live in the dorms. At the tender age of eighteen, he thought it would be a good idea to start his own shuttle service that safely delivered freshmen girls from their dorm rooms to the frat parties on the other side of town. That way, we could all freely engage in under-age drinking and he would be waiting as our designated driver. He borrowed his parents’ van, and everything.

“See, you’ve got all the skills you need to be a great server already,” Gents said. “Just play up those and I’ll vouch for you on the rest.”

I agreed, and then called Ricky to set up an interview. The interview took place in the upstairs office that was above the bar, but I had to wait below until the owner was ready to see me. As I was waiting for him, a woman walked into the bar and started talking to me.

“Are you here for an interview?” she asked.

I introduced myself and told her I was.

“Ricky’s been complaining about how none of the girls he’s interviewed have been able to name more than one or two brands of vodka,” she said. “Can you name at least five different brands off the top of your head?”

I had just turned twenty-one while I was in Italy and could only think of about two different vodka brands. My first thought was of the Sky advertisement I had seen in a magazine and the next was of an Absolute ad. Other than that, I was drawing a blank.

She saw me struggling and said, “Repeat after me: Absolute, Grey Goose, Belvedere, Stoli, and Sky.”

I repeated the vodka names and the woman smiled.“Okay, now go tell him that when he asks you.”

I did exactly as she said and sailed through my interview.

“It’s about time we got someone in here who knows a thing or two about alcohol,” Ricky had said after my brilliant recitation of vodka brands. I just smiled and played it up like a champ.

After the interview, I went back downstairs to thank that mysterious woman, but she was nowhere to be found. I never saw her again, but sometimes like to think of her as an angel sent to launch my serving career.

And here I am, almost eight years later, still waiting tables in addition to my part-time teaching jobs. Over the years, I’ve had a love/hate relationship with serving, sometimes loving the fast and steady stream of cash, and other times feeling indignant about having to work on holidays and buy my own health insurance.

Now that I’m heading out to New York, I couldn’t be happier about having this profession to fall back on while I write and get settled. I’m already researching restaurants I may want to work at and am finding that in New York City, I better have a resume with me when I show up to my job interviews. Even for a serving position.

I haven’t started writing my serving resume yet, but am in the process of brainstorming things to add to it—like the fact that I mastered the art of carrying three plates down a flight of stairs when I was five years old. That’s not a bad opening line for my cover letter, is it?

2008 Fratelli Montepulciano D'Abruzzo

2010-06-11T13:25:00.000-07:00

This week, we move from Umbria to the coastal region of Abruzzo, just a bit farther south. According to my Wine Bible, Abruzzo has the perfect climate for producing wine: lots of sunshine, hills, and coastal breezes from the Adriatic Sea. However, the one important element it is lacking is human creativity and artistry. Rather than trying new techniques and working to make flavorful and innovative bottles of wine -- as they do in say, Tuscany -- the vineyard owners in Abruzzo have focused on producing large quanitities of cheap table wines. Therefore, in comparison with other wine regions in Italy, it is not as highly revered.

Karen MacNeil, the author of the Wine Bible, says that one of the only wines she would recommend from this region is called the Montepulciano D'Abruzzo. So, guess what I decided to try this week! It's a red wine that is described as being full, fruity, and most importantly -- top value. As I've mentioned before, Italian wines can get rather pricey, so when I see the words "top" and "value" in the same sentence, I'm all about it.

2008 Fratelli Montepulciano D'Abruzzo (on sale, $8.99 at BevMo; regularly $10.99)

On a scale of 1-10, I would give this wine about a 6. It didn't exactly knock my socks off, but that's partially because I found it to be sweeter than I generally prefer. It's certainly fruity and also quite smooth. I would say that if you're partial to lighter Merlots and Cabernets, then you just may like this one. In my opinion, it was no Valpolicello.

In addition, I chose to pair it with a quiche, and it helped me gain a better understanding of what can happen when the wine overpowers rather than complements the meal. I just drove up to Auburn yesterday and I got to make this meal for my parents last night. We all agreed that when we took a bite of quiche and then followed it with a sip of wine, the wine would take over and completely drown out the taste of the quiche.

SO, word to the wise, try the wine and the recipe in isolation of each other.

My spinach and feta quiche recipe, however, is awesome! (if I do say so myself). I like it because it's really tasty, but still has a ton of nutritional value. Plus, it's made with my healthy, whole wheat pie crust -- a recipe that I've spent the last year trying to perfect.

Spinach and Feta Quiche

Crust:
3/4 cup whole wheat flour
3/4 cup white flour (+ 1/8 cup to add later)
2 Tbsp. sugar
3/4 tsp. salt
1/3 cup canola oil
1/3 cup ice water

Mix the whole wheat flour, 3/4 cup of the white flour, sugar, and salt together in a bowl. Add the canola oil so that the batter will be crumbly.

Next, add the ice water and thoroughly mix together. The dough should be a little sticky at this point, so you will need to add the extra 1/8 cup of white flour until it becomes the typical dough consistency. Knead it all together with your hands.

Form the dough into a ball and then wrap it in wax paper and stick it in the freezer for about 30 mins. This hardens the dough and makes it easier to work with.

After 30 minutes, take it out and use a rolling pin to roll it out on a lightly floured surface.

Place it in a 9" pie plate and use your fingers to shape the edges into whatever design you'd like. Then use a fork to stab holes into the bottom and sides of the crust so that it doesn't bubble up once it's baking inside the oven.

Filling:
2 Tbsp. extra virgin olive oil
3 cloves garlic, minced
1/2 red onion, chopped
6 oz. crimini mushrooms, sliced
6 oz. bag baby spinach
crushed black pepper to taste
6 oz. feta cheese
4 oz. shredded cheddar
1 egg, beat
1/4 cup milk

Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Sautee garlic and onion in olive oil until they are translucent. Add the mushrooms and spinach until everything is cooked down, season with crushed black pepper.

Take the pan off the heat and add the feta and 2 oz. of cheddar. Mix it all together and then dump it into the pie plate on top of the whole wheat crust.

Crack the egg into a bowl and then add the milk. Whisk them together and then dump the egg/milk on top of the pie filling

Lastly, top it with the last 2 oz. of shredded cheddar cheese and pop it in the oven for 35 minutes. When you take it out, it should be golden brown on top.

Big Apple Bound: My Imagined Flash Forward

2010-06-08T10:14:00.000-07:00

Although the ABC series, Flash Forward, was officially canceled after only one season, I will still contend that it was a fascinating show for what it said about the human condition. For those who haven’t seen it, the main premise is that a group of criminals—with a Pinky and the Brain style penchant for taking over the world—manipulate a major scientific experiment in an attempt to make all of humanity black out for two minutes and sixteen seconds. In that time, everyone sees and feels as though they are living out a moment from their future. Once they start to compare their visions, it seems that everyone has simultaneously seen the exact same moment in time: April 29, 2010—exactly six months from their present date.

Most have visions that are intense and feel incredibly real. A lesbian FBI agent who never wanted children sees herself being pregnant and then spends the rest of the show trying to get pregnant because she feels a massive sense of love and attachment to that baby who isn’t even born yet and probably never would have been born had she not seen it in her flash forward.

A grieving father risks everything to find his daughter who was serving her country in Afghanistan and was previously pronounced dead. In his vision, she is alive and he knows with the same sense of conviction and certainty that she is out there and that it is his destiny to rescue her.

Others are frightened by their visions and try against all odds to keep them from happening. A woman sees herself cheating on her husband. A man sees absolutely nothing and realizes it is because he isn’t going to be alive in six months. What I love about Flash Forward isn’t just the drama that this type of plot naturally provides, but also the way it so clearly demonstrates how a thought, a vision, a dream can carry us all. These fictional characters were shaken to the core by their flash forward experiences. The knowledge of what their lives would be like in the future changed everything for them. It affected the decisions they made in the present, the way they prioritized their lives, and how they perceived their very sense of reality. Some felt helpless against an overwhelming sense of fate, while others fought desperately to make their visions come true. Even in the absence of any tangible evidence that these futures might actually occur, they were all driven by the gripping, captivating feeling that it could.

Which is really what guides us all, isn’t it? The conviction that, If you build it, they will come? In many ways, I too, am feeling carried and led by my imagined vision of what life will be like in New York. As most of you already know, I am moving there at the end of the summer and it has been quite an interesting journey towards making this decision. Like all things lately, it has stemmed from my desire to write.

Back in February, I was perusing Elizabeth Gilbert’s website and reading her advice to aspiring writers. In it, she mentions that after she graduated college, she briefly considered applying to get an MFA (Masters of Fine Arts) in Creative Writing; yet, she didn’t because she was never convinced that sitting in a classroom and talking about writing would actually help her launch the career she always wanted. Instead, she opted for real world experiences and spent a few years traveling around the country, taking random jobs, meeting new people, and writing about everything she learned and saw. In essence, she created her very own MFA program, and it got me thinking: if I were to create my own MFA program, what would it look like?

I knew almost immediately that it would look like moving to New York. It would look like immersing myself in the writing and publishing industry, applying for freelance writing jobs, interning at a publishing house, or getting an entry-level position as an Editorial Assistant. It would look like going to author readings at bookstores and coffeehouses, and maybe even taking a few classes at the Gotham Writer’s Workshop so that I could get some solid feedback on improving my craft.

Back in February, I wasn’t certain that any of this was even remotely possible. I wasn’t sure that I wanted to leave my friends and family in sunny Southern California and move to a place that would ask me to endure long winters and ride the subway and live in a room that is quite literally and actually a shoebox. But as the weeks and months have passed, my visions of New York have molded themselves into a dream that I simply cannot shake. Unlike my fictional counterparts in Flash Forward, this vision is rather murky and blurry in comparison. I have absolutely no clue who my new roommates will be, what neighborhood I’ll be living in, or where I will ultimately find a job. All of it still remains to be seen; yet, I am steadfastly marching towards it in a simple act of faith.

(And I’ll be blogging about it along the way, so stay tuned!)

2008 Antinori Orvieto Classico Campogrande

2010-06-04T14:28:00.000-07:00

I'm wondering, at this point, if the names of these Italian wines could possibly get any longer? According to my Wine Bible, Italians drink an average of 14.51 gallons of wine per person per year! (That's bigger than my car's gas tank, in case you were wondering.) Perhaps they spend their siestas lounging around the vineyards and drunkenly coming up with these exceptionally long titles for each bottle of wine. I can only imagine . . .

The wine I chose for this week is from the region of Umbria, which is right next door to Tuscany and smack dab in the middle of the country. It is also the home of St. Francis of Assisi:

It is an Orvieto, and is the most popular wine produced and imported from Umbria.

2008 Antinori Orvieto Classico Campogrande ($10.99 at BevMo):

This wine is light, crisp, fruity, and delicious. It's the type of wine that you would want to sip on a summer day while staring out at the ocean. For only three dollars more, it is a lot better than the Soave I tried a few weeks ago, and is made by Antinori, one of the major wine producers throughout all of Italy. It doesn't actually need to be paired with anything because it tastes great on its own, but my roommate and I paired it with my lazy woman's version of chicken and artichoke risotto. I will admit that in doing so, I was conducting a bit of an experiment. My Wine Bible claims that artichokes and wine do not a happy marriage make. It says that artichokes contain an acid called cynarin, and cynarin makes everything consumed after it taste sweet. I wondered if the artichokes in my risotto recipe would have the same effect on the Orvieto, and it turns out that they did make it taste a little bit sweeter and a bit more pronounced. I don't know if I would necessarily pair these two together again, but I would certainly have the wine or the risotto on its own, individually.

The Lazy Woman's Version of Chicken and Artichoke Risotto

2 Tbsp. extra virgin olive oil
2 large cloves garlic, minced
1/2 red onion, chopped
1 red bell pepper, chopped
8 oz. crimini mushrooms, thinly sliced
1/4 cup dry, white cooking wine
crushed black pepper to taste
2 chicken breasts chopped into bite-size pieces
1 cup brown rice
2 cups chicken broth
10 oz. jar Roasted Red Pepper and Artichoke Tapenade (from Trader Joe's)
1/3 cup parmesan cheese

Begin by sauteeing garlic, red onion, and red pepper in olive oil until they begin to soften. Add the crimini mushrooms, white wine, and pepper and allow it all to simmer until the mushrooms have shrunk down and are fully cooked.

Toss in the chicken pieces and allow them to brown on each side. Next, add the brown rice and keep the heat on relatively high so that the rice can start to soak up all the liquid from the mushrooms and the wine. Keep stirring everything freqently until all the liquid has been absorbed. Add the chicken broth, wait until it comes to a boil, and then cover and cook on low heat for about 40-45 minutes.

After the timer goes off, check the rice to again make sure it has absorbed all the liquid. If there is any liquid remaining, turn the heat up a little higher and keep the lid off, stirring everything until all the liquid is gone. Then take the pan off the heat and add the tapenade.

Sir until everything is evening combined, then add the parmesan cheese. It should have a creamy consistency and look just like a regular risotto. Buon appetito!

2007 Zenato Valpolicella Superiore

2010-05-29T07:52:00.000-07:00

Well, here we are: week #2 of my Italian wine tasting! This week was especially great because it was combined with watching the series finale of LOST with one of my bestest friends.

I decided to divide up my tastings by region in Italy, so I will be tasting a minimum of at least one white and one red from all the major wine producing regions in Italy. (I say major because there are twenty different regions of Italy in total, so I won't have enough time to get through all of them, plus some of them don't produce popular wine that is shipped to the United States, and some of them don't produce any wine at all.)

That said, this week I chose to taste a red wine that is also produced in the Veneto region and it is called Valpolicella. Like Soave, it has different rankings of Classico and Superiore, plus there is an especially great version called Valpolicella Rispasso--so if you can get your hands on one of those, it sounds pretty delicious! It is created by taking a regular old Valpolicella and mixing it with a mass of pulp and grape seeds from a different wine called Amarone. Amarone is supposed to be the highest quality of red wine produced in the Veneto region and I would have tried it for my blog had it not been so darn expensive. The cheapest bottle of Amarone they carry at BevMo is $65.99 and the one after that is on sale for $99.99-- can we say not in my budget?? Here is the exact wine I tried:

2007 Zenato Valpolicella Superiore ($13.99 at BevMo)
This is a great red wine, and a large part of why I liked it is because it tastes so different from any other red wine I've tried before. My Wine Bible describes it as being "rich" with flavors of "dried cherries and licorice." Hmmm, licorice -- maybe that was the flavor I tasted but couldn't quite name? I'm going to go ahead and add earthy into the mix of adjectives and peppery, too. For $13.99 a pop, it's definitely worth buying a bottle and giving it a go around.

Tessa and I paired it with eggplant parmesan, so here is my adaptation of a recipe that my friend Lisa taught me how to make when we were studying abroad together in Florence many, many years ago:

Eggplant Parmesan

3 garlic cloves, minced
1/2 onion, chopped
1 jar Fresh Mushroom Prego spaghetti sauce (24oz.)
A few swigs of red wine for cooking
1 cube Dorot Chopped Basil (Trader Joe's freezer section)
Crushed black pepper (to taste)
1 eggplant, sliced
1 cup Italian Style Bread Crumbs
Lots of extra virgin olive oil
8-10oz. shredded mozzarella
1/2 cup grated parmesan

Begin by slicing the eggplant, tossing it into a colander and then placing the colander inside a large bowl. Sprinkle the eggplant with salt so that each piece is covered, and then fill the bowl with water. Allow the eggplant to soak in the salt water for at least 30 minutes. This step is important because it takes away the eggplant's natural bitterness. Also, placing them first in a colander and then in a bowl helps to anchor them down a bit because those eggplant slices really love to float!

While the eggplant is soaking in the salt water you can begin making the marinara sauce. Start by sauteeing garlic and onion in olive oil until it's translucent, then add the Prego. Pour a few swigs of red cooking wine into the jar of Prego, put the lid back on it and then shake it up so that you can get all the extra bits of pasta sauce out of the jar, then pour it into the pan. Next, add the frozen cube of basil and some crushed black pepper and stir everything up. Put the heat on low and allow the sauce to simmer, uncovered, while you bread and fry the eggplant.

Pull the colander of eggplant out of the salt water and rinse it thoroughly under the faucet. Measure out at least one cup of Italian Style bread crumbs onto a plate and then heavily coat each slice of eggplant in bread crumbs. If the eggplant starts to dry, just quickly run it under the water again so that the bread crumbs will actually stick to it.

After you coat each piece in bread crumbs, place it in a pan and fry both sides in olive oil until it is golden brown, then place it on a paper towel to absorb the excess oil. It will be impossible to premeasure the amount of olive oil you will need. Eggplant sucks up olive oil like crazy, so just keep adding it as necessary.

Once all your eggplant slices have been breaded and fried, preheat your oven to 350 degrees and get out an 8" x 11" baking dish. Spoon a small amount of the marinara sauce onto the bottom of the baking dish-- just enough to lightly coat the bottom. Then, cover the whole bottom with an even layer of eggplant slices, top them with a little bit of marinara sauce, mozzarella, and parmesan cheese. Then add another layer of eggplant and follow the same pattern of adding marinara and cheese until everything is used up. Bake for 30 minutes and enjoy!

This is Pouce, our honorary LOST fan and wine tasting buddy