about new city, a new kitchen and styrofoam dishes

I have not written a word in a really long time. This time, I do not blame my procrastinating lazy self so much, but instead logistics: I have been working my butt off since March, when I got accepted into a Masters program in Culinary Anthropology at NYU. That's right, I decided to move across the country and deal with all that comes with moving. I had to edit my belongings to what I wanted/needed to keep, give notice at the most fantastic job I've had so far, Range, leave my beloved rent controlled Victorian home with awesome housemates, say goodbye to longtime friends and break up with my boyfriend so that I could move to the east coast. Yeah.

I have been living in Brooklyn for a week and a day. And frankly, it's been the hardest week of my life. I miss the Bay everyday and I even wonder whether I just made a huge mistake. New York is busier, angrier, dirtier. I also don't really know my way around it. But I also don't have my stuff yet.

Cooking is one of the things in life that grounds me the most and brings me peace and calm. And since I moved to this new apartment north of Prospect Park, I have felt so challenged it has threatened my sanity. First, I had to deep clean the ENTIRE kitchen, since there were inch thick lines of mice droppings around and in the stove. YUCK. Second, no gas for five days. No bueno. And then, despite the fact my movers had promised to deliver my stuff within the week, it has been no such thing. I had prepared to live minimally for a few days until my things arrived, but since eating out adds up, I have had to purchase surrogate cookware, a $5 knife, plastic silverware and styrofoam dishes so that I can use my new kitchen.

This sucks.

I know it's all a matter of perspective. I know that once my homebase looks and feels the way I want it to, the rest of the world will be seen through the same set of lenses. I know NYC will rock my socks off, but until I have proper dishware and cutlery, I will only resent the city for keeping from me the things that give me sanity. I want my blender, my baking stone, my fucking favorite coffee cup, my fruit baskets. And though I am trying to practice the Buddhist principle of non-attachment, this time I think I am warranted an exception: I just moved cross-country, left my loved ones and my comfort zone---could my kitchen be the way I want it?!

Yet tonight, I made risotto. Comfort food at its best; direct access to carbohydrates, or happiness. I went to the Park Slope farmer's market last week and bought an assortment of king trumpet, pioppini and crimini mushrooms. A little white vino, a little parmesan. Done. Yum. Happy. Drunk. Sloppy blog.

I am starting to feel different about my kitchen.

Superbowl or Sushi Bowl?

I love it when business owners admit that sometimes staying open is a waste of everyone's time and money. so I loved it when my bosses decided to close the restaurant for superbowl sunday. It is a rare opportunity when all of my co-worker friends and I coincide having the same day off. We had to celebrate it. The question: what do a bunch of women who care next to nothing about football do on the most glorified football day of the year? How do we rebel and have the most anti-football day celebration?

Thanks to Jiwon Park, sous chef at Range, pan-Asian food lover, and come to find out, ex-sushi cook, we got everyone at my house for a sushi making party. I did not have the slightest idea on how to go about making sushi, but I guess that's why one follows the suggestions of such an immensely talented woman.

I joined Jiwon on a shopping trip to a supermarket in Japantown, where I felt so alien and illiterate and she navigated the aisles with graceful ease. We purchased dehydrated shrimp shells for soup stock, glazed unagi, fresh dungeness crab, raw yellowtail, nori, red miso paste and Kiri Ichiban (on sale!) along with assorted veggies. Back in the kitchen, I could only help in the neutral tasks: cutting avocado and cucumber, or handling Jiwon stuff from pantry (rice vinegar, sriracha) or random tasting for too much heat.

Once we had everyone gathered and all the food prepped, we got to rolling. And though it looks easy enough, it isn't. I have never been good at rolling a burrito, or a joint, for that matter. I always overestimate how much filling they can hold before the wrapping falls apart under pressure. I wanted to learn how to do it right. I wanted the bonding experience of friends assembling their food over a table. But I could also see how much more effective (read: how sooner could we get to eat) if we just let Jiwon do the rolling. So we did. We still gathered over the table while we oohed and ahhed over Jiwon's food.

I loved this rare opportunity to dine with my co-workers; they are wonderful, intelligent, solid women who love food as much as I do. Move over Tsunami!

A note on picky eaters

Those who know me are aware that I have a distinct aversion towards picky eaters, though I do forgive those who justify their dislikes with a strong argument. A good friend of mine explained that she did not like olives because when she was a child she chewed on a pitted olive hidden in a dish and chipped a tooth. She was traumatized and now is weary of olives. It is not that she dislikes their inherent saltiness but that there is a disagreeable emotional component to the way she sees olives.
A few nights ago at work, a diner asked me if we could remove the bones in the chicken dish, because she "did not want to touch it." She said our menu was short and limited because she didn't eat pasta, she didn't eat fish; steaks are too fatty and the soup sounded weird. When her date, who seemed to ignore her fastidious behavior, asked what exactly was escarole and then ordered the escarole soup, she ordered one too.
I struggled with this table, not only because I dislike fussy people but because I am uncomfortable seeing people's awkward incompatibilities over the table. Especially while on a date, I think it a serious shame when a couple rules out the flirtatious element of sharing food: "my fish is decadent, would you like a bite?" Though he ordered three courses, and she a soup and a salad sanz dressing or cheese, I proposed an off-beat pacing of their food so that both were eating at the same time.
I wondered why this woman was such a picky eater: did she ever chip a tooth on a bone, or once choked with her lunch that she is now a reluctant eater? Or is this bigger, the product of a damaging self image wherein food is just a necessity, not a pleasure? I then wondered about the man, and how important could food be to him that he seemed not to notice or care when his date proved to be such a picky eater?
Either way, I know I'm getting too wrapped up in someone else's issues, but it got me to thinking about the choices we make when we decide to eat or not eat a certain food. About the restraint and discipline it takes to avoid and decline a food we have decided we a) don't know, b) don't like, c) can't eat, or d) won't eat. I think whoever picks option A is lacking the human gift of curiosity, but I'm open to hearing the arguments behind why people don't like, can't or won't eat certain foods.



Sure, my nephew and DW, the Picky Eater, are allowed up to a certain point to be picky eaters because they are children: their palates are simple and like MFK Fisher said, kids "can taste bland delight in dishes that would sicken [read: bore] older men." But grown adults better have an articulated sophisticated argument to why we eat the way we eat. There is nothing wrong with saying "I'm on a diet" or "I don't like the mushy texture of oysters" or "I will not eat a previously living being," but since we made such a choice we are responsible for defending it and for doing a little research before we take ourselves out to eat. More importantly, we are required not to make our waitress feel responsible for our choices.

That said, I'm thinking of another Communion, one where guests have made a choice of diet and lifestyle they must uphold everyday of their lives. I would love to get some vegans around the table, but I think I would be an utter failure as a vegan cook, since I can't live without butter, cream and cheese. But a vegetarian Communion sounds like a true possibility. Now, where are the self-professed vegetarians?!