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.
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.
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