epic ice cream: chocolate with balsamic vinegar and fleur de sel from blue marble

Recently, during an all-too-common conversation in which I proclaimed my obsession with living in Brooklyn, somebody told me that she didn’t think she was “cool enough” [...]]]> epic sandwich: roasted eggplant and tomato with goat cheese on focaccia from tazza

epic ice cream: chocolate with balsamic vinegar and fleur de sel from blue marble

Recently, during an all-too-common conversation in which I proclaimed my obsession with living in Brooklyn, somebody told me that she didn’t think she was “cool enough” to live in this borough.  I quickly responded, “Well I’m not cool.  I’m actually a huge nerd.”

I really am.  I mean, people.  I take pictures of food.  I listen to musicals on my ipod.  I was on the yearbook staff in high school.  For starters.

Last Sunday, I spent the afternoon at the Brooklyn Book Festival.  The mostly outdoor event was slightly chaotic and seriously crowded, but I loved it.  Imagine: hundreds of book nerds swarming Borough Hall, congregating in a single place to be nerdy together.

We all thumbed through dozens of books.  We all read back covers and gazed at front cover artwork.  We all wanted to see Jonathan Safran Foer and Joyce Carol Oates read, and we were all sad when only a handful of lucky people got in to that panel.  We all meandered book stalls and entered contests for things like a free writing workshop and a subscription to Poets and Writers and a getaway writing weekend.

In the midst of the day, my friends Shayne and Daniel and I took a break to eat monster-sized sandwiches on perfect focaccia and lick ice cream from the best shop in Brooklyn [trust me, guys, I've eaten a lot of ice cream this summer].  We waxed on about the deliciousness of buttery focaccia and cheese and roasted vegetables as we finished every last bite.  Then we spent more time with the books.

At the Festival, I bought an anthology titled Readings for Writers, and I’ve been reading one piece from it each night before bed [you know, for the two days since I've owned it].  That day, I wore navy blue and black together [I also wore white yesterday, two weeks post-Labor Day]. The strong wind blew my thick curls into a bird’s nest over the course of the day, and a glance in a bathroom mirror was a rather amusing sight.

I’m pretty sure all of these things should place me in the running to teach Nerdiness 101.  And yet, looking around, I felt that I fit right in.  It’s funny to hear that living here makes me “cool.”   Apparently someone decided that being a nerd is all the rage.

Three days before the Book Fest, NYC’s biannual Fashion Week came to an end.  I was there, inside the Bryant Park tent, three years ago.  I love fashion, but I did not fit in.  Fashion people are cool.  I’m a nerd.

Good thing I prefer the latter.

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Two Saturday nights ago, as I rode the subway home following a seriously awkward goodbye, I was feeling a little sorry for myself. My dad often tells me that I am an overly analytical person – I will consider [...]]]> fresh watermelon juice; tostada with black beans, cabbage, cotija cheese, pickled jalapeños, guacamole, and hot sauce.

Two Saturday nights ago, as I rode the subway home following a seriously awkward goodbye, I was feeling a little sorry for myself. My dad often tells me that I am an overly analytical person – I will consider a situation from every angle, explore all possible outcomes, assess all the pros and all the cons before settling on a decision. It was that intensely reflective mindset that accompanied me as I drifted into sleep that night, mulling my evening and the person with whom I had spent it.

The next morning, I woke up on the early side, sliced up a fresh peach into a bowl of plain yogurt, almond butter, and granola, and put on a swimsuit as I ate. I slathered myself in SPF 55, packed up my sunglasses and novel and towel, and walked to the subway to meet Megan, Sarah, and Dmitry at Rockaway Beach.

The beach was exactly where I needed to be that day. It is is my happy place.

I smell the salt in the air, curl my toes around the sand, feel the sun beat on my back, and nothing in the world matters. Perhaps it’s because the season for the beach is so short up in the northeast – three months, if we’re lucky – that makes it feel so special. Perhaps it’s my New England upbringing, never too far from the water, that connects it with my soul. Perhaps it’s the many happy memories I associate with Augusts on the coast of Maine that fills me with nostalgia whenever I set foot on the sand.

It might seem counterintuitive that the beach offers so much solace when it’s a place that leaves us so exposed. But with my swimsuit on, the sun beating on my bare skin, I don’t feel self-conscious or vulnerable. The atmosphere wraps me up like the warmest security blanket, and I know I am at home.

I wasn’t in a great mood when I left my apartment for our beach outing that Sunday morning. But by the time we arrived, swapping stories all along the way, my evening frustrations were buried deep in my mind. I was too busy being happy.

As the day went on, we dipped our feet in the ocean, lounged on the sand, got ourselves a fresh Mexican lunch and a cup of delicious dessert, and took a stroll down the boardwalk in search of the famed Blue Bottle Coffee. Rockaway may not be as fancy as the New England beaches near which I grew up, and it may not be as commercialized as those on Long Island or at the Jersey Shore. But there was sand, and the blue sea, and ice cream, and my friends were there, and that was all I really needed.

The subway to this beach is in a neighborhood that borders mine, so I had a nice stroll home at the end of the day. I passed fewer brownstones and far less gentrification, but there was not an ounce less love for this borough from me. I walked into my apartment with a true smile on my face, and I realized: I am so lucky. I know exactly where to go when I need a mental lift, and I don’t have to travel too far too find it. I couldn’t be more grateful for that.

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I have been eating very simple food lately. A few factors have contributed to this development:

On Saturday morning, roughly three hours before my movers were scheduled to arrive, I left my apartment to go get a pedicure.  I made my mother very nervous, [...]]]> bison slider with cheddar on whole wheat brioche; veggies and jalapeño hummus; roasted kohlrabi crostini with herb gremolata and mozzarella; beet, barley, and spinach salad; unpictured apple pie.

On Saturday morning, roughly three hours before my movers were scheduled to arrive, I left my apartment to go get a pedicure.  I made my mother very nervous, but I was blissfully anxiety-free.

Moving is supposed to make you feel as though your world has been shaken up and dumped upside down.  And yet, oddly, this move hasn’t phased me a bit.

Ok, that’s not true.  I had a minor breakdown on Monday night, induced by a combination of the existence of Ikea, the painful flare-up of my old knee injury, and the unexpected level of grime that I discovered in my new kitchen.  Then my cab driver got lost, my debit card wouldn’t open the door to the ATM vestibule, and I was hungry.

I realized pretty quickly, however, that these annoyances were minor blips on my radar.  Sure, this whole relocation to Brooklyn process did not exactly go according to plan.  I was supposed to live with a friend, and instead I am living with strangers.  I was supposed to live with one person, and instead I am living with two.  But oddly, just six nights in to life in my new place, I feel…normal.

This morning I ate a predictable breakfast at my new kitchen table [which, incidentally, like everything else in this apartment, is actually rather old]. There was sunlight streaming in to my left, a tree outside the window, and that perfect NYC blend of birds chirping, trucks passing by, and passersby chatting on the sidewalk. When I left for work, I walked down a block of brownstones, rather than flitting between tourist groups and Wall Street brokers. Earlier, I perused the menus of restaurants within blocks of my new front door, rather than a subway ride away.

This week and all weekend, I saw my friends.  I ate in restaurants, licked ice cream cones, sipped wine, and did wonderful summer in New York things like see a movie in a park outside.  I unrolled my yoga mat, stocked my fridge with produce, and packed my lunch every day.  I came to the same office and accomplished my work, just as I always do.

My zip code may be different, my bedroom a bit smaller, and my subway line a new one – but life does not feel all that changed.

This move made me realize how wonderfully stable my life has become, how comfortable I am with my friends and the support I have around me.  I feel as though I have infinite opportunity at this age and in this city, and I am surrounded by people who are willing to grab onto life’s possibilities with me.  It’s a nice feeling.

It was that feeling that calmed me during my minor panic attack on Monday night.  Earlier that afternoon, I had left my “scrub-the-kitchen” project and half-unpacked boxes for a few hours of picnicking in Central Park.  I saw the ladies and gents that have become my usual crowd, chatted for a few hours in that summer heat that I adore, drank mimosas, and ate home-cooked food that was just my style.

The afternoon was so simple, so summer, and so much of everything I needed at the time.  I’m still living the same beautiful life.  The only difference now is that my address finally feels like the right home.

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I am not an inherently angry person.  Sure, I have my occasional fits of New Yorker rage, typically induced by people who walk too slow, tourists who stare at themselves in the video screen in Times Square, [...]]]> salad with collard greens, steamed cauliflower, avocado, and chili-miso dressing; bartlett pear; greek yogurt with frozen blueberries and granola.

I am not an inherently angry person.  Sure, I have my occasional fits of New Yorker rage, typically induced by people who walk too slow, tourists who stare at themselves in the video screen in Times Square, or stalled subway trains.  But as a rule, I inherited a generally even-tempered demeanor from my dad, and I am grateful for it.

On Wednesday, though my early morning wake-up and my yoga class helped me begin the day with some peace, the remainder of my pre-work morning was not quite as zen.  By the time I left my apartment, various events had transformed my chest into a ball of anxious fury.  I repeated to myself, “Calm down calm down calm down.”  I told myself the situation was not a big deal.  I reminded myself that the anger was not serving any purpose.

It didn’t help.

I sat down at my desk at work, and still, I couldn’t shake the morning frustrations.  I stared at my computer, wondering how I had allowed something so small to overwhelm my level head.  I don’t like yelling.  I don’t like crying.  I’m not going to throw an angsty tantrum as I might have at eleven or fourteen.

Instead, I slowly implemented ways of calming myself down.

• I reached out to my friends.  Yes, I was at work, but that doesn’t mean the day doesn’t offer opportunities for gchat, emailing, or a text message or two.
• I made a to-do list, and I attacked it.  Productivity is good for the soul, even when it involves two hours of math, and especially when it requires you to watch YouTube videos of brilliant hip-hop dancers.
• I ate a delicious lunch.  [See above.]
• I looked forward to my evening plans, a reunion with two fabulous friends at a restaurant I never, ever tire of visiting.
• I took a coffee break and strolled a few blocks in the fresh air.

Instead of thinking, I did.  Instead of mulling, I acted.  Instead of dwelling, I moved forward.  I forced myself out of my head, and I threw myself into life.

By the time I exited my office, walking into the crisp un-springlike evening, my morning seemed a decade away.  I was on my way to see ladies I love and to eat food I adore, and any emotion but a positive one felt entirely out of place.  It’s amazing how invigorating it is to dive into life, even if you are diving into the simplest of its elements: work, companions, conversation, food.

I truly believe getting out and living is the very best cure for a bad mood.  Sometimes, I just need a push to remember it.

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Early yesterday afternoon, I snacked on this little dish of shrimp and grits at DC’s Eastern Market. Nearing the end of my short weekend jaunt in the nation’s capital, I spooned in the hot dish while my two childhood friends munched on freshly salted pretzels. Sitting there in the almost-spring sunlight, the middle [...]]]>

Early yesterday afternoon, I snacked on this little dish of shrimp and grits at DC’s Eastern Market. Nearing the end of my short weekend jaunt in the nation’s capital, I spooned in the hot dish while my two childhood friends munched on freshly salted pretzels. Sitting there in the almost-spring sunlight, the middle school lunch table where we once all ate together felt like a distant memory.

I spent Friday and Saturday nights at my friend Sara’s house. I was in her wedding a year and a half ago, and so I suppose it would be more appropriate to call the house hers and her husband’s.

I can’t help but fixate on how Sara’s and my versions of 25 are so, so different.  She is just over one year from completing her PhD. She is married. She owns a house. She is making plans for the future, and she can envision just what that future is.

And me? I am single, living with a roommate, gallivanting around my city in celebration of my independence and my youth. I’m on a career path, but I haven’t a clue just where it will take me. My future plans include trips to Colorado and New Orleans or dinner dates tomorrow and next week. I don’t even know what my address will be once July comes around.

For a moment this weekend, I took in a breath and felt doubt in the air. Am I so far behind? Am I letting precious years go by? Here Sara is, approaching her second wedding anniversary, and I’m still learning how to take care of myself. I don’t have anything figured out. What am I doing?

Hold on a minute, Leslie. Since when did marriage and property-ownership become the defining factors of adulthood? What is this, 1953?

I feel mature, in that I can hold and enjoy conversations with those who are decades beyond me, in that I’ve traveled, I’ve worked, I’ve written my own rent checks and paid my own cable bills. I don’t feel as though I am lagging behind, and when I look at my New York friends, it seems as though we all share that mindset. [Maybe it's an urban thing, but that's another topic for another post.]

I am an adult – a young adult. And while for a moment with Sara I felt too young, I realize now that I am in no rush. I want so many things out of my young adulthood before I am ready for the stage my friend is now at.

Yesterday, I ate a little bowl of Southern food for a snack; she ate a soft pretzel.  I wore heels; she wore flats. She is married and settling down; I am single and exploring. We’ve always been different. This is just another way.

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kale, hemp oil, millet, dulse, turnips, carrots, pumpkin seeds.

Reverb 10 Day 23!  Today’s prompt is: Let’s meet again, for the first time.  If you could introduce yourself to strangers by another name for just one day, what would it be and why?  [What am I talking about? Click here for the backstory.]

Four Novembers [...]]]> “heritage.”

kale, hemp oil, millet, dulse, turnips, carrots, pumpkin seeds.

Reverb 10 Day 23!  Today’s prompt is: Let’s meet again, for the first time.  If you could introduce yourself to strangers by another name for just one day, what would it be and why?  [What am I talking about? Click here for the backstory.]

Four Novembers ago, I took a weekend trip to Poland.  As my rickety overnight train pulled into Krakow, I remember how apparent the irony became: how I had journeyed back to a place that less than a century before, some of my family had risked everything to leave.  I remember how gingerly I took my first steps on those streets; how disturbingly eerie it was to take a bus towards Auschwitz knowing my namesakes could have become one of a million numbers there.

And yet, I remember how satisfying that journey was.  Walking those streets with my curls and my Jewish nose, laying claim to my roots and knowing my life is as sweet as it is only because this place had been left behind.

My grandpa told us that the officials at Ellis Island didn’t shorten our family name.  I can recall my surprise when I learned this: “Brand” seems so simple, so non-Eastern European.  Maybe that was a sign.  Maybe we were always meant to be Americans.

In Hebrew, my name is Eliza Chaia.  The name is adapted from those of two family members who passed away before I was born, one on my dad’s side and one on my mom’s.

My cousin, who is nearing her second birthday, has a middle name that recalls my grandfather Herman, who left us four years ago, almost to the day.  My sister’s first name was gleaned from my grandpa Oscar, my mom’s dad, whom I never had the good fortune to meet.  These names of the young, they keep the spirits of the old alive.  They create living memory.

How could I ever wish to shed the memories my name carries?  Great-grandpa Louis and Great-uncle Hymie – I didn’t know them, but I do know they are a part of my history.  Every time I type my email address, sign a receipt, or respond to a question asked of me, I feel my heritage.  I am proud of it.

My name is as much a part of my identity as the style in which I dress, the thick curls framing my face, the plants in the lunch I have packed for today.  All give a little peek into just who it is that I am.  I wouldn’t dream of pretending a single one doesn’t exist, even for a single day.

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melted organic havarti, rudi’s spelt bread, tomato paste; carrot and almond butter; leftover braised cabbage and fennel.

Reverb 10 Day 15!  Today’s prompt is: Imagine you will completely lose your memory of 2010 in five minutes.  Set an alarm for five minutes and capture the things you most want to remember about 2010. [...]]]> “holding the secret.”

melted organic havarti, rudi’s spelt bread, tomato paste; carrot and almond butter; leftover braised cabbage and fennel.

Reverb 10 Day 15!  Today’s prompt is: Imagine you will completely lose your memory of 2010 in five minutes.  Set an alarm for five minutes and capture the things you most want to remember about 2010. [What am I talking about? Click here for the backstory.]

Life as a city dweller is such an oddly anonymous existence.  I live on this island of millions.  I walk on sidewalks next to hundreds; I ride the subway in crowds.  I exist in a reality where every great restaurant has a wait, every worthy ticket window a line.

When I was living abroad, my anonymity felt particularly strong.  It was like walking around with a secret no one could see – I was a foreigner, but who would know it?  My curls were uncommon and my clothes a bit odd, but it was only my voice that would truly give me away.

I liked that feeling.  It was as though I was the keeper of something special, something that no one else knew I had.

I realized this year that that sentiment was not unique to my life in Prague.  I have it here as well.

I was thinking about this as I exchanged bills with the middle-aged farmer who sold me the delicious, locally-produced cheese that I melted for this lunch.  Amidst dozens of market-goers and rows of stalls, we met for a moment.  I handed him cash; he handed me food.  We smiled.  I left, and I made lunch.

I didn’t know this farmer’s story.  He didn’t know mine.  And as for all the other men and women, bundled up in their winter hats, perusing the stalls just as I did?  I barely glanced at them, as I am sure they barely glanced at me.  We were all there together, a pack of nameless mysteries.  Was I really different from any of them?

All year, I have carried with me the sense that life is happening.  At 6:30 PM on the R train, I could be any other commuter.  But as I let the subway take me from the work day to a weeknight with friends, I hold the knowledge that I am not shuffling through some lifeless 10 to 6 routine.  I am not a commuter.  I am a live-er.

I’ve held this budding happiness in me this year, because I’ve taken every opportunity to be with people, to experience new things, to live.

If I had to erase this year – and what a shame that would be – all I would hope to remember is that sensation.  That feeling on the subway, or in a market, or outside a restaurant, or on a streetcorner, where I seem to be just one of many, physically indistinguishable from the crowd.  And yet inside, I am holding a secret.  I am so, so alive.

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random thanksgiving salad: kale, olive oil, maple-mustard brussels sprouts, spiced fennel and butternut squash, raw mushrooms; toasted sandwich with pumpkin hummus and baby spinach.

Day 2 of Reverb 10! If you don’t know what I’m talking about, click here.

Today’s prompt is: What do you do each day that doesn’t contribute to your writing — [...]]]> “internet addictions.”

random thanksgiving salad: kale, olive oil, maple-mustard brussels sprouts, spiced fennel and butternut squash, raw mushrooms; toasted sandwich with pumpkin hummus and baby spinach.

Day 2 of Reverb 10! If you don’t know what I’m talking about, click here.

Today’s prompt is: What do you do each day that doesn’t contribute to your writing — and can you eliminate it?

Initially, I read this and gave myself lots of credit.  My immediate thoughts were, “Well, my job title is two words, and one of them is ‘writer.’  I write a blog.  I read other blogs.   I constantly think about my life and how to translate it into words, particularly at meal times – since I write about food and all.  I read books.  I see plays.”  I thought, “I’m doing great!”

As I was sitting at my computer, six tabs open in Safari, refreshing my Twitter feed and eating my banana oatmeal, I searched for the answer to this question.

It suddenly became very obvious.

Last Friday, when I sat down to this lunch in my parents’ kitchen, I brought four items to the table.  The bowl of salad.  The sliced sandwich.  A glass of water.  And my laptop.  My grandma commented as she made her slow way through the kitchen, “Your computer?  What do you need that for?”

Because I might be addicted to the internet?

Some people bring their meals to the couch, fork in one hand, television remote in the other.   I sit at my kitchen table, meal to the left, MacBook to the right.  I’m not sure that’s any better.

I’m not saying I should stop accompanying my meals with a side of Google.  That’s impractical – we all rely on the internet too much, and meals at home are one of the few occasions on which I have the time to browse, to read the blogs I enjoy, to investigate art-y events I want to attend, to peruse restaurant menus, to check on yoga studio schedules, to write emails.  The list goes on.

But could I spend less time in front of that little machine?  Of course.  It’s common knowledge that more reading makes for better writers, and though much of my online time is spent reading, I could certainly replace a portion of it with a few chapters of novel reading.  A nice new goal as the year comes to a close, I think.

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kale and millet tossed in flax oil, lemon juice, and sea salt; topped by bell pepper, portobello mushroom, heirloom tomato, chickpeas, pumpkin seeds, avocado, sundried tomatoes, tarragon pesto.

As someone to whom aesthetics mean an awful lot, I am not exactly the neatest person.   Mentally, I am an organizational machine.  Outwardly, I [...]]]> “mish mosh.”

kale and millet tossed in flax oil, lemon juice, and sea salt; topped by bell pepper, portobello mushroom, heirloom tomato, chickpeas, pumpkin seeds, avocado, sundried tomatoes, tarragon pesto.

As someone to whom aesthetics mean an awful lot, I am not exactly the neatest person.   Mentally, I am an organizational machine.  Outwardly, I like to think I look put together.  But.

I carry a bottomless pit of a purse, a well of crumpled receipts and pens I thought I lost long ago.  Making my bed is a task I have found arduous since pre-adolescence: I do it, and yet, I find it immensely irritating to pretty up a mattress that will only be disturbed the next time I lay eyes on it.  My clothes tend to spend an equal amount of time on their wire hangers as they do slung across my bedroom chair.  [This is the chair that perhaps you know: the one that seemed a nice complement to your room's decor but serves no actual function, and as a result, it becomes an extension of your closet.]

Then there’s lunch.  Though I prefer to view food in a mindful manner, somehow lunch tends to miss out.  Typically, my midday meal is a haphazard tupperware affair.

It’s rather formulaic, a predictable blend of my favorite leafy greens [kale has my heart], a grain, a legume, a nut or a seed, a medley of vegetables, and plenty of [always homemade] dressing.  I treat the tupperware to fun garnishes, like avocado and hummus and pesto, depending on what is on hand.  I pack it into a container three sizes too small for the amount of  food involved, and then I play the squishing game, forcing the cover to close.

Thrown together as it always is, lunch can seem quite the mess.  It is eaten at my desk, computer screen in front, notepad to one side, papers full of numbers and words to the other.  The meal may be disorderly, but its components are simple.  In this setting, that is all I really need.

Like my cluttered dressers and messy bed, I don’t mind the lunch mess.  The disarray satisfies my hunger.  It is whole and real and healthy.  It is colorful, which makes me smile.  It always leaves me content, and it saves me a heck of a lot of money.

Messes and mish moshes always have their place.  I’m looking forward to the one waiting for me today.

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