So here’s the thing.  I’ve been cheating on the whole plate.

I love this blog.  It’s been with me through a host of major life changes.  It’s brought me some incredible friends.  It’s helped me remember some delicious restaurant experiences and catalogue some of my favorite recipes. [...]]]> Hey there, blog world.  It’s been a while, hasn’t it?

So here’s the thing.  I’ve been cheating on the whole plate.

I love this blog.  It’s been with me through a host of major life changes.  It’s brought me some incredible friends.  It’s helped me remember some delicious restaurant experiences and catalogue some of my favorite recipes.  It’s been my internet home for two and a half years.

In those two and a half years, I’ve done a lot – a lot – of growing up.  And well, in that time, I think I’ve outgrown this blog.

Recently, I’ve been posting short highlights of my days over at a simple, personal space: lesliebrandnewyork.wordpress.com.  There is some cooking and some dining and some farmers market shopping over there.  There is also theater and dance and books and writing and thrifting and moments with friends and family and much more.  It’s sort of a virtual scrapbook, and it feels like the right internet place for me to hang out, at least for now.

I won’t be shutting the whole plate down, so the words, the recipes, and the photos will still be around should anyone want to peruse the archives.

I just want to say thanks to everyone who has followed me, from day one or day 700.  I’ve been so grateful for your comments, emails, and silent support ever since I began this little blog.

I have a few food photos that never saw the light of day, and these meals were too delicious not to share.

chestnut soup with duck leg, pumpkin seeds, and pumpkin seed oil at mas [farmhouse] for mom’s birthday

chocolate hazelnut torte with sweet potato sorbet at northern spy food co on a sunday evening with anna and danielle

duck breast with sansho, fennel, and kiwi at do or dine during a crazy adventurous dinner with megan

mushroom egg toast with parmesan, chives, and arugula salad at colonie after a sunday morning hot yoga class with sofia

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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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red sonja: red lentils, bulgur, fresh greens, oriental spices

causa: layers of mushrooms, beets, avocado, potato, dill, red onion, peppers

semolina halva cake surrounding vanilla ice cream

A few months back, a coworker told me about a new yoga studio in her neighborhood in Queens, [...]]]> Kicking off last week at Mundo in Astoria:

red sonja: red lentils, bulgur, fresh greens, oriental spices

causa: layers of mushrooms, beets, avocado, potato, dill, red onion, peppers

semolina halva cake surrounding vanilla ice cream

A few months back, a coworker told me about a new yoga studio in her neighborhood in Queens, where classes were a mere $5 and instruction was fast-paced but laid-back. Soon after, I passed the tip onto one of my good friends, and we’ve since met for several weeknight evening classes. Last Monday, Katie and I resurrected that tradition for a predictable evening in Astoria: yoga, dinner, wine.

As soon as I walked into the studio and spotted my friend on her mat, I began to feel the return of that other, old, familiar friend: routine.

It’s been a crazy few weeks since the weather started warming up in early May. Work went through a nutty period, I took three trips out of town, and I spent three weeks apartment hunting, followed by the drawn-out process of packing and moving and cleaning my new place. After all that, I was having a hard time remembering what stability felt like. I don’t ever want my life to feel monotonous, but it’s a lot more enjoyable when the variety in my schedule comes from social outings and artsy exploring, as opposed to life logistics that won’t settle down.

Back in my days abroad, I remember regarding routine with a strong sense of disdain. I never wanted to stop planning my next getaway, never wanted to succumb to any sort of predictable daily grind. I’ve since realized, however, that routine is only mundane if you allow it to be. My routine now may be grounded by a work schedule that doesn’t change, but otherwise, it means I do something different every day.

Last week, routine brought me the Monday evening pictured above. It took me to restaurant week on Tuesday with Megan and led me to cook a fennel gazpacho and buttery cod with Sofia the following night. It had me clinking glasses with Shayne on a sidewalk on Thursday and meandering from Lebanese cuisine to vegan ice cream to spicy cocktails on Friday. It had me picnicking with my family on Saturday, watching an old film in a Brooklyn theater that afternoon, and dining outdoors on Saturday night.  It had me picnicking in Central Park late Sunday morning, discount shopping that afternoon, and licking ice cream cones as the weekend came to a close.  Throughout the week, it also brought me to yoga classes, got me fresh produce from the farmers market, and included a lot of wine.

I guess it seems predictable. Food-yoga-drink-art-sun: that’s Leslie in a nutshell. The thing is, no day in this week was the same. I didn’t eat the same foods, see the same people, have the same conversations, drink the same drinks, or go to the same places. That’s my routine.

So last Monday, as Katie and I caught up on top of our yogitoes, before our instructor had us flutter our eyelids closed, before the slow and soreness-inducing class began, before I lifted my legs into a final headstand, before we shared girl talk and a bottle of Turkish white on a Queens sidewalk, I felt myself sliding back into my life. If my 22-year-old traveling self had known I’d call this routine, I don’t think she would have been so afraid of letting it in.

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sweet pea soup with carrots and mint; raw diver scallops with sea beans, serrano chiles and limes; roasted carrot and avocado salad with crunchy seeds, sour cream, and citrus

black sea bass with chiles and herbs, [...]]]> First meal after moving [every bit as delightful as it looks], shared three ways at ABC Kitchen:

sweet pea soup with carrots and mint; raw diver scallops with sea beans, serrano chiles and limes; roasted carrot and avocado salad with crunchy seeds, sour cream, and citrus

black sea bass with chiles and herbs, baby potatoes, and spinach; cavatelli with pickled ramps, guanciale, snap peas and parmesan; sugar snap pea salad with parmesan dressing and herbs

strawberry tart with almond cream; market strawberries and juice with mint, lime, meringue, and sour cream poppy seed sorbet; rhubarb almond crumble tart

I think Brooklyn is going to make me a nicer person.

For the past two and a half years, I have been living on Wall Street.  Prior to that, I lived in a couple other large buildings nearby in the Financial District, so the “neighborhood” has been my home for more than half the time I’ve spent living in this city.  I lived in several uniform structures – all converted banks – that had doormen and laundry rooms; they were all equipped with reasonably sized gyms and came with access to the roof.  Typically, they provoked comments from out of town visitors along the lines, “Your apartment building reminds me of a hotel.”  Carpeted hallways with benches and mirrors.  The ding of elevators.  The appearance of maintenance men.

For several years, I said I didn’t mind living down in such an impersonal neighborhood.  I had access to every subway.  I had laundry.  I had air conditioning.  Most importantly, I had space: for the same price 30 blocks north, I would have been living in an 8×8 box.  I refused to live north of 14th Street, and I figured FiDi, as it has been named, was my best option.

And it was, for a while.  But time goes on, and the greeting each morning of umbrella-led, camera-toting tour groups became more than a mere inconvenience.  The sight of suited brokers and bankers shuffling towards their offices began to stir up an unfriendly bitterness.  I longed for a commute that didn’t involve weaving between out-of-town crowds.  I pined for a neighborhood with just one decent dining option within walking distance of my front door.  Sure, my subway proximity put the entire city at my fingertips, but I found myself resenting the place I called home.  It didn’t feel like me.

My new building is old.  The paint is chipping.  The doors squeak.  It features no amenities.  But it has character and charm, as does each brownstone on my block.  I still have space, but I pay a heck of a lot less money for it.

Yesterday, I didn’t leave my new borough the whole day.  I didn’t get on a subway.  A friend and I visited the Brooklyn Botanic Gardens, wandered past the Brooklyn Museum and through a corner of Prospect Park, eventually found ourselves at a delicious Park Slope sushi joint.  I ran a few errands in the early evening and somehow found myself licking an ice cream cone from a local shop as the sun set.

Every day, the brownstones, the trees, the young people who are always out and about, the unique restaurants and boutiques, the little bars – they all put a smile on my face.  I know I’m just another cliché – young artsy foodie with slight hipster tendencies moves to Brooklyn – but if being a cliché turns the corners of my mouth upward more often, then I’ll gladly own the title.

Good riddance, FiDi.  I’ll be back to visit my sister, but otherwise, I can’t say I’ll miss you.

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Eleven Madison Park, you [...]]]> Last weekend, in celebration of Father’s Day, my family spent several hours at a particularly special dinner table. By the meal’s end, my mom, with many years of dining behind her, proclaimed this was her favorite meal, ever. That’s a pretty bold statement, considering some of the meals we’ve shared.

Eleven Madison Park, you treated us well.

spring pea velouté with mint and buttermilk “ice”

fluke on a rice cracker with basil aioli; scallop sashimi with yuzu jam

goat cheese lollipops encrusted with beets [every bit as amazing as my mom's face lets on]

goat cheese croquettes with watercress emulsion

We got all that before our first course even arrived. And that was when I realized: Eleven Madison Park is special.

It might have the feel of a typical Manhattan fine dining locale: white tablecloths, a sizeable quantity of staff members, a book of a wine list, a thoughtful and beautiful interior design. But this restaurant is much, much more.

I walked in expecting to have a unique four-course meal. The concept is simple: you are presented with a basic menu card, changing daily, which lists sixteen main ingredients. From there, you choose four and inform your server of dietary restrictions or allergies, food dislikes, or other general preferences.

Wine glasses full, you allow your meal to begin. And very quickly, you understand: this restaurant wants to you to fall in love with food.

octopus with chorizo puree and new potatoes

seared halibut with spring onions, shrimp, and black garlic

roasted baby eggplant with toasted wheatberries and bulgur and spring greens

Every plate was a surprise: I selected octopus to start, for instance, and our waiter described the dish to me only once it had been served. That anticipation colored the experience from beginning to end: what food would be next? What would it look like? What flavors would it contain?

The excitement at our table was palpable throughout the meal. Two bottles of wine, countless refills on the brioche bread basket, and beautifully crafted plates came and went. The portions were perfect – enough to taste and taste again without ever feeling overwhelmed.

We ate and drank, we talked and gushed. The whole evening was full of foodie and family joy.

egg cream, made with malted milk and a dash of olive oil

deconstructed chocolate tart with sea salt and caramel and chocolate and salted caramel ice creams

shortbread cookies with bergamot cream; toasted bread dipped in dark chocolate with olive oil gelees

complimentary cognac to finish off the meal

My parents have spoiled me, and I’ve been truly lucky to eat in the New York homes of many of the world’s most renowned chefs.  This meal was a step above the rest. It was an opportunity to taste and try, to feel the surprise and the excitement of the endless flavors of the season.

We’re already planning a return trip this fall, and in the meantime, I’m grateful for the very special memory of our first experience. I left on a high, full of the reminder of every reason I adore tasting food.

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So let’s [...]]]> On Tuesday night, I found a place to live.  I am now fully reveling in the fact that I can, well, return to being a person.  My social calendar is booked again.  Recipes are being dreamed up.  I’ve gone for a run, I’ve been to yoga, I’ve taken a barre class.  I feel whole.

So let’s backtrack.

Over Memorial Day weekend, I jetsetted once again into unknown territory.  This time I headed south with a close friend, into the heat, the humidity, the fried food, and the unabashed revelry that is New Orleans.

We ate well.

beignets and coffee at cafe du monde

at cochon: pickled and braised cabbage with goat cheese, hot pepper, and slim jims [yes, really!]

at cochon: crawfish casserole with bread and cheese; fried alligator with chili garlic aioli; wood-fired oyster roast

at august: redfish with jumbo lump crab and red pepper bisque [this was insane]

at august: blueberry tart with ginger foam and cream cheese ice cream

at acme oyster house: catfish po-boy with grilled onions; seafood gumbo

In the days leading up to this trip, I was wading through an intense project at work.  There was a night where I was reading a long document in bed, an early morning where I scribbled edits on the subway en route to a yoga class I refused to miss.  I couldn’t see the surface of my desk, and I was bombarded by numbers and words from all angles.

Then I went to New Orleans, and all I had to think about for four glorious days was what I wanted to eat and what I wanted to drink.  I tasted alligator, I reveled in seafood, I had ice cream for lunch one day and beignets another.  My friend and I walked throughout the city, and whenever we found a lull in our days, we would turn to each other and say, “So, should we get a drink somewhere?” From old-fashioned negronis to requisite bottles of wine, from a Monday morning bloody mary to a late night beer carried from bar to bar on Bourbon Street, we did exactly as one must when in NOLA: drink heartily and drink often.

Every time a plane or a train or a car take me somewhere new, I feel like I grow up a little bit more.  I learn so much from the distinctiveness of each trip.  Thus far in 2011, there has been: Florida, a time that was all about family; Colorado, all about nature; and now New Orleans, which was very much about food and drink.  Florida had its early bird specials and six lane boulevards; Colorado had limitless natural beauty.  New Orleans had the sounds of brass bands and tipsy tourists, the humidity of the gulf and the heat of Creole cooking, the charm of Southern architecture and that sweet, friendly demeanor that only seems to exist in the South.  And oh, did it have food.

For the record, the alligator was delicious.

♦♦♦

In case anyone is curious, a list of the restaurants and bars I visited:

• Cochon: It’s a tough call, but I think this was the best meal we had.  Not for vegetarians, but seriously, this place knows food.
  
• Bar Tonique: Take the concept of a modern NYC speakeasy, give it NOLA’s lack of attitude, put it in an off-the-beaten-track location, and you have the perfect spot to kick off a Saturday night out.
• Creole Creamery: 8 different types of chocolate ice cream.  Every day.  They have other exciting flavors, but do they really matter?
• Cure: A fancy cocktail bar with outdoor seating, and a great excuse to get outside the tourist neighborhoods.
• Green Goddess: The chef visited our table several times, happily guiding us through the menu and the very, very extensive wine list, and generally just making sure we had a good time.  Big thumbs up.
• Café du Monde: A cliché perhaps, but it’s the only place to get beignets.
• August: One of John Besh’s restaurants, where seasonal nouvelle cuisine meets New Orleans traditions.  Out of this world.
• Acme Oyster House: The wait is usually an hour long, which should give an idea of the quality of the food.  Casual, classic, totally delicious NOLA fare.

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Hi blog!

I miss you.  Unfortunately, life has thrown me a quadruple dose of insanity recently, and something has had to give.  the whole plate, sadly, is that thing.

Crazy as [...]]]>

veggie tacos with lentils, corn, roasted red peppers, chayote, tomatillo sauce, and guacamole; white bean dip with feta; salmon with lentils, beets, and grilled radicchio.

Hi blog!

I miss you.  Unfortunately, life has thrown me a quadruple dose of insanity recently, and something has had to give.  the whole plate, sadly, is that thing.

Crazy as life may be, I’ve still been eating.  Some has been exciting, more has been tremendously dull, and a bit too much has been take-out salads or grab-and-go meals, because I truly haven’t had enough time.  Pictured above was one of the better meals [and one of my few social outings of late], eaten at Sidecar over a long catch-up session with my dear friend Sofia.  I’m a lucky girl to have friends who will travel to whatever part of town I may be in, who will wait for a late meal, who will share dishes when I can’t decide, and who will listen to me jabber on for hours on end.

I’ll be the first to admit that some of my recent stress has been self-induced [hello, two out-of-town adventures in two weeks; life is so hard].  Some, however, has caught me by surprise.

Once I find a place to live, I have lots to discuss in the realm of food and life.  For instance:

• I had a terrifying allergic reaction to stinging nettles.  I was at work, and there were hives and body shaking and shortness of breath.  It was scary.  I’m sad, because I really liked stinging nettles.

• I went to New Orleans for 4 days.  It. Was. Amazing.  By the end of the trip, I was basically sweating butter and oil, and it was fabulous.

• I completed a monstrously challenging project at work that had been keeping me in the office till 9 or 10 PM throughout the past month.  It was hard, though rewarding.  At the end, I did get a beautiful bouquet of white peonies.

• Apartment hunting took an unexpected turn, and I’m now devoting all my free time to finding a room to move into instead.  I’m trying to find the bright side(s) of this situation: for instance, I haven’t even moved yet, and I am fast becoming an expert at navigating northwestern Brooklyn.

• I went to Cooperstown last weekend with my family.  Baseball was the weekend’s theme, and it was lovely.

That, I suppose, is a rundown of future blog posts.  Apartment hunting continues to dominate my free time, but I’ll be back as soon as stability returns to me!

In the meantime, I leave you with my new favorite hot weather breakfast.  Ready?

Take a half cup of oats and about 2 tablespoons of almond butter and mash them together.  Fill a bowl with sliced strawberries, goat milk yogurt [whole milk: do it], cinnamon, and a sliced banana.  Add the oat/almond butter mixture and pour some milk [I've been using vanilla almond] on top.  Mix it all together, and enjoy the most stable, least stressful time of the day.

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pomme cafe, astoria.

On a sunny Sunday last month, I hopped on an infuriatingly slow N train to make my way to Astoria and spend a morning with my friend Katie.  We met first for yoga, at a studio that offers strong vinyasa classes for just $5, and the sweat was just what [...]]]> Playing dining catch-up again…

pomme cafe, astoria.

On a sunny Sunday last month, I hopped on an infuriatingly slow N train to make my way to Astoria and spend a morning with my friend Katie.  We met first for yoga, at a studio that offers strong vinyasa classes for just $5, and the sweat was just what I needed after a Saturday night out.  The long and lazy brunch that followed, however, was the true joy of that weekend.

We took a seat in the window of this French haven, and as the next two hours passed, the New York outside seemed a distant memory.  We slathered our basket of freshly baked mini croissants with nutella, sipped bottomless coffee and a round of brunch cocktails, munched on fresh strawberries, and enjoyed the magic of an imaginary Paris.  Constant jetsetting may not be our reality, but that doesn’t mean we can’t play pretend.  For a mere $14, this brunch was a wonderful way to do just that.

mini croissants with nutella; soft scrambled eggs with fresh herbs and brussels sprouts; strawberries; apple mimosa; coffee.

the smith, east village.

My friend Anna was the inspiration for this restaurant outing, when she took a weekend trip to the city last month.  We last caught up over a large pizza in her neighborhood of DC, and I had been looking forward to reuniting along with our mutual blogging buddies on Manhattan turf.

The Smith has a dark, bar-like atmosphere: black tables, dark walls, servers in black.  The food, however, is anything but standard bar fare, and I truly loved everything I ate.  A perk of The Smith is that it can accommodate a range of eaters: offerings include brussels sprouts and roasted acorn squash right alongside burgers and steak.  It’s always good to know of a reasonably priced, well-located spot that can please anyone’s palate.

I took half of my generously portioned entree home, but that didn’t stop me from joining my lady friends for two more foodie stops that same evening.  We followed dinner with a typical debate: which first, more wine or dessert?  The question is never either/or.

vegetable bibimbap: sushi rice, shitake mushrooms, spinach, pickled carrots, edamame, bean spouts, sunny side up egg; unpictured clam and pecorino flatbread and side of roasted brussels sprouts.

elsa, east village.

I’ve been to Elsa time and again since discovering it late last fall, and early April found me back to celebrate my good friend Emily’s 26th year.  Elsa is everything I love about a speakeasy [namely, a tasty, not-sweet cocktail menu] without the exclusivity: there is no line outside, no bouncer, no list.  You simply walk in, sit at a table if there is room [usually there is], order a drink, and enjoy.

On this occasion, amidst the black-and-white, vintage-style interior, a small group of us – mostly current or graduated art students – sipped round after round, snapped photos, and laughed well into the early morning hours.  Elsa was just the relaxed setting we needed.

Someone at the table closest to us was wearing an Attila the Hun hat in lieu of a birthday crown, which really just proves that everyone can get along here.  I’ve already been back another time.

i can’t for the life of me remember what this one was. cucumber, tequila, and some other delicious things.

frankies 17 spuntino, lower east side.

My friend Katie’s boyfriend is the lead singer of a band called The Upwelling, and I started my Monday evening last week humming along as they performed at Pianos.  After the show, four of we ladies meandered over to Frankies, a restaurant I suggested because I thought their menu looked sufficiently Passover-friendly.

Affordable bottle of red selected, we settled into comfortable chatter in the dim, tiny space.  Frankies would be a great place for vegetarians and carnivores to meet: the vegetable menu was expansive, but the meat-y possibilities were equally abundant.  I was concerned about my salad not being substantial enough since Passover prevented me from digging into the bread basket, but this hearty bowl of shaved celery root, sharp pecorino, and toasted pepitas filled me right up.  I’ll have to visit again now that I am able to delight in their bread.  With this Italian-influenced menu, I’m sure it was delicious.

fennel, celery root, and parsley with pecorino, pepitas and lemon; side of roasted cauliflower.

A few other recent visits: Amity Hall [drinks], Rockin’ Raw [for dessert, though I'm sure their food is great], Macao Trading Company [wine], 7A, and Lantern Thai.  Raw desserts are always amazing, Macao Trading Company would be better for dinner, 7A is solid diner food, and Lantern Thai rushed us out.  But most surprising was Amity Hall, the perfect low-key destination for my friends to get to know one’s new boyfriend over quality beers well into the late night.  I’d happily return.

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I think the world would be a nicer place if everyone got to eat a bread basket with dinner.

At 6:45 PM on Tuesday, I joined my sister at a corner table inside Good, the restaurant we had selected for our [...]]]> market fish tacos with red onion, cabbage, and creamy lime cilantro sauce; creamy corn and squash.

I think the world would be a nicer place if everyone got to eat a bread basket with dinner.

At 6:45 PM on Tuesday, I joined my sister at a corner table inside Good, the restaurant we had selected for our break-the-Passover-bread-grain-legume-fast.  It was a rather early dining hour for me – I typically eat between 8 and 9 these days – but on this occasion, I was more than happy to sit down to an early meal.  It meant I got my bread basket that much sooner.

After informing our waitress that we were breaking Passover, she smiled and said, “Oh!  We’ll get you bread; don’t worry.”  We promptly devoured herbed focaccia and jalapeño-tomato cornbread and requested another basket to accompany our entrees [mine is pictured above].

I can’t say I’m not relieved that the holiday has reached its end for a year.  By Monday, I half-joked that I felt as though I was on a diet, and I am no longer able to function in a world where I abide by a single eating restriction.  In general, I eat exactly what I want, when I want it, and it’s always off-putting to experience a life with limitations when Passover arrives each year.

More importantly, it seems we’re all nicer people when a bread basket is on the table.  In my family, there’s a ritual familiarity as the basket arrives: the collective “yum,” the communal reaction to our individual first bites.  Even if one of us is craving meat and another vegetables, even if one is craving savory and another sweet, the bread basket lets us all begin our meal in the same, simple way.

On Monday, Passover’s final evening, I went out to dinner and had to leave the bread I was served untouched for the last evening of the year.  Though my night was a lovely one of music, wine, gelato, and friends, I couldn’t help but feel a tiny bit shortchanged by the requirement to decline my slice of the Italian loaf.  I happily drank my syrah, I enjoyed a delicious salad and a cauliflower side, I delighted in conversation.  I suppose I didn’t need the bread.

But food isn’t always about what we need.  After dinner, my friends commented on the unique flavor of the olive oil they had soaked up in their bread slices, and my mind paused for a moment, contemplating the shared experience that I had missed.  Observing a holiday such as Passover is one way I feel a connection to my community.  The rest of the year, partaking in the bread basket is another.

Several summers ago, I was working at a restaurant that served terrible food save for a single redeeming item: their bread.  Upon greeting each table, we waitresses and waiters would present a loaf of “peasant bread” with a dish of butter.  The loaf wasn’t sliced and we didn’t provide a knife – it was meant to be torn apart, grazed by the hands of every diner at the table.  It was community bread, designed to be shared.

I always want to share that story with womens’ magazines that encourage “healthy eaters” to resist the basket of bread or request it be removed from the table.  Sharing in the bread basket, I feel a sense of belonging.  I don’t think anyone should ever have to give that up.

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sweet potato “falafel” with lemon-tahini yogurt; sea scallops with plantain hash, lemon-habañero tartar sauce, and crispy onions; mussels in thai curry broth; banana creme brulee pie with chocolate peanut butter crust and whipped sour cream.

My plane is coasting through partly cloudy skies, and my eyes are glued to the window as we descend into midwestern [...]]]>

sweet potato “falafel” with lemon-tahini yogurt; sea scallops with plantain hash, lemon-habañero tartar sauce, and crispy onions; mussels in thai curry broth; banana creme brulee pie with chocolate peanut butter crust and whipped sour cream.

My plane is coasting through partly cloudy skies, and my eyes are glued to the window as we descend into midwestern America. I always request the window seat for any type of travel – plane, train, bus, it doesn’t matter much. It makes standing up more of a hassle, but the view is worth twenty times the inconvenience.

I’m fascinated by this landscape. I keep wondering, “Where are the houses? The roads? The…civilization?” From thousands of feet above ground, for miles and miles in every direction, all I see is space. Green grass, beige hay, evergreen trees, and a single road snaking its way through the untouched earth. I’ve done my share of traveling, but I’ve never seen a sight like this.

A day and a half later, I am seated with my close friend and her husband at a table in the bar section of a restaurant called Root Down, situated just outside Denver. The lights are dim, the food local and seasonal. The butter is scented with miso and vanilla, the bread warm, the flavors in every dish ripe and intense. These plates are by far the best that I will sample on this trip, and yet, they will be far from its highlight.

Far more striking will be the next morning, when I scarf a 7:30 AM bowl of microwaved banana oatmeal and almond butter to fuel a hike up Boulder’s Mount Sanitas. More striking will be thirty minutes in, when my friend will call out to me, “Stop for a sec, Les,” handing me a water bottle and suggesting I turn around. The expanse, the quiet, the natural beauty will catch the sound “wow” in the back of my throat.

Thinking back now, I know: though I’d hiked in the Israeli desert and made my way to the highest tip of Switzerland’s Alps before, I’d never seen nature quite like this.

Later that same day, we three, along with a dog and a cat, will pile into a truck for a three and a half hour drive through the Rockies. Our destination, at the end of a winding, two-mile dirt path, is Strawberry Park Hot Springs. In late April temperatures of 23 degrees, we will shed our layers and step into steaming pools.

I have no idea how long we three waded in those hot springs. We stayed until the sun’s rays had been replaced by the light of the moon. In swimsuits, we watched the sun dip behind the evergreen trees and disappear beneath the snowy hills. I’d never seen nature quite like this.

Unlike me, my friend in Colorado is not into food. As she prepared herself a smoothie after our last hike together, she even commented that she simply doesn’t like eating all that much – hence her yen for a blended meal in a glass to refuel, while I requested, “Can I have real food, please?”

Food was hardly the point of my short stay out west.  It was all about the land and the beauty my eyes got to see.

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