the whole plate. » snack

cures for gloom and doom.

leslie — Tue, 26 Apr 2011 16:00:19 +0000

indian-spiced guacamole with curry, raisins, and coconut; italian guacamole with roasted peppers and cheese; tequila, tortilla chips, matzah.

At 4PM on Saturday, I was in a terrible mood. I can’t come up with a legitimate reason for my gloomy spirits, though I’d wager it had something to do with my Friday night spent with a friend I met in Europe. The evening passed in a wave of nostalgia, and I woke up fuzzy-headed and overly downhearted on Saturday morning. Plus, Passover deprivation has also taken its toll and I can’t say I’m feeling my best; the weather on Saturday was dismal and my umbrella broke in half; the MTA had decided to do construction on every subway I needed to take; my body was uncomfortably tight throughout my yoga class and I found myself modifying poses I never have to adjust.

Basically, I felt “blah.”

At one point in my life, I would have stewed in a bad mood. I would have isolated myself, stayed in, skipped dinner, crawled into bed early, and woken up in an even worse state. I wasn’t as good to myself then.

But I know better now. Sometimes, I get nostalgic for the wandering, anything-is-possible life I lived as a student and eventually a worker abroad. Sometimes, I need a reminder that I love my life now, that I am still traveling [hello, just returned from Colorado and will be jetting to NOLA in four weeks], and that anything is always possible, no matter where you are living, what you are doing, or in what stage of life you are living.

So, despite my sour state, I put my makeup on and subwayed uptown for a party/guacamole fest thrown by my close friend Sofia and her boyfriend [we call him BT]. I exited the elevator in BT’s building, walking toward the voices emanating from his apartment’s open door. Within moments, I was chatting away the night with good friends, tasting guacamole variation after guacamole variation, sipping pinot noir and margaritas, posing for photographs, and barely glancing at a clock until 2 AM.

Once home, I fell into bed, shot up 5.5 hours later, and ate a light pre-yoga breakfast. After 90 minutes of flow, I strolled to the subway in 70 degree sun. I resurrected an old recipe for a perfect Passover-friendly lunch, donned shorts and ballet flats, and spent the remainder of the day soaking up the spring sun. I forgot I was ever feeling out of sorts.

It might have been the simple act of leaving my apartment on Saturday night. It might have been the social interaction. It might have been the guacamole. It might have been the weather. Together, the four got me out of my head and into the world, which was just what I needed.

Good food with my good friends never fails to remind me how delicious my life is.

snack 12.10: ripe banana.

leslie — Sun, 12 Dec 2010 18:33:28 +0000

“the world inverted.”

pre-yoga snacking: ripe banana.

Reverb 10 Day 12! Today’s prompt is: This year, when did you feel the most integrated with your body? Did you have a moment where there wasn’t mind and body, but simply a cohesive YOU, alive and present? [What am I talking about? Click here for the backstory.]

I really love to sweat.

Growing up in ballet classes, I would stand at the barre on a weekday evening, torso motionless as I lifted one pointed foot towards the same patch of air one, two, 39 times. With each battement, the bodies of we girls in pale pink tights would begin to glisten. Ballet dancers didn’t sweat, of course. We “glowed.”

Learning to run in later years, I began to crave the red-faced, heavy breathing-induced perspiration that was inevitable as one foot, and then the other, struck the pavement. This was a different kind of intensity than the hard-working glow of ballet class. This was “I just kicked my own tush, and hard” sweat.

In the past year and a half, my hunger for sweat has been satiated by yoga. There have been spurts of other activity – running when I can, riding a bike, hitting the gym. But above all else, I have cared mostly about activity on the mat.

So it’s July 2010. For two months this summer, I enjoyed a short-term, discounted membership to YogaWorks, a multi-location studio that allowed me to experiment with different teachers and different styles. Predictably, some I liked, some I loved, some were boring. Rather quickly though, I found one class that had me running back for more.

From 8 to 9AM on Mondays and Wednesdays, I visited the downtown location for a sweaty hour with a young, female, Czech instructor. Somehow, in those 60 minutes, we would always get to everything I’d wish for in a yoga class. We would move fast. We would twist often. We would end with backbends. And we would try inversions.

On one Wednesday morning in July, class was nearing its end. I was at the wall, hands clasped at the front of my mat, feet on the ground.

And then, my legs were in the air, and I was upside down.

Much of yogic philosophy doesn’t particularly appeal to me. I am not a spiritual person. I am not a minimalist. I live in Manhattan, and I own 26 pairs of shoes.

I like yoga because it is a challenge. Because when I am practicing, it is impossible to think about my life or my calendar or the people I know or the city streets. My mind is forced to focus on physical challenges I would have no other opportunity to face.

Standing against that wall, looking out at the world opposite how it was meant to be seen, I was exposed. My body was sweating. My triceps were burning. My abs were clenching. My shirt was falling towards the floor.

And my thoughts were pure shock. How could I, somehow, lift one leg towards the sky and float the other to meet it? It happened like it was natural, like I was always meant to have feet higher than head. Balancing upside down, how could I think of anything but where I was, right then? It was a perfect union: my doubts disappeared, my body took over, and I was simply there, doing and feeling something I had never done or felt before.

Here’s the thing. I haven’t always felt union of body and of mind. I have hated on this body that I live in. My mind has pushed it and prodded it and abused it. In 2010, and in that moment upside down, there was no war between the two. I was no longer a number or an imperfection or a muscle or lack thereof. I was only Leslie: proud, sweaty, and strong.

snack 12.10: green juice.

leslie — Thu, 09 Dec 2010 21:50:58 +0000

“you can feel it all over.”

fresh juice of kale, beets, celery, lemon, and ginger.

Reverb 10 Day 9! Today’s prompt is: What social gathering rocked your socks off in 2010? Describe the people, music, food, drink, clothes, shenanigans. [What am I talking about? Click here for the backstory.]

At 10PM, my iPhone is telling me the temperature is 96 degrees. The sun is gone. It shouldn’t be quite this hot, should it?

I am with two friends, and we each have a glass of rosé in us as we walk the long blocks from the Graham Avenue L deeper into Bushwick. We pass a White Castle and a gas station. Our destination, when we get there, is underground.

A few hours earlier, I had shown up at my friend Emily’s apartment and announced, “Hi. I’m not wearing pants.” I have on an oversized white button down, a long strand of beads, and some gladiator sandals. It seemed like a good choice of attire.

We can see lights flashing from below as we walk down Metropolitan Avenue. Music is blaring and crowds are peppering the sidewalk above the basement door. My friends and I look at each other, and with one adrenaline-infused “yes!” we descend the stairs.

I’ve been here twice before, for performance art shows that left me covered in orange and yellow day-glo. But this night went fifty steps farther.

We’re at the Cosmic Cavern. The room beneath the streets is a den of the random: neon-covered appliances, styrofoam cups, wigs of ever color, shapes of any size above, below, left, right. The colors are blinding, the blacklight is shining, the music is pounding.

It must be 110 degrees in the windowless space. We watch a girl breakdance in the center of a circle while a man in white briefs shakes his hips on a makeshift platform. We have neon lines painted across our faces by the artist who designed the space. We pose for a hundred self portraits. We dance and dance. Sweat drips off us; mirrors reflect the white that we wear and the paint on our cheeks. There is stimulation brimming from every corner.

In that room, there isn’t a face without a crazed smile. You can’t help but soak in the thrill of all that energy.

The only song I can remember hearing that night is Stevie Wonder. “You can feel it all over,” indeed.

•••

This night was in the height of it all: of summer, of my energy, of this wonderful year.

My mantra in 2010 has been “go.” It’s been “yes.” It’s been “why not?” It’s made for a year of a great many experiences, smiles, and a lot of living. It’s brought me evenings like this one. I’m not willing to let that joy go just because the frigid weather is less motivating.

But I have to listen to my body too, and when it tells me I need to slow down to take care of myself, I will abide. Last night, I left my office with a sore throat, a pounding head, and that general feeling of “blah” that takes over when you know a cold is coming.

I haven’t had a full-blown cold since January 2009. I don’t want to be sick. So last night, I skipped my planned yoga class and before arriving home, I purchased a fresh cup of vegetable juice.

I’m not against Western medicine. But vegetable juice – especially freshly made – is like an IV of pure health. Into mine went a large bunch of kale, an entire head of celery, 2 large beets, a lemon, and several pieces of ginger. Sure, I could have made myself a salad with all that, but a) who wants a salad when they’re sick?, and b) I eat a lot of vegetables, but I don’t think I could eat that many without a severe stomachache.

I still felt sick this morning. But I’m continuing to eat well, to sleep, and to drink more greens. I have a mountain to accomplish at work tomorrow, and I have nights like this one at stake. So I’m drinking my greens, and I know I’ll get myself well.

snack 12.10: avocado toast.

leslie — Mon, 06 Dec 2010 17:00:57 +0000

“a predictable plate.”

ezekiel english muffin, mashed avocado, dulse flakes.

Reverb 10 Day 6! Our prompt today is: What was the last thing you made? What materials did you use? Is there something you want to make, but you need to clear some time for it? [What am I talking about? Click here for the backstory.]

This was an easy one.

I made this snack early yesterday afternoon, after a quick produce run to the New Amsterdam Market, and before heading up to City Winery for the second annual Latke Festival. [More on that another time.]

I used the last English muffin from my very first package of Ezekiels to make this snack. [I loved these. I don't love the price, but for something I don't eat all that often, it's probably worth it.] Topped with half a perfectly ripe, creamy Haas avocado and a sprinkle of salty dulse, it was just the warm snack I was looking for on this chilly first weekend in December.

Avocado toast is nothing new for me. I waxed on about it more than a year ago, in fact. It’s one of my two go-to snacks, the other being a bowl of Fage 2%, almond butter, and granola. When snacking, I generally just want to eat something [yummy] that will keep my energy up and hunger at bay. Snacks don’t need to be an adventure, like beets covered in chocolate or buttered frog’s legs, for instance. Meals are there to fulfill my yen for that type of creative eating. Snacks can be boring.

The ease with which this Reverb response came to me put a smile on my face. I feel like it affirms my independence. I make many things every day, and I don’t rely on anyone else to do it for me.

Yesterday, I also made:

Coffee.
Time to write my Reverb 10 Day 5 post.
Banana oatmeal with raisins, cashews, and almond butter for breakfast.
A trip to the laundry room. One straight week of hot power vinyasa, and all my yoga clothes were smelly.
The rounds to five different chefs at the latke festival.
Plans to see a play, thanks to my friend Sarah.

This morning, I made:

A sad face when I walked out of yoga into the winter’s first snow. It’s going to be a long season.

snack 10.10: pommes frites.

leslie — Wed, 27 Oct 2010 16:00:21 +0000

“what feels right.”

pommes frites french fries with mexican ketchup, parmesan peppercorn, wasabi mayo.

It’s 3:30 late Friday night – or early Saturday morning, whichever you prefer. My good friend Sofia, her boyfriend, and I are the last ones standing after the first of my birthday celebrations.

The air feels freezing. It is winter before Halloween, and I am sad to be wearing my winter peacoat. Underneath, I’ve donned a light silk tank top, a golden skirt, and flowered tights – an outfit otherwise known as weather inappropriate.

I’ve been awake for 23 hours, but somehow, I am not tired. I have to keep my youthful stamina going before I hit a quarter century.

I am over-liquored, but it’s my birthday, so that is how I suppose it should be. I’m thinking about birthdays past, like 21 in Istanbul, when I hadn’t eaten dinner before sipping my martini, and neither my travel partner nor I could finish the birthday cocktails for fear of toppling over. I’m thinking how my oldest friend and I almost caught ourselves on fire with flaming marshmallows as I celebrated 17, or how my recently married friend took me out and helped bring light to my life as I entered my 24th year in a state of unhappy limbo. I’m thinking about where I will be, and with whom, when 26 arrives. [Ironically, I learned yesterday that I will be at work, but that's another story for another day.]

Memories of the past and of the future pop up, and yet, I am nowhere else but right in this moment. I am 36 hours from 25. The age feels right. Everything feels right.

We three stand over an abandoned desk on the side of East 7th Street, eating something horribly unhealthy without worry. We mayo-hating girls dip a few fries into spiced ketchup, until a cold gust of wind blows our paper cone off into the East Village night.

I’ve been to Pommes Frites just once before. I was barely eighteen, a freshman at NYU eating “dinner” with a new friend. I was self-conscious and shy then. Seven years later, I can still be shy, but I am so comfortable being who I am.

The next morning, I am the same “me,” and I wake up to oatmeal and a banana and almonds, and in the afternoon there is avocado and kale. A few days earlier, I was sipping a juice of beet, spinach, celery, and apple before meeting my dad at Yankee Stadium. People were throwing back Miller Lites and inhaling sauerkraut-smothered hot dogs, and I had eaten a vegan sandwich while vegetable juice ran through my veins. The plants keep my feet on the ground, and the late nights keep my lips curled up in a smile. I am lightyears away from one year ago.

Ps: If I’m going to eat French fries, they are going to be the best, most authentic fries in Manhattan. I always require quality. And trust me: these fit the bill.

snack 10.10: fage total.

leslie — Tue, 19 Oct 2010 16:00:07 +0000

“the whole issue.”

fage total.

A couple weeks ago, I stopped into Whole Foods for a box of granola. While snaking my way to the checkout line, I spotted a yellow sign above their store of Fage: a sale.

This never happens. Chobani goes on sale. Oikos gets marked down. Brown Cow taunts with 2 for 1 steals. But Fage? Never.

Next thing I knew, I was loading myself up with twenty containers of the world’s best Greek yogurt. [How does that happen?] As I transferred each and every 2% from the shelf to my basket, my gaze paused at the stock just to the 2%’s left. There sat the Fage Totals, as in the whole milk variety.

I stared at these yogurts because I’ve been feeling hypocritical.

I am all about real food. Never would I dream of touching false replicas of the real, like slimcados or low fat peanut butter or fat free feta. My grains are whole and my butter is made from organic milk and cream. My food is mostly plants. Of course, I am not perfect, but I strive to do the best I can.

I’m not sure then, why it is that I eat low fat yogurt. While it may be a step up from fat free, I don’t eat low fat cheese, and I don’t eat low fat ice cream. Some kind of logic is missing.

At first, I justified myself by thinking, “Well, I don’t know anyone who regularly drinks whole milk.” But that argument was quickly countered when I realized: I also don’t know anyone who brought tupperware stuffed with kale, millet, hemp seeds, avocado, and flax oil for yesterday’s lunch. Touché.

I ended up buying a single Total, just to give it a try.

My sister, who had purchased this variety once before, warned me that it would be incredibly filling. I wasn’t particularly concerned: it is very, very rare for me to feel uncomfortably full. [Dear appetite plus metabolism, please never abandon me.]

I tasted the Total on a quiet weeknight. I used a small spoon, and I ate it plain. I wanted a pure experience.

I have never tasted yogurt quite like this. Greek yogurt is already rich; it has that wonderful so-thick-the-spoon-stands-up-on-its-own quality. It is one of those foods that tastes so lush, you don’t know how it could really be good for you, like guacamole or chocolate hazelnut butter or maple-roasted winter squash.

But this Greek yogurt – the real Greek yogurt – this was new. It was like mousse, or cheesecake, or dessert, or heaven.

Will I switch permanently? Well, I haven’t yet. Dairy debating is probably the single most confusing aspect of my lifestyle, and it continues to perplex me.

Writing this post did make me crave another Total, and I’m sure I’ll buy one. I suppose I’ll have to wait and see where this new venture leads.

snack 10.10: salt and vinegar green beans.

leslie — Thu, 14 Oct 2010 16:00:06 +0000

“junk food.”

roasted green beans with salt and vinegar.

I grew up in a potato chip-free household. It was also a sugared cereal-free household, a packaged cookie-free household, and a frozen entree-free household.

The no-junk-food rule had a few exceptions, of course, saved for rare, very special occasions. Sleepovers with my best friend meant Pillsbury cinnamon rolls. Girl Scout season meant one box of thin mints. There was a short period of Ellio’s pizza, which mostly made my mom’s life easier while she raised a painfully picky daughter. My sister and I were allowed cheddar goldfish, and sometimes, Dad would scoop up a bowl of Mom’s chili with a couple handfuls of baked Tostitos.

In general, however, our cabinets held no traditional SAD snacks. When I wanted to munch after school, I would take a plate of peanut butter crackers, a slice of cinnamon toast, or a glass of chocolate milk. Even as I refused to eat produce in those years, my mom certainly wasn’t providing me with anything particularly unhealthy.

I remember first tasting Oreos and Pirate’s Booty at the age of sixteen, while spending a summer studying film in Philadelphia and enjoying my own kitchen for the first time. My roommates brought in the snacks, and I got curious. I believe my mom heeded my request for Pirate’s Booty a single time after I returned home. These packaged products did not have a place in our house.

Years later, I credit my mom for the fact that I have no taste for “junk food.” Snickers bars, Gummi bears, Coke, Doritos – I never acquired the palate for them. My high school friends used to search my cabinets in vain for something to chew, and they settle usually for plain popcorn or a bar of chocolate. That was as junk-y as my mom allowed.

It’s rather ironic, then, that my most recent culinary obsession is inspired by a bag of potato chips. Specifically, the salt and vinegar variety.

I stumbled upon this preparation for string beans back in August, and each week, I continue to bring a bag of beans home from the farmers market in order to roast up another batch. I don’t anticipate the yen for these to end until string bean season has passed us by.

The beauty of these beans is their versatility. They are an easy side dish, and I’d be willing to wager on their ability to convince staunch vegetable-haters to put some green on their plate. They are worthy of cocktail hour finger food, and they could certainly be served in place of that bag of Lays when salt-and-vinegar-snacktime cravings hit. They’re yummy. Promise.

I’m on my fifth week straight of these guys. We’ll have to wait and see just how long the devotion lasts.

snack 9.10: honeycrisp apple.

leslie — Tue, 21 Sep 2010 16:00:05 +0000

“autumnal acceptance.”

honeycrisp and ginger gold apples.

I tend to confront the end of summer with a rather mournful state of mind. The sun is setting earlier; the temperature is finished getting warmer. Cherries and strawberries have disappeared from markets, and berries follow soon after. Beach season has ended, and the concepts of winter coats and snowstorms loom nearer. It’s all very sad.

Last week forced me into autumnal acceptance, when I bit into not one, but three disappointing peaches. The first was mealy. The second water-y. The third, even after four days left to ripen in my fruit bowl, was tough and tasteless.

On Sunday, I visited the New Amsterdam Market for my produce supply, and I decided I needed to face facts. It’s September, the Jewish holidays have passed, and my sister’s birthday is inching closer. The time for peaches has come and gone. We had a good run, but summer is over.

As I strolled through the small market, shaded from the sunlight by the highway above, I spotted a farm stand offering honeycrisp apples. “$2 a pound” was scrawled on a strip of cardboard, and I beelined towards the table to fill up my reusable bag.

I took a bite of my first honeycrisp of the season on a slow Monday morning at work. Our office air conditioner was off, the window closed against the mid-60s air. The crunch was loud and the juice extraordinarily sweet. The fruit was right for the atmosphere – a peach would have been out of place.

That evening, sitting at my kitchen table for a late, post-theater dinner with my sister, she took a bite from an apple of her own. I thought, “Is there any snack more perfect than the first apple of the fall?” At least, thanks to that honeycrisp, this annual demise of my favorite of seasons has been made a little bit sweeter.

hors d’oeuvres 9.10: rosh hashanah.

leslie — Sun, 12 Sep 2010 15:45:14 +0000

“the new year.”

apples and honey; raw vegetables; round challah.

Three years past “back to school” days, September still feels like a new start to me. Perhaps it’s the change in the season, the need to create some excitement out of the months ahead while summer comes to a close. Perhaps it’s nostalgia, a way to latch onto memories of clean FiveStar notepads and the names of new teachers that hadn’t yet been associated with grown-up faces and red pens.

Or, perhaps it’s a Jewish thing. 5771 is the year we’ve just entered, and like the 24 other September new years that have passed in my lifetime, this one felt different. I’m different this year: with a different job, a different apartment, and a different grip on my life.

Sitting in synagogue this week, the sun was strong through the paneled windowpanes. The air conditioning blew a bit too hard, and we shivered as a hundred voices sang that mournful tune, “On Rosh Hashanah it is written…” Regardless of how religious I do or don’t feel in a given year, there is no place else for me to be on this day. It’s how I start the fall, that new period of life, the new year.

I always feel as though my great-grandparents are there in those melodies, smiling because they did it. They survived the trip to Ellis Island, they created a home in the Bronx, and here we are, still Jewish, living a quite comfortable life. Each September, we have the opportunity to start fresh while carrying on the legacy they began.

Arriving home with growling stomachs on the holiday’s first afternoon, my mom immediately laid out our hors d’oeuvres and carried on those long-lasting traditions. A round challah. A crisp apple. A pot of sweet honey.

My family sat around the coffee table, drizzling honey and sipping wine as our meal cooked in the kitchen. No matter what has changed – our addresses, our relationships, our hairstyles – the ancient customs remain. And so, together we ate, and we rang in another year with that beautiful familiarity of food, family, and tradition.

entertaining.

leslie — Wed, 17 Feb 2010 14:14:04 +0000

Let’s do a quick throwback to college:

This was one party that my roommate and I threw our senior year of college. Yes, as students, we donned dresses, drank from wine glasses, and topped our tables with fine Italian pastries. Yes, NYU is a strange place. And yes, I have little to add to the conversations most people have about their wandering-campus-with-a-red-plastic-cup collegiate days.

So, I definitely don’t know how to throw a beer-pong-late-night-pizza party, and the only ones I’ve attended have been courtesy of my high school friends with addresses outside the five boroughs. But really, I’m sure it’s no surprise that those affairs aren’t exactly my style.

Recently, my sister and I had our first gathering at our new home [seven weeks in and I'm still working on hanging the pictures on my white walls - I'm so indecisive].

I never really stress about parties. As long as there is good food, good drink, and good people, there isn’t much to worry about. As my sister and I were the hostesses, tasty food and abundant wine were no-brainers – and of course, our friends are nothing but great people.

This time, I actually followed some recipes. Much of my cooking is ideal for single or double servings, and I’ve yet to master the art of dreaming up creative party food for double digits of guests. I suppose it’s because meal-making is something I can experiment with on a near daily basis, where party-preparation is a far rarer occurrence. I figure I’ve got a lifetime of party-throwing ahead, so like baking, I will eventually become a pro.

I don’t consider myself a complete amateur, however. Experience has taught me that one, two-buck-chuck tastes far classier than it sounds; two, if you provide munchable produce, it always, always goes; and three, new or old, no matter who shows up, my friends are pretty fabulous people. Somehow, inviting people onto your very own turf cements that even more.

A party, after all, is just another excuse for people to share together food, drink, and life. My favorite way to spend any evening, with the added perk of playing hostess.

Next month, we’re doing a family housewarming [yes, you can in fact celebrate a new apartment for three months straight], and there is already some discussion about summertime gatherings [Cinco de Mayo, perhaps?]. If we can only survive all this snow…

What are the elements of your perfect party? Would you rather be the guest or the host?