vegan corn, roasted pepper, and scallion ravioli with tomato “cream” sauce.

It’s 2005, the final weekend of September in London, and 19 year old Leslie is on a plane at 6AM, about to island hop from Britain to Ireland.  The middle-aged couple sharing my row are complaining about their £7 chicken sandwich; I am [...]]]> “the adventurous spirit.”

vegan corn, roasted pepper, and scallion ravioli with tomato “cream” sauce.

It’s 2005, the final weekend of September in London, and 19 year old Leslie is on a plane at 6AM, about to island hop from Britain to Ireland.  The middle-aged couple sharing my row are complaining about their £7 chicken sandwich; I am questioning why one would order a chicken sandwich at that hour.  Stowed by my seat is a maroon bag affectionately titled my “weekender;” amidst the clothes stuffed inside sit my passport, with its single stamp, and two cell phones, one for the US, one for the UK.

Just a few days earlier, I had booked a £9 plane ticket on RyanAir to Dublin, where I would meet a friend studying in Paris for 40 hours of Irish exploration.  Of those hours, we would sleep about 6, spending the remaining time exploring and experiencing.  That Saturday, we took a 6AM train out to the green coast on the recommendation of a Londoner I met on my train to the airport, who had asked if I could please wake him up when we arrived.  That night, we crawled into bed at 4AM due to Guinness and too much fun.  

That was five years ago.  In 2007, I had to wait in line at the oh-so-bureaucratic US embassy in Prague to get more pages added to my passport, because customs officers were running out of room to press their stamps.  I celebrated three birthdays in three different countries, climbed ruins from Malaga to Dubrovnik, discovered the simple power of learning to say “hello” and “thank you” in the language of the country you are visiting.  I grew up.  A lot.

Sometimes, I think that weekend in Dublin is when my life started.  It’s when I cemented the fact, once and for all, that I believe in living life with a sense of adventure.  Trying new foods.  Meeting new people.  Playing with fashion, experiencing art.  And traveling – anywhere, everywhere.

This past week, I chatted at a dinner table with my friend Danielle, who graduated from college this year – though you wouldn’t know it considering she’s stepped on her fair share of foreign soils.  A couple months ago, when she mentioned the idea of a post-graduate solo adventure across the country, it was all I could do not to squeal in anticipation of this newest journey.

In the spirit of Danielle’s impending exploration, I figured it would do me good to step beyond the five boroughs for a night.  So, we celebrated her departure with wining and dining at Haven, located outside the sweaty city in pretty Pleasantville.  While tasting each other’s locally-inspired plates, we talked about the present and the future and all the excitement of lands beyond New York state lines.

I love how that sense of adventure helps me to see every corner of life’s many possibilities, and I hope it sticks with me for every hour, day, and year that I’ve yet to live.  Something tells me: it will.

The holidays start next week – one of the busiest and often most stressful times of year.  Everyone will be faced with traveling, office parties, family gatherings, friendly affairs.  Gifts need to be found and bestowed, elaborate [...]]]> Happy Friday, everyone!  I’d like to introduce a new feature I’ll be posting once every week or two.  

The holidays start next week – one of the busiest and often most stressful times of year.  Everyone will be faced with traveling, office parties, family gatherings, friendly affairs.  Gifts need to be found and bestowed, elaborate meals planned and cooked.  I know I can always use some reminders to keep myself balanced this time of year, not necessarily in terms of food, but in body and in mind.  This series aims to do just that.

I was looking through some old photographs a few days ago, and I stumbled upon one a friend of mine took while we were traveling in Croatia.

I remember when she took it well: it was our first real night there [we arrived late the evening before and didn’t accomplish much other than dinner].  But this night, we had a plan.  Classy as ever [read the sarcasm], we picked up individual-sized bottles of red wine, then searched for an entrance to the tiny beach near our hotel.  Later we would be moved to an apartment just outside the city’s walls, a short ten minute stroll to a much larger sandscape; but for one night, that private beach suited us just fine. 

With the sun going down, it was pleasant weather for jeans and bare feet.  We settled ourselves on the sand, and, separated from the noise of other tourists, we were faced with the realization that we were without a corkscrew to open our bottles.  Ingenuity made a sharp rock very useful, and eventually, we were able to sip, staring ahead at the waning orange sunlight and the blue of the sea. 

We talked some and we watched some.  There was no agenda, no plan.  We simple were.

Society tends to pressure us to always do.  Those five minutes while we wait for water to boil can be spent banging out crunches and planks.  Dinner can be eaten while we educate ourselves on the day’s news.  Every day, there seem to be fifty new suggestions in magazines and on blogs, teaching us how to be better multitaskers.

I always ponder over what I should be doing – the scope might be as wide as what I want to do with my life, or it might be basic, such as what I will do on Saturday night.  Rarely, however, do I think of just being.  

My mantra this holiday season is simply to remember the peace of that sunset, and let myself be.  No matter where I am, I can wake up early in the morning and lay in bed for five minutes in the darkness.  I can take five minutes and step outside for fresh air, even when it chills my bones.  I can sit with a family member or a friend, two forks, and a slice of leftover pumpkin pie, and I can just be.

balancing meal:  spaghetti squash, chickpeas, brussels sprouts, mushrooms, pepitas, lemon, paprika, tahini

Goals are wonderful things, but now and then, it’s important to step back and lock away all thoughts of exercise, food, friends, work, and the future.  It’s never wrong to take a short five minutes and do nothing at all.  With the quiet weekend I have ahead, I might just take an entire afternoon.

How do you let go and just be?

Wine, of course, is my favorite beverage, and when the occasion is inappropriate for alcoholic content, I typically stick with water.  I do have one soft spot though, and that is rich, bold coffee.

I blame coffee shops.

In [...]]]> Sometimes, life goes beyond food.  It needs to be supplemented in liquid form, with a drink on the side.

Wine, of course, is my favorite beverage, and when the occasion is inappropriate for alcoholic content, I typically stick with water.  I do have one soft spot though, and that is rich, bold coffee.

I blame coffee shops.

In college, I used to spend hours at a time inside them.  Three quarters of the binder of notes for my oral thesis were filled in the corner of Starbucks.  Except for freshman year, I never wrote a single paper in my dorm room, preferring instead to utilize the complimentary wifi at Think Coffee.

No matter where I’ve gone in the world, I’ve always found my café corner.  Take Prague, for instance: there, my spot was Meduza, a smoky literary den, filled with mismatched everything and wine as cheap as a mug of black coffee.  

With school behind me, I still find it easy to fill a coffee shop afternoon.  I’m happy to sit with a book, a friend, a laptop, a blank page.  I love seeing the people come and go, and I love forgetting where I am, even with the noise around me.

Last week, for instance, Katie and I chatted over an afternoon mug in the dimly lit Irving Farm.  It always feels cozy inside those café walls; the tables are rickety and the air circulation not ideal, but they have Fage for sale and wifi for free.  If a coveted table can be snagged, it’s an ideal writing location.

Back when I first frequented corner tables, I’d spend my cash on syrupy drinks and sweet treats.  These days, I’ve become a purist: my coffee is black and my food is nutritious.  My pennies might be pinched, but the experience no less pleasant.

I like to hold onto traditions, and this one fits easily into a healthy life.  Snacks can be brought, and tea can [occasionally] be chosen instead.  But the atmosphere, and the hours of thought: those always remain the same.

Are you a coffee shop dweller?  Where is your favorite?

I had been told that the cities I intended to visit [...]]]> Last summer, I spent a sunny week on the Southern coast of Croatia.  The trip was a combination of travel experience and vacation, so I enjoyed an equal amount of sunbathing in near Mediterranean heat while exploring the country’s tortured history on its tiny islands.

I had been told that the cities I intended to visit were “quaint.”  By quaint, my informers meant small.  The old city of Dubrovnik spanned the length of a few short Manhattan blocks.  Cars were parked outside the city walls; within them, pedestrian streets were actually steep stairways, scaled by wobbly grandmothers and energetic children alike.  In order to reach the apartment we rented, my friend and I ascended over 300 steps multiple times a day.  Directions to restaurants were often relayed as, “Climb stair.  Turn left.  Walk up hill.”  Remaining active was simply a way to get around.

We balanced the staircases and mountain climbing with copious amounts of sunsoaking.  Gazing at crystal blue waters, reclining onto foam-kissed pebbles, marinating in the Adriatic heat.  The beaches teemed with the sounds of foreign tongues – men, women, and children with native lands spanning the continent, relishing the treat of exposing their bodies to the sun’s rays.  

My travel partner, who was on her first trip to Europe, was a bit shocked by the near nudity surrounding us.  While we were raised in a society that plastered ads for bikini bodies, summer shape-ups, and tummy tucks, here was a beach full of women who wore less – and cared less.

Was it different to lay on a beach while wondering why the women bothered to even purchase their bikini tops?  Sure.  But it was simultaneously liberating.  

With their tops to the side, I overheard Spanish women discussing the tiramisu they shared the evening before.  Their chests bare to the sun, I caught the Czech words for ice cream flavors from female voices.  My friend and I had an afternoon cocktail hour of wine and a loaf of fresh bread; other evenings we took strolls with Italian-worthy gelato.  

In the ancient coastal city, beauty was everywhere.  And within its walls, each visitor savored life, femininity, food, and happiness.  As I laid on the beach next to those women, I absorbed their confidence.  I’ve carried it with me every since.

Oh, and if you’re wondering: no, I didn’t join the bare chested.  Would you?

I may have mentioned once or twice before that I have quite a fiery love affair with the beach. My family spends at least a week each summer at a piece of seaside heaven in Maine, and as a result, I have always [...]]]> Hello! I hope everyone had lovely weekends.

I may have mentioned once or twice before that I have quite a fiery love affair with the beach. My family spends at least a week each summer at a piece of seaside heaven in Maine, and as a result, I have always associated the sun and sand with happiness and relaxation.

Today I dragged myself out of bed at 5:30 AM. I’m a morning person, but even that is pushing it on a Sunday. I find the prospect of the beach very motivating.

As always, I came prepared for a day spent by the water.

I packed breakfast for the train:

muesli: oats, dried figs, almonds, pecans, soaked with soy milk and yogurt, plus a banana added in the am

 My friend and driver en route to Rhode Island took care of fruit, nuts, and h2o:

I put on a comfortable outfit:

And made some sandwiches:

hummus, tomato, avocado

Plus entertainment:

intelligent + not so intelligent reading material

  I’m rejuvenated and just a little sun-kissed. Perfectly balanced Sunday.

What do you pack for the beach?

At precisely 1 PM, every member of the staff, young, old, female, and male, exited their offices and filed down [...]]]> One afternoon last summer, I was enjoying lunch with my old boss, who had just returned from a visit to our magazine’s headquarters in Paris.  She shared with me her experience dining with the French staff.

At precisely 1 PM, every member of the staff, young, old, female, and male, exited their offices and filed down the stairwell.  On the second floor of their building was an expansive, sunny atrium, doubling as a cafe and meeting point for workers and their guests.  Along one wall lay a long salad bar, where fresh ingredients and warm breads lay in mounds for the taking.  Chefs plated finely cooked meats on the adjoining side, and in the room’s center sat several bowls of yogurt, granola, and fruits.  Next to that, a shorter table displayed fine pastries and chocolates, individually portioned onto palm sized dishware.

My boss observed as each of the women she had met strolled throughout the room, creating balanced platters from every station, dessert included.

She was invited to a table where the magazine’s staff dined together.  Over the next hour, they discussed fashion, food, and Parisian life, never once commenting on the work they were doing, the amount of food they were eating, or the size of their waists.

Some left food on their plates; some did not.  Each of them ate slowly and thoughtfully.

Following lunch, the group climbed one flight of stairs to an outdoor terrace, where they enjoyed cappuccinos, espressos, and further conversation.  Finally, after a ninety minute dining period, they returned to the office.

My boss and I spent a long time discussing what to us was a very foreign ritual.  Prague illustrated to me a far more American sensibility than a European one; with a history of betrayal by their European neighbors, many Czechs I knew looked instead towards the US for inspiration.  Coffee to-go, fast food, and long work days without lunch breaks became increasingly common sights throughout my time there.

There are many things I love about my American roots, but the presentation of food and health in our society is not one of them.  People have proselytized over the adage “French women don’t get fat” for years.  I don’t pretend to know the answer to the whys, but I always observed that very few European women display a negative relationship with food, while likely more than half the female population of the US most definitely do.

Health is about far more than food.  Taking my time with each meal allows each one to be a form of relaxation and delight, rather than an enemy or nuisance.  I have both my parents and my time abroad to thank for my ability to treat food as an enjoyable, essential part of life.  But I’m far too aware that in this country, I remain in the minority.

Do you think the American lifestyle makes good health impossible?