Last weekend, my friend Danielle and I took a drive up north to visit our friend Anna in coastal Massachusetts.  After nearly four hours, we found our GPS directing us off the paved main road and onto a path made of dirt.

Signs perched [...]]]>

Last weekend, my friend Danielle and I took a drive up north to visit our friend Anna in coastal Massachusetts.  After nearly four hours, we found our GPS directing us off the paved main road and onto a path made of dirt.

Signs perched between the trees and marked with Anna’s family name guided our car along at just a few miles per hour.  A few cautious minutes passed, and the trees opened into a clearing, revealing her house, her porch, and a pond off in the distance.  Danielle and I looked at each other, our eyes lighting up.  Serene didn’t begin to describe this northeastern oasis.  It was going to be a good weekend.

Over the next 36 hours, we three ate meals on the porch, a canopy of trees above, the quiet water below.  We hiked through the woods, stopping to gaze out at the water and snap a handful of silly photos of ourselves.  We sipped wine as we cruised across the pond on a motorboat, fleece coats protecting us from the chill in the wind.  We filled our hearty appetites at a new restaurant, ending with spoons digging into a gooey chocolate chip cookie and melting vanilla ice cream.  We stopped to gaze at the Mayflower and that famous rock, and we inhaled the scent of salty ocean air.  We devoured a large pizza as we talked and talked and talked.

I’ve long been fascinated by the places different people come from.  I first met Anna in Boston, and we have since dined together in New York and DC, but this was my first true experience on her turf.  Like the town itself, her home is full of history.  You can’t help but feel the presence of the generations that have survived winters and enjoyed summers on land that the first colonists called their new home.

Anna mentioned that Danielle and I seemed to really “get” Long Pond, and I’m sure my Connecticut childhood – my New England roots – played a role.  I am a city girl at heart, but spending a weekend in this area of the country always feels like coming home.

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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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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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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.

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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?

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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?

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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?

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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?

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