“mish mosh.”
kale and millet tossed in flax oil, lemon juice, and sea salt; topped by bell pepper, portobello mushroom, heirloom tomato, chickpeas, pumpkin seeds, avocado, sundried tomatoes, tarragon pesto.
As someone to whom aesthetics mean an awful lot, I am not exactly the neatest person. Mentally, I am an organizational machine. Outwardly, I like to think I look put together. But.
I carry a bottomless pit of a purse, a well of crumpled receipts and pens I thought I lost long ago. Making my bed is a task I have found arduous since pre-adolescence: I do it, and yet, I find it immensely irritating to pretty up a mattress that will only be disturbed the next time I lay eyes on it. My clothes tend to spend an equal amount of time on their wire hangers as they do slung across my bedroom chair. [This is the chair that perhaps you know: the one that seemed a nice complement to your room's decor but serves no actual function, and as a result, it becomes an extension of your closet.]
Then there’s lunch. Though I prefer to view food in a mindful manner, somehow lunch tends to miss out. Typically, my midday meal is a haphazard tupperware affair.
It’s rather formulaic, a predictable blend of my favorite leafy greens [kale has my heart], a grain, a legume, a nut or a seed, a medley of vegetables, and plenty of [always homemade] dressing. I treat the tupperware to fun garnishes, like avocado and hummus and pesto, depending on what is on hand. I pack it into a container three sizes too small for the amount of food involved, and then I play the squishing game, forcing the cover to close.
Thrown together as it always is, lunch can seem quite the mess. It is eaten at my desk, computer screen in front, notepad to one side, papers full of numbers and words to the other. The meal may be disorderly, but its components are simple. In this setting, that is all I really need.
Like my cluttered dressers and messy bed, I don’t mind the lunch mess. The disarray satisfies my hunger. It is whole and real and healthy. It is colorful, which makes me smile. It always leaves me content, and it saves me a heck of a lot of money.
Messes and mish moshes always have their place. I’m looking forward to the one waiting for me today.
“doll-sized.”
blackberry gingersnap mini ice cream cone, followed by mini scoops of 99% dark chocolate, duck egg, beet, bourbon-vanilla-sea-salt-caramel, and sweet corn.
When I was a little kid, age in the single digits, I loved dolls. It started with those squeezable characters in the cabbage patch, and it moved to the palm-sized girls of the Wish World. Eventually, I made my way to the real deal, the doll on the dream list of every female child born in the eighties: an American Girl.
Back when there were just five versions of these expensive toys, I begged for Samantha, “the Victorian beauty.” Straight A’s for an entire second grade school year finally brought her home to my arms, and immediately, I fell in love.
I played with Samantha every day. I saved every penny of my allowance for her clothes. Every birthday, every Chanukkah, I asked for an accessory: her bed, her nightstand, her schoolbooks. I had outfits that could take her from a 1915 sailboat to a 1995 ice rink. I changed her shoes; I brushed her hair; I gave her imaginary friends.
I loved that doll so much that I eventually had to mail her to the Pleasant Company Doll Hospital when her head fell off. [Yes, really. She came home in a hospital gown with an admittance bracelet and "get well soon" balloon.]
During the long doll phase, my eyes were trained to scope out and spot miniature accoutrements of all kinds. Though I kept a tidy list of items I liked from the American Girl catalogue, I didn’t discriminate against other appropriately-sized accessories without the logo attached. Samantha got vintage toothpaste and band-aids from my mom’s childhood drugstore set; she had a little car courtesy of my grandfather’s toy trucks.
As I outgrew hours of pretending, Samantha moved to a neat box under my twin bed. Yet from preteen to twentysomething, the affinity for the doll-sized has remained. Perhaps it’s one way in which I refuse to ever grow up: I believe I’d be as happy now as I would have been then to browse the Fifth Avenue American Girl shop.
And perhaps that’s why I found myself drawn to a new event this past Sunday, a dessert interruption on an errand-filled afternoon that took me right back to those days of the dolls. The distraction: an ice cream tasting at the New Amsterdam Market, a new find I am thrilled to have discovered. Of the many vendors offering samples that day – wine tasting, hard cider tasting, cheese tasting, bread tasting – the ice cream mattered the most.
Like a trip back to childhood, my companions and I were treated to six tiny scoops in six tiny cones. The late August humidity melted the cream fast, and so we found ourselves gripping cones fit for my Samantha, artisan ice cream dripping down our adult hands and tongues licking up every last bit. [Napkins were nowhere to be found.]
We ate our ice cream with the zeal my childhood self would have – it is one of the few foods I have loved since those doll-playing days. And yet, the event was decidedly for adults – after all, as an adolescent, my nose turned up even at vanilla [I ate only one flavor: chocolate, plain and simple]. Here, vanilla would have been out of place, as we were treated to vegetable flavors like beet and sweet corn, spice infusions like sea salt and pepper, and pure craziness like hay and duck egg [I tried both, obviously].
I often get caught up in my adult life: the wine, the late nights, the fancy food, the independence. But after the most grown-up of evenings – playing the role of maid of honor, making a champagne toast on my friend’s wedding day – an hour of sticky fingers and childhood dessert was just the balance I needed. Too bad my dolls never got mini cones of their own.
“when the plate doesn’t matter.”
platters of vegetables: grilled eggplant, mozzarella, and tuscan salsa; grilled zucchini and yellow squash with rosemary oil; grilled portobello mushrooms with roasted peppers, wilted spinach, and balsamic reduction.
On Saturday, one of my closest friends got married.
Of course, there was an abundance of food at the wedding, all lovely, fresh, and flavorful – a nice surprise considering typical fare at gatherings such as these. Truthfully though, I didn’t think much about my plate.
Before we walked down the mansion’s striking staircase and through the grass that made up the aisle, we in the wedding party were upstairs, readying ourselves in the bridal suite. Family and friends, we painted deep merlot onto our lips and brushed peach across our cheeks. We sipped champagne, tied up matching bows across our waists, gushed as women tend to do. Flashes went off here and there, and for every photo taken, a smile never seemed forced: there was too much excitement, too much joy in that room.
My dad, who was in attendance, often comments that he doesn’t tend to eat much at catered affairs. Personally, I was distracted.
There was the grandeur of the house: the parlor with its old piano, the pure white of the wraparound porch, the statement made by the central stairs. There was the atmosphere, set by the sounds of 1940s tunes, the quotes recalling classic films – Casablanca, It’s a Wonderful Life, The Hucksters – adorning every chair, the white wine glasses clinking over and over again. There was the beam of the groom as the bride walked to meet him. There was the glow – and it was a real glow – of the bride.
Nearing my 25th birthday, I am not looking for marriage. But then I think: neither was Laura, and there I was, giving her one last hug before she walked out and said, “I do.” Life catches you by surprise.
As I filled my dinner plate, after pictures had been taken, toasts had been given, first dance had been completed, I thought once that the food certainly looked wonderful. But when you’re mulling this new adult adventure, the one that is setting the stage for the rest of a best friend’s life – well, the food on the plate becomes a little insignificant. So I ate for a short time, my thoughts and attention focused elsewhere. There was so much other beauty to take in.
“making the effort.”
salad of kale, young coconut meat, cucumber, arame, basil. dressed in olive oil, agave, sea salt, pepper.
For some sad reason, most people don’t seem to think coconuts are worth the effort.
I admit, they are intimidating. They appear rock solid. They require not only a rather enormous knife to pierce, but also enough skill to wield that knife with with several sharp blows. They kind of seem to taunt us with their perfectly pointy tops.
But sometimes, the best food requires a little extra effort. Fresh beans have to be painstakingly shelled; a great soup has to simmer all afternoon. Fresh coconuts need to be beaten and hacked.
I don’t let this additional time and exertion phase me, which is a mindset I think I acquired in yoga. My teacher on Tuesday morning had us doing handstand prep [basically, where you make an L-shape with your body, feet on the wall, hands on the mat. I legitimately suck at this.]. He reminded us to focus on our intention.
In yoga, you set an intention at the beginning of each class. It can be anything, any reason you might have for making it to the studio that day, unrolling your mat, working out your mind and body. I don’t pretend to have dramatic insights as I mull an intention – some days I think deeply about why I am there, while others my intention is simply to sweat. I think sweat is a fine intention, because it is an action that makes me feel good.
When you’re laying on a mat – an hour of practice behind you, breath quivering in your chest, heart rate high but steady, body warm – and your instructor calls out a tough pose, there is always a choice. You can say, “No, I’ve had enough. Give me child’s pose.” [I do this sometimes.] Or, you can muster the energy from wherever it comes and surprise yourself. You can say, “Yes, I will try.” When you are able to do so, the feeling of accomplishment is rather special.
That is how I felt about this salad. I saw the coconut on the shelf at Whole Foods and decided it was a task I could face. Though I knew I would have to work a little harder to get it onto my plate, I made the choice, because I knew the end result would be worth it.
It was a treat, really, and all the more satisfying because of the effort involved. I imagine on that future day when I find myself upside down in yoga, supported by my arm strength in a handstand, I will feel much the same way.
While my camera is in the repair shop and my morning yoga class didn’t allow time for words to flow today, I’m writing a quick note to say: if you’re reading in a reader, I’ve added a new page to the site. For those of you old, new, or just visiting, feel free to check out whole plate highlights, a collection of favorite and popular posts and recipes from the past year and change.
Happy Thursday, and thank you all, as always, for reading my words.
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about. thank you for visiting the whole plate! i'm leslie, and this blog is my way of navigating twentysomething life one meal at a time. i usually require a glass of wine alongside.
questions? comments? email me: thewholeplateblog@gmail.com
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