I was putting make-up on in Montreal two days ago in front of one of those fancy close-up lit-up mirrors that make you see each pore of your skin when I realized something about myself and about love. How I act in front of the mirror is entirely unrelated to how loved I feel and how beautiful my loved ones make me believe I am. What I do every single day in front of the mirror is me, who I am, what pleases me, what makes me feel good – not beautiful, just good and normal, like my daily ritual is complete, like my routine has been fulfilled and I can move on to the next activity. It is not a trick to make me feel more beautiful or to make someone see me that way- far from it, actually.

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The blog is two today. In some ways my second born, this rascal became part of who I am, growing outside of me but from within, pushing me and making me question myself- what I am and what I want to be. It is responsible for parts of my anxiety, quitting my legal job, and repeatedly banging my head against the wall while trying to break into a completely new industry – writing.  French Press Memos, a name I detest at times, has been through nearly 120 posts that widely ranged from total fun to complete sadness, but always tied in a recipe. The site is still waiting for a facelift (sounds premature on a young baby, but hey) and the post-writing is not as frequent as I would like it to be (my fault, of course), but it gave me the platform I needed to practice my writing and search for my voice.

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I pressed the widest part of my knife onto the wooden cutting board and felt the peel ease off from the garlic clove. With the same motion, I gently smashed the rest of the cloves then peeled the skins off. The crush of the knife released the garlic oils onto my skin. I knew I’d smell it for hours. My feet ached from standing for too long, so I rocked my weight from one side to the other and kept on peeling. The olive oil coated the bottom of the pan and warmed gently, the garlic slowly started to cook before juicy fragrant tomatoes drowned them and stole their flavor, making it their own. And then it took hours, hours of patience, of stirring, of smelling, of taking it all in. More than once I sat over a pot and hypnotized myself with the slow swirl of a wooden spoon inside the pot. I watched as kale shrunk down, polenta grains puffed up, tomato sauce thickened up, and tens of identically cut cubes of zucchini softened up. I live for the process and all the sensory experiences that came along with it.

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The beauty of the blog is that I get to make my rules. No editorial calendars, no word limits, no deadlines or harsh cuts and changes. I don’t have to do anything. I don’t include sidebars of ads because I couldn’t stomach the thought of lacking control over it. I don’t post more often because I obsess too much over what I write. And I never plug products or people I don’t full-heartedly support because I don’t have to. I let my whims and my heart drive the content of the blog just like I let it drive most other parts of my life. I do what feels right and sometimes, like this time, that coincides with the possible editorial calendar. This week is all about cookies and cookie swaps, perhaps about homemade gifts. There are, however, problems with this- at least for me. I am not a baker – I am a cook. I am not a traditional cookie lover- I just don’t get them. I am not a swapper – I am too afraid won’t like what I get in return.

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The ‘holiday spirit’ is something we gently refer to in our house as that irresistible feeling that occurs early winter season that pushes one to be overly perky. The year the term was given this meaning, my husband had a particularly bad case of it. This consisted of entering Neiman Marcus and purchasing an exorbitant (and very chic) Gucci purse along with a variety of other ‘smaller’ gifts. We don’t roll like that. It was the ‘holiday spirit.’ Shopping, however, is not the only manifestation of this impulse. It is the gift wrapping job gone Martha Stewart – handmade papers, thoughtfully paired dual ribbons and that extra little butterfly to tie it all together. It is the over-decorating of the house, where no inch remains untouched by the magic of ornaments, santa hats, pine cones, glitter, and reindeers. It is going carefully orchestrated holiday cards, christmas carols, sweater parties, and the like.

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I remember my first Thanksgiving – ten years ago- like it was yesterday. We spent it in Aspen with Kyle’s mother. I barely knew her. Her husband, David was there too and Kyle’s sister’s boyfriend Neil- never met either before. Neil was memorable for his Brussel sprouts, prepared the good old British way. He is also memorable because, being not-American, he was somewhat of a stranger to the entire tradition too; that gave me comfort. I wasn’t sure what to expect. The food was not exactly the holiday fare back in the motherland. The turkey – I supposed – was like a mammoth chicken chosen likely for its size and the ability to feed a large crowd rather than its taste. The stuffing I did not understand but came to enjoy quickly for its amazing ability to absorb all fat and flavors- and for the mere fact that it is bread, which I love. What else was there? The braised Kale was neither pleasant nor objectionable. The gravy – I tolerated. The pie was fine- the apple I could relate mostly to, the pumpkin seemed odd. I could not stomach two things: cranberry sauce and sweet potato mash. I didn’t … Continue reading →

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I am a pleaser- I always have been and always will be. I remember everything – because I care. I will call you on your birthday even if we haven’t talked since…well, last year on your birthday. I will remember your first and our first everythings- because they are special to me. I will ask for your advice not because I am lost and not able to make a decision but because I value your opinion and want to hear it before I leap into anything. And I will cook for you if I love you. I will cook your favorite dish, and any other dish you request, look at longingly, or hint at wanting. Exactly a year ago I turned 30. I was in a good place: a happy family, a good job, supportive friends, fun things like the blog, salsa dancing, and a medley of volunteer activities. I seemed to be pleasing a lot – others and myself. I knew turning 30 was going to cause me to rethink things. I wanted to make some changes. I wanted to be thinner. I wanted to love what I do every day- not just tolerate it. I wanted to enjoy … Continue reading →

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Analogies run wild in my head. Thoughts run on parallel tracks, fast, furious, finding connections, similarities, associations. Writing, living, cooking always interconnect in my head in the strangest ways. I see the common threads – and sometimes, I need to release them from my head. Take this soup – Summer Vegetable Cianfotta. Italian: tasty, capricious, never precise. Seasonal, of course. A stew of everything in the late-summer garden, Cianfotta is like every person in your life, a combination of things, a mixture that is overall soothing and satisfying, but flawed, distressed, imperfect. Its depth comes from the prosciutto brodo, but you can’t really identify it readily. It is there- if you know about it, it’s easy. If you don’t, you mind never figure out it existed and even if you do, you might not figure out where it came from- the same as in most people. The ingredients, like human traits, are a mixed bag. Some you love, others you can’t stand. You don’t like eggplant. Well, there’s eggplant. Summer squash is not your thing- keep chewing. You only eat squash blossoms raw – suck it up. It is the combination that is charming, the good, the tasty, the quirky, … Continue reading →

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