Well, this one’s for the books.

Winter greens slumped in a warm broth, with toast and eggs— was there ever anything more soulful?

I substituted rainbow chard for kale; also, I was unsure about whether or not to spoon the remaining stock along with my greens into the bowl; frankly, I went all in, and poured a fair amount of the pan juices over my bread. The dish was soupy in the best possible way— brothy, tender greens, and a perfect fried egg, all crackly at the edges. A hunk of ciabatta sopped up the savory juices and all but melted into the earthy greens. Elemental, rustic, and utterly satisfying.

And how have you been?

I went to the market the other day, so I am happy. Is there anything more cherubic than a tight, golden head of cauliflower? I made granola for my farm fresh milk, and made carrot & fennel salad— it is marinating right now; I made soft scrambled eggs to fill corn tortillas, along with sauteed chard and new potatoes, all with a fiery salsa.

These last weeks I had been making big pots of soup from dried pulses— red lentil soup with sweet potato & tomato, split pea soup. Delicious as they were, having all of these fresh wonders in my kitchen thrills me endlessly.

Joe, Raquel, and I walked over to a community garden plot the other day, and later, over dinner (soft scrambled eggs and a kohlrabi & carrot salad + fennel seed and sesame), we discussed which crops we want to prioritize.

That’s right! I am going to start an urban garden, with my best friends. Soonish.

Things are looking up, you know?

“Sir, respect your dinner… Idolize it, enjoy it properly. You will be by many hours in the week, many weeks in the year, and many years in your life the happier if you do.”

-Thackeray

So, some of the fears and trappings of a young, lustful and wistful life:

I have great, gaping fears of getting lost in my work again— by which I mean rather the opposite of my art-work; by which I mean my current menial job. Living to work rather than working to live, etc.

Naturally, there are greater things to work tirelessly toward, greater joys and troubles to be had!

There are evenings of making dinner and talking social theory, locavorism, and dinosaurs with grand, old friends. There are gorgeous days of big flatland wind, expansive blue sky, and straw-colored sun dedicated to long lunches, where you can cover Martin Scorcese, Cormac McCarthy, and Kanye West in the hours it takes to happily devour tender semolina-encrusted calamari stuffed into a roll with lemon ailoi and lettuce & tomato, or a little crock of goat’s milk raviloi all burnished and beautiful. Glasses of prosecco! There are nights that follow watching Spaghetti Westerns, drinking cups of tea.

There are bigger and brighter things, and I am working, really hard, at focusing on those— as ever. It’s funny, but it really is truly scary to throw yourself headlong into the pleasure principle, the good stuff. To open yourself up and be present and loving and sensitive and vulnerable and observant and really genuinely real. You’ve got to let all sorts of guards down to get there, let me tell you.

On that we have a word from young Truman Capote, whose letters I am reading right now, on hiatus from Moby Dick:

“In this day and age sensitivity…is almost an anachronism. Did you ever, in that wonderland wilderness of adolescence ever, quite unexpectedly, see something, a dusk sky, a wild bird, a landscape, so exquisite terror touched you to the bone? And you are afraid, terribly afraid the smallest movement, a leaf, say, turning in the wind, will shatter all? That is, I think, the way love is, or should be: one lives in beautiful terror.”

Hello.

Hello!!!

I know I’ve been away for a long while. But I’m back, for now, hopefully at regular intervals. Updates, you ask? Well, then:

I am working in a mighty hip pizza place on South Congress that makes mighty fine hand-tossed pies and leaves me sore and tired-limbed, raspy-voiced from yelling over rock n’ roll music, exuding deep musty smells of garlic.

I am reading Moby Dick, growing out my hair, reevaluating my concept of home and a sense of place, trying to take a breath, trying not to burn out on big New York slices of meatball and onion pizza.

On the latter front, here are some things I’ve made myself that stand out in my mind, from October onward:

cherry tomato & sweet onion salad with thyme; cucumber and creme fraiche tea sandwiches, classic lentil salad with supple sauteed carrots and onions and a slurry of rich vinaigrette deep with dijon and smoky tabasco; grilled cheese sandwiches with grana padano, strawberry jam, prosciutto, and thyme.

carrot salad with sunflower seeds; spiced roasted pumpkin with rice & lentils, shaved romano, and parsley; lemony chickpea and tuna salad with chopped romaine and a boiled egg; soft butter lettuce salad with jamon serrano, avocado, figs; spicy tomato, fennel, and chickpea soup; whole roasted chicken legs with carrots and parsley.

There have been some good meals. There have been some late nights, friendly visits, engagement announcements, philosophy talks, and the like. There have been bad days and weird days, pints of delicious home-brewed beer, flirtations, evenings wasted away watching James Bond on TV.

It’s been alright.

See you later.

My dad drove me out to New Orleans East one day, over a big ol’ bridge. We ordered bahn mi from a Vietnamese bakery and took a (signature) infuriatingly roundabout, aimless drive in search of areas of historical significance; once we found the field where they fought the Battle of New Orleans, all was settled. The two of us sat at a bench under a regal old oak to eat: spicy-sweet plum sauce melded with thick mayonnaise, bright pickled vegetables —snappy carrots and jalapenos, sprigs of cilantro— contrasted with rich slices of roasted pork, all on a soft hoagie. Wonderful.

When my mom and Aimee came into town one following evening, all the ladies went to a wine bar to eat Italian-leaning fair: mushrooms and taleggio on grilled ciabatta, ceci soup with rosemary in an earthy broth, fried polenta with tomato sauce, to name a few dishes on the table. We picked up local ice cream from the neighborhood market and had some for dessert. It was happy.

Now, the next day —the last day— was epic: our local hippie/hipster coffeeshop provided apple, orange, and carrot juice and the morning paper; then, it was on to Metarie, to tour my mother’s old suburban stomping grounds and to visit a classic Italian-American po-boy shop that provided a fried shrimp sandwich that was perfection. Later still was a visit to Marigny to chat with my uncle and listen to some band practice, to stroll the French Quarter, and to eat one of the best meals I’ve yet had: picture it— a Japanese place just around the corner. Hip but unassuming. Classic cult movie posters; a dark, wooden interior. Barbecued eel on sticky rice with a sweet, dark sauce and scallions; french fries with wasabi mayonnaise, bright cucumber salad, Japanese beer, sisterly love. We met our dad for midnight beignets at Cafe du Monde, and walked sleepily along the river, and digested with surprising contentedness.

The next day, we hit the road.

Alright. So, it has been:

Brightly colored houses and warm sun, flowers and flowers, bushes of flowers and flower boxes all cluttered in lovely jumbles in front of houses— sometimes matching the bright purple paint, or stark in gentle & wild contrast. And Bike rides! Brief and surprising torrential rain! Iced tea! ‘Hellos’ to neighbors passing by!

Cream of tomato soup with spicy, smoky tasso ham; restorative plates of red beans & rice with sausage, humble and simple; shrimp and grits with tomato and fried eggs and a superb biscuit; dark and rich chicken and sausage gumbo, with crusty chunks of French bread bought at the corner store from Southern ladies who told their stories to one another with emphasis and lilting accents, filling coffee cups from a pot on the burner right behind the counter (every corner store doubles as a sandwich shop, here); Sarah’s signature salsa, clean and just-spicy-enough; sweet boiled shrimp with bright, melting fried green tomatoes and remoulade.

Bright pink record shops with a family dog who had plaintive eyes, daydreams about having a garden, with lemon trees; wine bars with big back patios all strung up with lights, horns playing music into the evening.

Muffaletta sandwiches at Central Grocery layered with deli meats and sharp provolone, giardinera, olive salad— the rich oils from the latter soaking into that formidable round hunk of sesame-studded, soft Italian bread. Salt and vinegar chips, a white counter, grocery items on all sides: pasta and antipasti, jams and dried fruits, hot sauces and oils; the old walls peeling, the people brusque, the air damp with briny vinegar smells and warm bread smells and love. Later that same night was Mona’s: hummus, still-warm dolmas, herbaceous tabbouleh and spiced fried meatballs studded with pine nuts that smelt like Christmas, minty labneh drizzled with oil and smoky baba ganoush, pickles and olives, crusty-edged falafel, pita. We hung out in my uncle’s lovely French Quarter apartment, watched him play his guitar at the corner bar, and parted into a cool night, slipping quietly down dark streets all slicked with a sudden downpour.

one of my last days in New York was an epic fall day, brunch at the Breslin with Rachel, grapefruit with ginger sugar and tiny slivers of mint, poached eggs on a bed of spicy lentils and a hunk of grilled ciabatta. walked it off for 40 blocks on the gorgeous stretch of Riverside Park in Woody Allen’s New York, the Upper West Side.

trotted home to rest my weary legs, my weary everything; such sun and wind and long walks and late mornings can only call for a nap. or, as I was want to do, a cup of tea.

then it was all the way down to the East Village for samosas from a Pakistani deli, where my friend Devika ordered for me in fluid Hindi, and we went to a bench and ate out of plastic containers; melting fried dough with tamarind and mint chutney, a lovely spicy-sweet mash up nestled happily within a generous, restorative dollop of smashed black lentils and chickpeas. we drank sweet chai, and talked like we had known each other for a long, long while, when we really only just met. one of those instant-connection-they-just-get-it friendships, so easy and comfy. and it was the last and first time we will hang out in New York, and we were eating wonderful deli food in the crisp air, in the East Village, and it was utterly New York, and how sad and how wonderful, that such friends can be made so quickly and in such a transitory manner.

some other fall suppers, by my lonesome:

a plump roasted chicken breast with sweet, stewey tomatoes that were roasted alongside in the pan; the heat and the fat and the juice collapsed them, rendering the rough chop a wonderfully haphazard tomato sauce to bathe the chicken in.

an omelet that tasted rustic and humble, and made me think of damp ground and warm tea: three eggs filled just so with sauteed mushrooms, potatoes, onions, and tomatoes, and arugula, some grated parmesan.

tonight: a simple and deeply satisfying stew of corn, tomato, and rice with subtle heat and that magical base of bell peppers, onion, celery; a crisp green salad; pieces of crusty bread torn off a loaf of French bread almost as big as me (literally!) spread with cold butter. friends, I am in New Orleans, and it is beautiful. I will keep you posted.

Things I’ve been liking lately:

A big glass of cold, whole milk when I come home really hungry.

Sandwiches on rolls— stuffed to the brim yet modest; a little fistful of perfection.

Jane Austen! She is a delight to read.

Thinking up what it’ll be like to be in New Orleans after so, so long. (I am flying into NoLa, visiting family and that damp and luminous city itself, then driving from there to Austin). I can’t stop daydreaming about coffee with chicory and trying a fried oyster po’boy. Or about seeing my dad with his big, watery blue eyes, and hugging him and smelling that rich musty smell of tobacco. And seeing my grandma and my uncle. When I think of the former I think of the color pink— just, pink. Pretty and delicate and timeless and gentle. And when I remember the latter, what do I recall but that amazing electric pink apartment above the French Quarter, where he lived with a beautiful girl, once? (He married her within a Mardi Gras parade, once). I am thinking of family, cricket-sound evenings, balmy air, and powder-sugar heaps on fried dough.

And today was the beginning of last days.

Today was my last day at Book Culture. There was generosity of spirit, warmth all around. A fruit tart with a lovely shortbread crust was presented to me, all spotted with berries, looking exactly like something I’d make. And I cut it into tiny slivers with a gigantic knife from the staff kitchen; it made exactly enough for everyone working today to get a piece. And there were hugs aplenty and wondrous smiles.
My last lunch at the bookstore was eaten inside, on a big old leather chair, in a frenzy of early afternoon hunger, stress and sleepy rainy-day low-energy: a tangle of arugula with chopped fresh oregano and savory slips of shaved parmesan, dressed with oil and lemon; a small hunk of pepperoni, two prune plums and two almonds, some crusty baguette, some sharp clothbound cheddar.

Ah! And how could I forget? My friend Joe, of the independent radio station and my endless love and admiration, had me DJ the other night. It was a last days in New York sort of program, with tracks I’ve been listening to lately, at my desk at Book Culture (he’ll upload it soon, and you should all listen to it!). I was so excited and nervous! Joe was as good humored as ever, and I learned by his utterly relaxed direction how to select a single track on a record, how to work a switchboard, the difference between a 33 1/2” and 45”. There I was, flipping through Joe’s record collection and picking out what I’ve been humming along to as secretary-to-the-coursebooks-buyer these last months, daydreaming about what is finally here: a change of scenery, pace, weather.

And here comes the weekend, and Soho, and brunch with Rachel. Then, it’s onward! Tally-ho.

I have been around. Not here, I realize, and for which I apologize. But, if it makes you feel any better, I have only been around in the world at large in a sort of dream state of excitement and fear and weariness, trying simultaneously to withdraw from the big-city-over-stimulation and also to fling myself out there full force, open to friends and strangers, before it’s all gone. My head is spinning with the move down South, which bread to buy each night, how pretty the late-Summer evenings are, how perfect and perfectly accessible Jane Austen is, how my hair is finally getting longer again, how well my mayonnaise came out this time, how lovely it is to have a dog you can walk, occasionally, in New York on a crisp afternoon.

I’ve been eating dinner in my empty room, with the fan blowing, a few overstuffed boxes scattered about the floor. Tuna & chickpea salad with lemon, garlic, basil, and chile. Plenty of olive oil. Spaghetti with roasted red pepper and eggplant puree and toasted pine nuts, fennel seed, grated parmesan.

I’ve been eating my lunch at the foot of the Cathedral of St. John the Divine, in the sunshine with the chimes reverberating down 112th and Amsterdam, and hordes of old people with chunky cameras and bright, ill-fitting pants flitting up and down the steps. Lunches of red leaf lettuce with cherry tomato, boiled egg, and chickpeas; or, the heirloom tomato salad I had today; it was damp and fragrant, smelling like sun & earth, ripe tomatoes and spicy basil, pungent garlic. Better yet, it became a two for one—tomato salad and a panzanella; in the beginning I eagerly sopped up the magical pink liquid—juice, lemon, olive oil— that pooled at the bottom with a foccacia roll, only to wipe the sticky dressing off my fingers, tear the thing up, and go all in. The bread was at once melting and sweet, salty & crusty.

I felt awake, for a moment.

Last Summer, as I recall, was:

caprese salads, dried & fresh red chiles speckled atop everything, salty-sweet prosciutto, boiled green beans & potatoes smashed together with golden olive oil, arugula.

This Summer proved to be of rich fresh mayonnaise, panzanella, sweet corn & heirloom tomato salads, boiled eggs, roasted peppers with capers, salami, salads of tomato, new potato, and green beans; crisp hearts of romaine.

Other things, lately: an unspeakably delicious sandwich, inspired by Saltie: ‘twas nothing more than viscous golden homemade mayonnaise, a lovely & mild cucumber, chile flakes, cilantro, salt & pepper. Also, the perfection of BLTs.

Spaghetti with cherry tomatoes baked until they were soft and rapturously sweet, with breadcrumbs and grana padano, fresh thyme.

Big salads of chopped romaine and tomato with a lime-based vinaigrette, which was lovely & sweet, just a touch acidic.

Heirloom tomato toasts for dinner last night: one slice of red wheat pullman was spread with cottage cheese and topped with s&p, tomato, and olive oil; another, with mustard-mayonnaise, sharp cheddar, avocado, and tomato. Both were garnished with floral chopped oregano and devoured before watching ‘The Office’ and reading Sense & Sensibility in bed, hopping up to turn the fan off and on, intermediately— Fall is pretty much here, in all its crisp glory and perfect early evenings.

Fall, then, so far: three pears in three days.