I’ve been taking a step back. Breathing. Calming my racing thoughts. Chilling the fuck out.
A few weeks ago, a friend of Ian’s sent him a care package of a dozen Georgia peaches. Wrapped in thin, crinkly sheafs of white paper, nestled in individual foam nooks, the bounty of summer fruit looked just like the emoji, sun-gold, fragrant and chipper in their little homes. Upon opening the package, I couldn’t help myself. In a moment of animal lust, I grabbed one of the plump, floral-perfumed fruit and devoured it over the sink, sticky sweet juice dripping slowly down my chin and neck. Was it peach season then? Is it peach season now? A month ago, Kim Severson of the New York Times wrote a delightful piece on a debate among Southerners and writers about the perfect time to eat a peach: “Kathleen Purvis, the Southern food writer most likely to let you know when you have something wrong, made a peach declaration on Facebook a couple of weeks ago. Peaches, she said, should never be eaten before the Fourth of July.” I love the charm of this easy-to-remember rule, even …
“Queer, tender, true. I like those things.” – Gabrielle Hamilton, Mind of a Chef
A look at the stuff that’s fueled my week.
When temps start to creep up, I’m definitely fucking heavy with whites, and if you know anything about me, you’d know that I’d prefer it, shall we say, jazzy. Sauntering over to my wine rack today, I found the right bottle, Francois Chidaine’s traditional method sparkling wine.
I’ve been sitting on this blog now for eight months. Eight months of generating ideas, practicing my photography, cooking meal after meal, waiting for “the right time” to post… And what do I have to show for it? Eight months of a blank blog taking up all-too-common Internet space, gathering dust. I’ve been racked with the guilt of the lazy and the restless. I battled myself over what I thought this space should be, trying to define its purpose, how to make it “different” from everything else that’s out there, but in the end, I did nothing. Until now. Done is better than perfect, and with that, I will enter the wide (and admittedly saturated) world of words and food and drink and travel and just do the damn thing. …Big breath… and jump.
I’ve made it something of a regular occurrence to post anniversary checkins every year at August 15, but this year, my fourth anniversary as a New Yorker came and went. Rather than a long winded essay—as is my wont—I thought it’d be appropriate to post some lessons I’ve learned so far. (Hashtag basic, amirite?) I posted a version of this on my Facebook, so apologies for the repetition. Without further ado: It’s ok to cry on the street. It’s even better to cry in an ATM vestibule. Let your account balance be your guide. If you believe a cab is a quicker way from Point A to Point B, you WILL get stuck in traffic. More money makes it easier to live here, yes, but don’t underestimate the restorative power of a walk through Central Park while eating a plain slice. New Yorkers are a lot nicer than their reputation belies. Except the Times Square Cookie Monster. He’s an asshole. Never tell a cabbie where you’re going until your ass is firmly in seat. Until then, …