We are family.

I was on the phone with my mother not too long ago. Catching up with Mom when one lives in another country usually means a very long conversation full of random facts, maybe even some gossip. As the topics of our talk switched from one to the next without any link, she mentioned that she had gone to meet my ex-boyfriend’s (and dear friend) newborn daughter. “What a precious little girl, and his wife is such a wonderful mother, what a beautiful family they are!” –she said-.
As I heard her pronounce those words, and felt the joy and sincerity in her voice, a very important fact dawned on me: We are not considered a family until we have children.

 I started thinking: Are those of us who are not sure if we will ever have children, or those who don’t have any, and never will, any less of a family than the one with the baby, the little house and the car?
 Unfortunately, according to our society, we are. Obviously the extreme amounts of time, energy, emotions, decision making, not to mention money that are involved in raising a child (or more) are factors that bond a couple (married or not, divorced or separated) in indescribable ways. The joy that a room full of their son or daughter’s laughter brings to a parent’s heart is comparable to no other gift in the world, and the connection between brothers and sisters, mothers and daughters, fathers and sons and all the other possible combinations, priceless.
So to some extent, it is understandable that people don’t consider a childless married couple, or two people insanely in love who are sharing their lives as a family. However, to those of us who belong to one of those categories, things aren’t that black and white.
  I never thought I would get married. Not because I don’t believe in marriage, but because I am too much of a romantic and I don’t believe in divorce. From my experience in matters of the heart, which for my very young age is not too bad, I figured that there wasn’t another person out there whom I would truly feel and most importantly, believe that I could love in that way for my entire life, and share all of it with him/her.
In true romantic fashion I will say, at the risk of sounding extremely cliché, that once my husband and I really looked at each other, we just knew.
  Everyday that has gone by since then has only reassured us that choosing to share our lives was the best decision we have ever made.
We look forward to spending time together, his smile is to me the most fantastic sight of nature, and my happiness is in his own words “The most important thing in the world” to him.
We share laughter, we share sadness, we take care of each other, we worry about the other, learn from one another: We are a team. He helps me slow down, I help him speed up, and coming home to one another is always the high of our day. And the truth is that we both spend a whole lot of time, energy, emotions, decision making, and also money on this relationship, every day of our lives.
 So who is to say that the two of us are not as much of a family as my ex-boyfriend, and his beautiful baby and wife?
Our society dictates rules and defines relationships in ways that sometimes go unrevised for too long. Nobody remembers them on a daily basis, and they aren’t written anywhere, but they remain in the back of most human’s minds, creating automated responses and reactions to some important questions and situations.
When it comes to family, I believe that some of those definitions are not as much outdated as they are simply incorrect.  As an immigrant to the US, my parents, brothers, aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents have been in another country for over nine years now. Some of the friendships that I have made here (as well as some of the ones I made during childhood ) are as special and strong as are all of those loved ones who are biologically bound to me by blood. Therefore, they are my family.
  In my eyes and in my heart, the concept of a family is a group of people who love and support one another timelessly and unconditionally.
 I share a home with my husband and our Garfield-like cat, my brother shares his with his wife and their two restless dogs. My brother in law and his wife are childless too, with two new kitties and a loving adult dog.
I can assure you that we all have a beautiful family.  Not even a drop less perfect than the one with crying baby next door.

The bliss of a crowded room.

Last week, I went to New York City for a few days.  My best friend, Laura, her beautiful 8 month old baby boy, her husband, his sister and I, all shared a hotel room in Manhattan.  Late summer last year, Laura, her husband and I had all been in New York at the same hotel.  There had been some issue with the reservation, and as an apology, they had upgraded us to a giant suite. It had a big bedroom with a king size bed, a super spacious bathroom with double sinks, separate tub and shower and double doors. The great living room had a large sitting area with a couch that comfortably sat three adults, a desk and a chair in one corner, a kitchen table in another, and still plenty of floor space for a rolling bed and for me to practice yoga in the mornings.
This time around, Laura made sure to request a suite with separate living room, and specified it would be four adults and a baby.  As we planned the trip, and enjoyed the excitement of anticipation, we all pictured our fun weekend in that fabulous room.
Unfortunately for us, all hotel rooms are not created equal. When we checked into our room, late at night, with an overtired baby, we were unpleasantly surprised to find that our magnificent suite, was less than half the size of the one we had enjoyed last year.
The front desk was very sorry, but they were fully committed and there was absolutely nothing they could do for us.
However, as Hector noted, the truth was, the room was great.  We just couldn't see that, because we had seen better.
The weekend transpired in the crowded room. Bags everywhere, towels hanging from the door knobs, baby bottles piled up in the living room, pants on the floor, diapers on the table, pacifiers lost under the bed, and barely any floor space for walking, let alone doing yoga.  Whenever the baby crawled we had to closely follow him, because there was so little floor space, every corner had plenty of unsafe elements for him to explore.
For those of you who don't know me very well, a cluttered space is one of my least favorite things in the entire world.  In the words of my dear friend Kevin, "Clear station, clear mind".  And for me, consequently, an unclear station, or in this case room, translates into a very frazzled me.
But the days went by, and I found myself not as bothered by the clutter as I usually am.  I was not only clear headed, but so very happy, to be sharing this crowded room with these four lovely people. 
I still managed to keep my crap organized, so, I could still find what I was looking for (which is the main reason I need things to be uncluttered).
We were on top of each other, and I didn't feel like I needed any privacy.  We were smelling each other's poop and I didn't wish I had my own room. Our first night there the baby barely slept (meaning we were awake all night) and I wasn't even that tired the next day.
It might have been a messy crowded room, but it was a happy, joyful space, because we were all so happy to be there, and so grateful to be together.
On the day I was returning home, I got a call from my husband letting me know that our friends who were visiting with their baby from Northern California, might be staying with us for the night.  Our apartment is rather big for a San Francisco apartment, but if we shared it with two more adults and a three month old baby, it would be cramped in no time.
Normally, after four days away from home, and long plane rides and airport delays, I am usually looking forward to being back in my own space, and enjoying a little peace and quiet.
As I walked home from the bart station, I still didn't know if our friends were staying with us or not.  I didn't have their cell number, and my husband was at work, so it was just going to be a surprise either way when I got home.
When I opened the door I found a quiet, dark apartment on the other side.  My cat was excited to see me, but there was no clutter, no crowd, no people.
While I settled in and got some dinner ready, I felt a little sadness inside of me: I had actually been hoping to come home to another crowded room, of another set of friends, and another baby nephew.
As I enjoyed some alone time, I thought of how much fun we had in New York.
The thing is, when we are spending time with loved ones, we are sometimes so happy and present that we can even let go of some of our biggest pet peeves.  Maybe love can conquer anything after all.

A strange joke from the technology Gods.

We have been in San Francisco for a month tomorrow.  It has been somewhat hard for me to settle into our new home, as I am finding that all the times I said: " When we left, we were ready to go, I don't think we should go back" I meant it. 
The city, although as beautiful, colorful and delicious as I remember it, is louder, dirtier, and more hectic than I remember it.
I was ready for lower rents and larger homes.  For a quiet yard and a place where I could see the stars.  I was ready for Sonoma, and I have been slow to let go of the fact that we, as a family, were not quite ready yet.
So while I worked on my inner peace and practiced acceptance, I focused on searching for jobs, as that is one of the advantages of being in the city: food establishments abound, and jobs are always available.
I kept my habit of searching craigslist everyday, and found that here, there were a lot more options than in wine country.
 I screened through the adds and decided which ones were worth my while, and then I carefully composed a different cover letter for each one, selling myself by listing the specific skills that would make me wonderful for every position.
 In spite of my husband's advise to not even interview, I decided to stage at a new restaurant in the Marina. It's a cupcake place that is also a full service restaurant, and let's just say they don't have a full grasp on things quite yet.  Giving them the benefit of the doubt, I worked in their kitchen without judging, and found that it wasn't as bad as I had expected.  I decided that if I was offered the position, I would accept.
The day after, I went out of town to beautiful Auburn to visit my great friends and their farm.
In the meantime I wondered why I hadn't heard back from all the other jobs I had applied to. Time had gone by, and no one had contacted me. I started wondering if the economy was as bad as they say after all. I have a decent resume, and was overqualified for some of the jobs I applied to. How come not even one had called back?
While in Auburn, the owner of the cupcake place called me, and for the two following days, we played phone tag with no luck.
The day after I returned to the city, I got a call from an old friend.  He just had a baby and was wondering if I would be interested in taking care of her for a few hours a week.  I gladly accepted his offer.  Although it wasn't in my field of choice, and it was only a few hours, it would be fun, stress free, and I would make more money than I was currently making (hum... $0).
Minutes after we hung up, I saw I had a missed call from my father in law.  No message came through.
As I waited for Dave's message (he always leaves messages) I started thinking about how I had a few missed calls in the last week that hadn't left messages either, particularly two from my friend Nichol, known for leaving ultra long messages.  So, while I had lunch, I decided to reboot my phone.  I had gotten it a few weeks ago, so I didn't see why anything would be wrong with it but you never know.
A couple of minutes later, my phone delivered 24 voice mails. 24 fucking voice mails!!!!!!!
There were countless numbers I didn't recognize, and none of these calls had come through at any point.
Some were from two weeks ago.
I decided to listen to the unknown numbers first.  My heart started racing.  I had just finished my yoga practice and instantly lost all my inner calm.  Message, after message, I heard unfamiliar voices calling back about jobs I had applied to. One of them had called more than once.
My lovely new iPhone 4 had eaten 24 messages.  How was it possible that only about 4 of those calls even came through? The calls were not made while I was out of town, so cross that one off the list.
There is absolutely no explanation.  I started running around my apartment.  My husband was at work, we were going out for cocktails and dinner that night with some friends.  I needed to vent, someone to talk to, someone to help me figure out what to do.  I called a few friends that I knew would understand my anxiety, none answered. I kept breathing, telling myself to calm down.
I sat down and wrote down the names and numbers.  I called one.  She was on the other line, could I call her back in ten minutes?  I called another one. He was in a meeting, could he call me back in ten minutes?
Are you fucking kidding me? Now I was going to have a double call in ten minutes?!
Over fifteen minutes had gone by.  I decided to call the first one, knowing that as soon as I did, the second would call me.  I dialed the first number, 8. Right then and there the second person called me.
I answered and apologized as much as I could for the insanity that had occurred.  He joked that they wondered if I had stopped loving their company, since I hadn't called back, and then told me that although they had hired everyone they thought they needed, he had just realized there were a few holes in the schedule and they would need one more person part time.
After a long pleasant chat, we scheduled an interview for the next morning.
I called the second one. We spoke for almost an hour and I felt she was a bit unorganized.  She gave me a bad feeling, which was confirmed when she asked if I could cancel my morning appointment to meet with her instead. No thanks! Regardless, I scheduled an afternoon interview with her.
I decided to not call anyone else back, as I already was meeting with these two potential employers.
I needed to let it all go and start getting ready for dinner.  I didn't want to be late.
The next day, I went to the first interview, which, had it not been for pure luck, would have been the second one. 
I have always loved this company and when I was younger, fresh out of culinary school, I had a bit of an infatuation with it, and hoped to someday work for them.  The interview went great, I loved both the chefs, and as it came to an end, I hoped I was offered the position.
I decided not to go to the second interview.  I would trust my instinct. Regardless of whether I was offered this job or not, I didn't want to work for miss frazzled.
I still kept thinking about how crazy it all was.  Had I not been out of town, I would have spoken to the cupcake lady and taken that job, even though I knew was not the best thing for my career, and by the time my phone decided to deliver the messages I would have been employed.
Or, by the time the phone delivered the messages, everyone could have filled all the positions, leaving me in the disappointment of knowing I could have had them, if only...
A few hours later, I got a call back from the first interview offering me the job.  I gladly accepted.
A few days after I started, I got offered a full time position.  A few days after that, a small raise.
 However, I still had to figure out what to do, as I had agreed to watch my friend's daughter.  Five days before my first day on that job, he called me to let me know they had found someone permanent who was going to be a better fit for them.  Just like that, it all worked itself out, on its own.
I can't help but wonder what kind of trick the phone Gods were playing on me. But looking back on it, I see the beauty in the irony.
When it comes to technology, I have always been a bit old fashioned.  This experience has only confirmed my beliefs.
The lesson I learned is to turn off our smart phones once in a while, because if we don't, they get tired, then angry at us for not giving them a break, and they decide to keep things to themselves, that they really should share with us.
 So, people: be good to your phones!

Are we getting old? Or do we just have too much on our to do lists?

Today is September first.  In the back of my mind I sense it's someones birthday, but I can't remember who.  There is nothing on the calendar.  Oh well.
It seems that this is happening more often, not just to me but to everyone I know as well. 
This year, on my birthday, I received the least calls I ever have, the least emails, the least letters in the mail.  My parents, grandparents, brothers and some aunts remembered, my in laws (although they sent my present a month too soon) a few local friends, my three best girlfriends from childhood, and maybe one or two others, and that was about it. Even though that is a lot more than many people usually get, calls and emails I am used to getting year after year never arrived.  The saddest part is that it didn't make me sad.  It didn't make a difference.  The fact that these people had forgotten a date that they once held close to their hearts, as the day someone they love was born, did not mean that they didn't love me as much anymore.  Or did it?
About three weeks after my birthday, I forgot my friend's birthday.  A few days before it I thought: Franklin's birthday is coming up.  Then the 27th came and went, and I didn't even know it was the 27th.  One could argue that because I am not currently working it's easier to forget the date.  However, the combination of everyone who forgot mine, and all the ones I have forgotten, makes me think there is something more to it.
I used to be so good about remembering every one's birthdays.  I can actually still rattle off the dates of birth of some people that have long left my life.  Yet somehow, one of my friends didn't get a call, or an email, on his day.  Just as I didn't get many calls on mine.
When I was a young girl, I used to make a list of everyone who would call me for my birthday.  It wasn't so that I could keep track of who didn't, but more so because it amazed me who would call year after year, and who called one year and never again, and who called some years and not others.  These lists represented my social circle throughout time. 
This year, I heard a friend made such a list, but unlike me, it was to keep track of who didn't call.  I was on it.
I can't help but think that age is to blame for all of this.  The older we get, the more we "have to do", the more likely we are to forget things and or dates that were once really important to us.  On any given day we have to look for a job or go to work, pay rent, pay bills, clean the house, feed the cat, cook dinner, stop by the bank, and countless other essential tasks.  If there are kids involved in the equation then there is also usually lack of sleep and feeding, bathing, and shuttling them to and from their day's activities.
How the hell are we supposed to remember someones birthday we haven't seen in a year?
The answer is by being present.  Although I wish to make excuses for forgetting my friend's birthday, and although I don't feel any sadness, anger or anything negative towards my loved ones who forgot mine, the truth of the matter is, the real reason for forgetting is lack of awareness.  We didn't take the time to realized what day it was, to maybe look at the calendar and see whose day it was, to pick up the phone, or write a line or two.
We are not old enough to blame it on "old age".  Most of the people who did remember mine were much older than me and than the ones who forgot.
We need to take control of our lives by being conscious in our actions.  We must practice the art of slowing down, and maybe even smelling the roses. Hopefully, if we do it every day, it will come natural, like taking a shower, or brushing our teeth, or going to work.
And hopefully, with our newly found presence, we will remember joyful dates in our loved ones lives.
Because the truth is, even if we don't resent the people who forgot about our special day, we are always so happy to hear the voices of the ones who remembered. We also need to realize that in our day to day, these little things that we don't feel are as important as they once were, are actually the essence of a joyful life.  After all, "it's the little things" right?
So on that note, I encourage you all to look at the calendar and see whose day it is.  Maybe pick up some flowers or cupcakes and go give them a hug.  Maybe they won't hold it against you if you forget, or maybe they will.  Regardless, they will appreciate it if you remember.  Trust me, we all do.
And last but not least I wish you all a very happy non birthday, and many more to come.

Home is where the little house is.

I bought this little key "holder" a very long time ago.  It was during my second semi-permanent stay in San Francisco.  At the time I was living in the Pacific Heights neighborhood, which although a bit snobby, specially for the city, is a great residential neighborhood, as it is quiet, safe, and beautiful.
There was a cool little store on Fillmore street, a stretch known for its great boutiques and cafes.  This particular one offered artisan artifacts from all over the world, and most everything was very decently priced, which allowed my fresh out of college wallet to acquire a few things there at the time.
This particular item was just precious to me.  The colorful little house reminded me so much of the traditional little wood cottages that you find all over the country back home.  The coconut or palm trees in the background, and the plantain or banana leaves on the side were a bonus bringing me even closer to the island.  Plus, it would help me place my keys at the same place everyday, so I could be a bit better organized (for those of you who know me well, rather important, if not indispensable). Sold.  The little house's first home was on Webster street, between Jackson and Pacific.  It went up on the wall by the door, without consulting my boyfriend at the time, with whom I lived.  When I moved to the Dominican for my kind of sabbatical year in 2003, the little house rested in a box. In late Spring of 2004, it was unpacked, and one of the first things to be hung up in my new home, at Bush and Leavenworth.  Two years later, back in a box.
 When my husband and I moved in to our first home together, the little house was once again on the wall, without consulting it's placement with my partner.  I remember him asking me: "Are you sure that's where that goes?".
As usual, I had some perfect argument at the tip of my tongue, probably consisting of too many words spoken way too fast, which just settled it without further discussion.  He always tells me that I should have been a lawyer.
  Two years later, back in a box.  At our next home,  our awesome grungy wood paneled sublet on Prince Street, in Boston, there was already a little key hanger thing on the wall.  The little house remained in storage in North Carolina until we found our second apartment there, on Moon street.  Once again, it was one of the first things to go up.
 A few days ago, as I spent the afternoon packing everything we own into our old boxes, I noticed how bright the little house looked being the only thing left on our walls.  I realized, it is not only one of the first items that finds a home in every one of our new homes, it is also, one of the last ones, if not the last one, to go into a box.  Something about it comforts me.  It might be the colors, as I am a colorful individual by nature.  It might be the feeling of walking in the door and seeing something ours, instead of just plain wall, any one's wall. 
It might -I must admit- have something to do with keeping something organized in the chaos that is"boxville" (as we call the last and first days of a move).  But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that it's a lot more simple than that.  To me, home is where the little house is.
  In the midst of this particular move, even though we are technically returning home, as San Francisco, is to both my husband and I, our adopted, beloved home, I have felt an awful lot of turmoil inside my heart and mind.  We hadn't found a place to move into until last Saturday, and we need to be out of this place by next Friday.  The uncertainty of  "what the fuck are we going to do" was slowly eating me alive, and although I pretty much just went through another style of the same uncertainty with my job hunt, this time it was a bit more pressing.
 All of our stuff, my husband and I, and our cat, would have nowhere to go if we didn't find a new place.  Sure we have plenty of friends and loved ones where to crash, but with a thirteen year old grumpy cat, it's a little hard to stay on someones floor.  Feeling that we didn't really belong here anymore,  but we didn't have anywhere else where we belonged, was making me feel a little homeless.  The little house on the wall, as soon as I walked in the door, made me feel that I was still home.
I have been having a very hard time with this move.  As many of my loved ones have pointed out to me : it's our city, it's our baby, we're going home.  Yes, it's true.  However, I just wasn't ready for it.  I was, very ready, and very happy, to be back in California.  But I also was very ready, and very happy, to finally be in a small town.  To have space in our home, for everything to have a place, to have a yard, a peaceful haven to come home to every day, to garden, to sit under that majestic oak tree and just be.  City life is loud, and it's dirty, and it's sad, with countless homeless people roaming the streets and begging for money. You can't hear the crickets, you can't see the stars, the only birds around are pigeons.  I was ready for a break from all of that. Last night, as I heard the crickets singing outside our window, tears slowly felt out of my eyes.
 After going back and forth in my mind and my heart, I finally decided that our plants will stay here.  The tomato, pepper and herbs, will never survive in the city.  Not only do we not have any outside space other than the fire escape, and it will be breaking the lease to have plans on it, but the temperature and the lack of consistent sunlight will not be kind to my potted plants.  I decided I would rather give them away, with the time, love and money I spent on them, and know that they will live, be happy, and fulfill their purpose of feeding someone as well as bees and other creatures, than bring them with me, and potentially watch them die.
 Maybe this whole experience was a lesson in non attachment.  In impermanence.  Maybe, even though I think I am ready for this lifestyle, it's just not my time yet.  And perhaps all of it happened to shake my core again, and remind me that being present is not only about the present, but about the past and future as well.  It is about letting go as much as it is about being here now.
 In letting go of this wonderful place and the experiences I lived through here, I am once again practicing being present in the moment.  It was wonderful, but I shall not dwell on it. For now, it is over, and other beautiful experiences await on the other side of the Golden Gate.  On Friday, when all the boxes are in our new apartment, on Bush and Jones, I will carefully unpack the little house, and find it its new piece of wall, where it shall once again, be home.  My husband and I, are blessed enough to have each other. We will live there together, and we will be home as well, where the heart, and the little house are.

The case of the overcooked green beans.

I absolutely love vegetables.  As far as I am concerned, they are -next to fruit- the most delicious thing to eat.  They are wonderful! They are colorful and cheery, they are full of amazing nutrients, they grow from the earth, which in my mind makes them magical.  They are just so damn beautiful too. The sight of a good farmers market is as good as it gets for my well traveled eyes.
Unfortunately, millions of folks disagree on the delicious aspect of these wonder plants.
I believe there are a  couple of factors to blame for this, but if I had to name just one, I would have to go with the too often committed crime (for which by the way, there is somehow no sentence) of  overcooking these delicate creatures.
In lots of households, all over this great big world of us, busy moms and dads, nannys and housekeepers, the random child cook, are overcooking vegetables right this second.
Many times it is due to a lack of knowledge, others, just a hectic day and not enough mindfulness.  Things happen, priorities are set, and the damn beans end up acquiring that weird brownish hue, instead of their supernatural vibrant green that makes you smile no matter how sad, angry or tired you might be.
A couple of weeks ago, as my husband and I got the house ready for a few days of our absence, we realized that we had almost two pounds of green beans that we had just gotten from the farm, but were somehow starting to go bad already.  They were definitely not going to make it until we returned.
As I made sure the cat had everything he needed, my husband decided he would freeze the beans.  We are not ones to waste food, and this seemed like the fastest solution to our debacle due to our time constraints.
So into a little sandwich bag and into the freezer they went,  as out the door we went, our worries about being wasteful put to rest.
A few days ago, as I searched the kitchen for dinner inspiration, I found said beans.  Perfect! I thought we were all out of vegetables (unheard of in our household, but, priorities are set, and right now revolve around finding a home).
  I placed them in the sink as I chopped some onions and garlic, cooked some brown rice, sipped on some wine. They defrosted rather quickly, and unfortunately, their texture was already not so great... It was almost slimy, and rather unpleasant.
 In reading "What to Eat" by renowned nutritionist Marion Nestle, I learned that when a bounty of fresh, local, fruits and vegetables is not available, frozen ones are a good substitute.  Plants loose many of their nutrients as time goes by. At the time of picking (or harvesting) they are full of everything they supply, but every day that goes by, on every mile that they travel, these delicious health enhancers have less and less of their magic properties.  Frozen ones are picked at their prime, and usually undergo a process of flash freezing, which preserves their texture a little better than our home method did, and preserve their nutrients for as long as they remain frozen.
Well, we will make them into a casserole, and everything will be great, right? I questioned my husband about this traditional American dish that I have heard of but never seen or tasted.  He had no answers, so I made my own version. We had some creamy tomato soup in the fridge, some old bread for croutons, well season it all , and it will be awesome. Right? WRONG! Horrible! They looked and tasted like the infamous, overcooked green beans. Wrinkly and sad, olive brown, begging for their former grandness.
I tried to make it better with some fresh goat cheese, but was not very successful. So we sat down at the table, and I ate all my beans before even tasting anything else.  It is a method I had developed as a little girl: eat what you like less first, and save your favorite for last.  It wasn't always a smart thing to do, as Dominicans are prone to snagging a bite of your plate without you knowing it or agreeing to it, and I ended up without my cherished last bite on more than one occasion.
However, in this case, it was the only way to go.  As I downed my beans, I couldn't help but think of the many folks who don't enjoy eating vegetables.  This is what they must think vegetables taste like! This is the texture they believe green beans are supposed to have! No wonder they hate them! I could barely finish these myself! But I did. Again, I always try to not waste food. My husband, on the other hand, could not do it.  He ate a decent amount of them, and then gave up.
It made me realize how blessed we are. Not only do we get three meals a day, but they are more often than not delicious, nutritious and plentiful.
However, I still feel that overcooking vegetables is a crime! Not only does it rob these magic entities of their beauty, texture, flavor and nutrients,  it is also disrespectful to the hands and hearts that grew them and harvested them in the first place. And it makes children hate one of the most important sources of nutrients there are.
So, to those of you who think vegetables are not delicious (or maybe even one particular vegetable) I challenge you to cook yourself or your family and friends a meal, using as many local, seasonal vegetables as you can find wherever you are, and cook everyone "just right".
If you are not sure how to, pick up a book, shoot me a line, or ask someone you know who cooks well. Not only will your senses be enlightened, but you will also learn something new.
When you sit down to enjoy your meal, raise your glass to all the kids out there eating overcooked vegetables (or hiding them in random areas of the house). May they discover, as soon as possible, that this is not how veggies should taste.
Buen Provecho!

The most important Birthday Cake of my life.

 Today is my 29th birthday. Although we definitely have done some celebratory activities, it has been a rather strange weekend of house hunting and running around.  We decided we would spend the night in San Francisco last night, crash at our friends place, go to a nice little restaurant for dinner, and relax from the hectic day of searching for our new home.
  However, there was the small detail of the birthday cake. In the Island (meaning back home in the Dominican), birthday cakes are of order for any one's big day. They are usually the same type of cake, with the same type of frosting (fabulous meringue that stays moist and silky close to the cake itself, yet dries a little forming an almost crunchy crust on top), and the filling varies from prune jam, to guava jam, to almond cream and a few others. Some traditions remain an intricate part of our lives regardless of how much time has passed or how much distance separates us from the place of their origin.  To me, the birthday cake is one of them.
 Usually, if we are home for my birthday (meaning wherever we might be living at the time) I will make my own cake, enjoy the process, and wait until the candles are lit, Happy Birthday has been sung and everyone is ready for cake, before I cut it.
 However, we were going to be tired and at someone else's home for this one, so I decided to stop by the renowned Tartine Bakery, stand in line for a bit of an unreasonable time, and buy myself a cake.  I chose a passion fruit lime genoise, covered in coconut flakes. If I couldn't get the real Dominican cake, then I could at least have some island flavours.
Our friends were at another friend's birthday, and my husband went to get a haircut while I got ready for dinner, so I ended up by myself at their Russian Hill flat. We were to meet at a fabulous new spot for cocktails. As I perused the web for possible rentals (my main occupation these days) the monster awoke.     For those of you who don't know me that well, I am almost always hungry. There is actually a book with that title, and every time I see it I feel robbed. My husband named the phenomenon "the monster", because we will eat the same meals, at the same time, on any given day, yet I will be so hungry my stomach will growl and I will start to feel lightheaded, just a few hours (sometimes less), after one of our common meals. As a matter of fact, I am pretty hungry right now.
Once the monster is awake, it has to be fed.  Waiting is not an option, as it will take over my body and soul and a new persona will emerge. A much angrier, edgy, not so nice persona.
 So I searched our friend's kitchen for some food. There were ingredients to prepare a meal (eggs, vegetables, grains, beans....) but no snack items at all. Not a piece of fruit that would be filling enough, no chips, no cheese, no nuts... I gave up and continued to get ready. It started getting upset with me for ignoring it, and I started to get a headache. Fuck! Well, there was the birthday cake...
As I debated cutting my own birthday cake, a day early, by myself, I realized that if I didn't, because of some romantic idea of the birthday celebration and the meaning of the cake, I would be going against my core belief, that we should view food, first and foremost as nourishment, then as pleasure. Not that genoise with passion fruit mousse is that nourishing, but it would put the monster to rest until dinner time, it would make the headache go away, and it would prevent me from getting drunk from cocktails on an empty stomach. It would also prevent me being a bitch to my husband for no apparent reason. So I sliced myself a small piece, sat down on our friend's comfortable suede couch, and savoured every bite of my birthday cake.
Some people don't like their birthdays. They claim that it is stupid to celebrate them as it is just another day. Other people feel that birthdays are for the friends and families of the individual, it is their day to celebrate and honor the person. My husband once got yelled at by a loved one for deciding to throw his own birthday party instead of going to some other party that was being held the same day (even though said party was not in his honor!).
 I believe that birthdays are important, as it is a day to celebrate someone and their past, present and future, but I strongly believe that you should do whatever the fuck YOU want on your birthday, whether that involves your friends, family, significant other or not.
So as I sat by myself in someone else's home, in my beloved city that is somehow still my home, I felt blessed to have a birthday cake, to have thought about taking care of it when I did instead of waiting for it to magically take care of itself, to have a few minutes to myself during my birthday/house hunting weekend, and to be wise enough to feed the monster, even if it meant cutting the cake a day early.
Later at dinner, my husband asked me if it had been sad to have to cut into it to prevent the strike of the over hungry monster. It really wasn't, instead it was grounding, in making me realize how much more flexible of a person I am now, at 29, than I was before.
 When it left the case at the bakery, my birthday cake had no idea what was in store for it. It turned out to be more of a hero than a clown. It wasn't just going to perform an entertaining, pleasurable luxury at someone's party, it had actually saved me (and my husband) from a very unpleasant night. So, Happy Birthday to me, and kudos to my delicious cake!
P.S: As I proof read this, I am having a snack.

Here We Go!

" We're gonna take it on down the track (...) pack the boxes, load the truck, just another place for us to try our luck. Where the weather is fine and the folks are nice (...) if you never try it you never know, you gotta stretch if you wanna grow, keep a lookout for our letters from the road, yeah here we go (...) we ain't afraid of facing the what ifs and I don't knows, so let's do it, let's raise our glasses high and toast to west coast searching that we do, because you never know until you try.
So here we go. Called everyone and said goodbye and how we gave this old town a try (...) so I guess it's time for the big 180 me and my boy and my foxy lady, she looked at me and I looked at her and I said I know, so here we go. Ain't no worries what's a little back and forth (...) ain't no hurry for us to settle down, before we die we want to try it all and have ourselves a little look around, from town to town. So here we go..."
The above words are on quotation because believe it or not I did not write them. They are actually the lyrics to a song, that by now, has become the closest my husband and I have ever had to "our song".
We moved to this beautiful small town less than two months ago.
We have since decided to move closer to San Francisco for my lovely husband to take the job that was offered to him a few weeks ago.
 Today, I will start packing the boxes, and Monday and Tuesday we are driving down to the East Bay to look for a new home.  Again.
  I am having a hard time being as mindful through this move as I was through our previous. We had decided to leave Boston two weeks before we left, and I spent everyday of those two weeks, and of the week that followed while we drove the truck west, meditating on what we wanted from this town for our lives. 
What kind of house we were hoping to find, what type of jobs I was hoping to find, and what kind of life we wanted to create for ourselves in this community.
 It seems as if I worked so hard on it, that I actually made it happen.  "Putting it out there" is one thing. But taking the time and the energy to actively search for it, to think about it with enough presence to manifest it, and taking the appropriate steps that will lead you in that direction, are another.
 I was grateful to my practice for providing me with the tools I needed to accomplish this task.  I was grateful to my husband for always being supportive and grateful himself.  I was grateful to myself for utilizing those tools and for staying calm, trusting and present.
Now I find myself taking on this second move (second this year, in my adult life, this will actually be my twelfth) in some sort of auto-pilot mode.
 Spend a couple of hours a day on craigslist. Save the possible homes to our favorites. Email the agents showing to schedule a viewing...
It's almost as if because I have done it so many times , and because I just did it, this whole "moving" thing is embedded in my cells.  It's a natural response, like walking, or opening my eyes when I wake up.  I just do it.
However, I realized today, that it won't work out as well unless I get off auto and start thinking of what I am doing.
  I should take the time to realize that this time around, we got exactly what we wanted from the components that we searched for ourselves (meaning our home, its location, my jobs) because we were mindful in our path. 
We were accepting instead of resistant. We were trusting and patient, even if, as you all very well know, I had to work very hard on those two.  We were tranquil, and we didn't let it get to us.
So I think today, instead of starting to pack, I'm gonna reset my mind, body and spirit.
This is a separate move.  It is just the fact of the matter.  This is not something to be done in auto pilot, this is something to live through.
So let me start actively putting it out there again.  What do we want from this new adventure? And what do we need to do to get it?
What do we want in a home? What would the dream home be?  Look for it, with trust, patience, and courage.
Have some fun with it.  Sit outside under our beautiful tree that we will be leaving behind soon and use the laptop to search there instead of on the couch.  Have a glass of wine, after all, we still live in wine country.
If we made it happen this time around, we can surely do it again.  But we have to trust, we have to believe, and we have to relax.  We have to wake up every day and find the energy within us to put it out there again, with the same active determination as we did before.
So I'm gonna make myself a "Caliente Sunrise", one of my husband's cocktails, and put on some music and  meditate on everything that we want from this new town, and this new page on our book.
 A friend once told me, that maybe the reason why I was destined to move around so much (and this was in the middle of my 3rd move I think!) was to make friends all over the world, and influence their lives as I always let them influence mine. It sounded so romantic, yet so exhausting. Twelve and counting, but don't have enough fingers (not even counting the "foot fingers") to count all of those friends I've made.  Maybe she was right, and this is my path.
Or maybe Patrick and Paul were right, and I'm just a fucking gypsy.

When it rains, it pours!

 About three weeks ago, the gentleman who was doing most of the remodeling in our home, and then our neighbor's unit, used the expression "When it rains it pours" to describe the fact that after days of no work in our house, all of a sudden there were three different people here at the same time, working on three different projects.
  He is a very nice man, quiet and hardworking, yet pleasant and smiley.  It was always nice to see him around here (although uncle Mark felt I really did need to get a job when I told him how nice it was to chat with my friend Pat, the handyman). 
  In my quest to patience and waiting to find the right job(s) I started thinking a lot about that expression.  On several occasions, I actually thought " I hope that it will pour.  I hope that right now I can't find any employment because eventually I will have so many options I won't know what to do."
''Careful what you wish for" my grandma always used to say to me.
Here I find myself today, a storm of possibilities ravaging my thoughts.  When I wished for this, I had no idea how much it was actually going to rain...
  Last Saturday I went in for a second interview at a busy local restaurant.  I had a great time, the people who worked there seemed very nice, and it is an institution here in Sonoma, so getting a job there ensures some security.  Later that day, my former  Yoga teachers (the ones that ran the teacher training program I completeded) invited me to their Yoga retreat house here in town, and offered me a job with them.  It is rather ideal, except for the fact that my hours depend entirely on their trainings.  If they have an ongoing training, I will be working a good amount of hours.  If they don't, I will be working just a few.  The pay per hour is generous, and the work environment is beautiful and peaceful.
 Yesterday,  I started training at a local yoga studio to work the desk.  As in most studios, you trade your time at work for classes, workshops and other goods.  The manager is a wonderful woman, and just being around her for a few hours made me realize this was going to be a great thing for me.  Get my foot in the door, meet like minded people in our new community,  gain my confidence in teaching, perfect.
 After that, I went for an interview at the local Whole Foods.  For those of you who don't know, I have been wanting to work at Whole Foods for quite a while now.  I love food, I love alternatives when it comes to food, and I really want to learn how the retail side of food works.  What does it take to run a market like that?
 I interviewed with two different people, the store manager and the Produce team leader, and both went well.  They will contact me at the end of the week with an answer, and I left feeling hopeful and grateful.
 As I was leaving, I checked my phone and noticed I had a message from a local number I wasn't familiar with. It was the manager at the restaurant I interviewed on Saturday, asking me to call her back to figure out a schedule for me to start working with them.
 I rode my bike home rather fast.   I was hungry, and my mind was going a million miles an hour.  Should I turn down the position at the busy restaurant because it's not what I want? It seems like I have a pattern of responsability that makes me always take the jobs at the "best restaurant in town" and then I find mysef miserable in them.
 Should I risk it with the part time at the Yoga retreat house and hope that I get the part time position at Whole Foods?  When we decided to move here I put it out in the universe that I wanted to work part time in food and part time in Yoga. Hello?! Kinda' seems as if that is what I would be getting out of this deal!
 After getting home and having lunch with my husband while we discussed these options, I found myself a little overwhelmed and unsettled.  I went for a walk, I spoke to my parents, but still felt rattled.  So I went to our spare room, lit a candle, lit some incense, and practiced yoga and meditation for a while.  I found my peace, and was ready to sit in our yard and hang out with my man.
 I checked my phone  (it doesn't ring, so I check it on a semi regular basis to see if anyone has called) and found a message from my former boss. He never leaves me messages. I played it and heard his serious voice telling me that he had a "work related question for me".  I called him back, he didn't answer.  He called me back, and luckily the phone was still in my hand so I saw it coming in and picked up.
 Somehow that man has the strange power to change my life with just a few words.  He cares a lot about us, and he is generous in showing it, but this was way more rain than I had asked for.
 The work related question was more directed towards my husband than it was towards me.  One of the bartenders  at a very busy dowtown restaurant in San Francisco (where my husband has wanted to work for a while) is leaving, and before he set out to look for a replacement, he wanted to know if we were interested. No pressure.
Mind you, we moved here with the job my husband now has because it allowed us to have a job as soon as we got here, but he took a severe pay cut to do that, and the job itself has turned out to be less than ideal.
  Now on top of all my options, we actually have to consider the option of moving closer to the city, for him to change jobs.  This job would bring us really good  financial stability.  We are not really money people, which is exactly why we don't have any money.  And although money doesn't make happiness, it sure does help.  And if we don't jump at the opportunity to make money, then how the hell will we ever have money?
 But really? The same exact day I get an offer, an interview where I have always wanted to work, and start training at a Yoga studio? The same day!!!!???? I had actually been planning on calling this man's wife, to get some advice from her in my job decision making!
 This morning my husband said to me: " Do you know what sucks?" What? " When you try to sleep on something and instead you can't sleep because of it!"
  We are finally starting to fell at home in our new house.  We love it.  We love having a yard.  We love being in the country.  We love having so much space.  However, this town is seasonal.  And this is the season. 
So if we are not really making a lot of money during the season, chances are we will not be making a lot during the off seaon.  But we just moved!!!!!!! When do we get to stay somewhere???????
So here we are, in indecision land, weighing our options, lots of options, thinking of how many times, while we lived in Boston, my husband wished to get that phone call from my former boss. We think at least seven. 
 This is one of the times in life, where the line is very blurry, and you wish it was clearer.  The pros and the cons are both high on either end, and you feel that whichever decision you make, regret will surely ensue.
Today is my first day working at Nauliland, the retreat house.  So I will try to be present, and take it one minute at a time, as I go to my first "work" day since we moved here. I will bring with me an imaginary giant colorful umbrella, and hope that at least for today, it covers me from the rain, that I actually, somehow, wished for.

To hunt: not quite yet. To gather: oh yeah!

At some point in our lives, most of us will experience the pleasure of picking a vegetable or fruit from the plant.  Some, luckier than others, will experience it more than once, or even on a regular basis. 
If it's been a while since the last time you picked something off a tree, the memory of it might bring feelings of nostalgia.
  Maybe you were a young child growing up in New England, and your parents took you apple picking.  Maybe you spent a summer on your uncle's farm and helped him harvest some tomatoes off the vine.
   For me, one of those memories is of eating mangoes off my great aunt's tree.  Her house was the most beautiful house ever.  It was one of the traditional Spanish architecture homes common in that neighborhood, and her yard was lush and manicured.  There was a gorgeous Spanish mosaic bench under the mango tree.  My cousins and my brother and I would climb onto the bench and help each other reach high branches of the tree to get the ripest mangoes.  Then we would sit on the bench, and rip the skin of the fruit with our teeth. Finally, we would suck the intense orange flesh off the pit, its juices running all over our hands and chins.
Like most fruits in our planet, I can guarantee that if you've never had a mango in a place where mangoes grow, you have no idea what a mango really tastes like. Those mangoes off my aunt Lolita's tree, were some of the best I've ever had.
 Nowadays, the conveniences of modern life, and sometimes laziness, have made gathering food something that very few of us still do.  But the pleasures of this act are priceless.
  On our first drive into the town of Sonoma, I was taking in as much of the local scenery as I could, and one of the things I noticed was several loquat trees on the side of the road, bursting with the little orange fruits. I made a mental note to myself. 
A few days later, on my first bike ride into town, I discovered a magic fig tree, also on the side of the main road, full of still unripe black figs. Second note to self. On later days and rides, I saw a myriad of cherry plum trees, and blackberry bushes, all over the place.
  So, slowly but surely, I started to gather. First were the loquats, which turned into a delicious loquat and apricot chutney.  Then I went for the figs,  and even though only a few of them were ready, I still managed to get a couple, including one that was literally as big as an avocado! They were perfect. Sweet like honey. Melt in your mouth goodness.
 At a friend's houseI ran into a plum tree with at least thirty plums on the ground underneath it.  Plum preserves it was!
 I realized that dandelions were taking over a corner of our yard, so I picked their leaves and threw them into our salad.
 I patiently waited for the blackberries, being that it hasn't been hot enough yet for them to ripen to perfection.  A couple of days ago, on my way home after a very long ride to and from an interview, I chose to stop by one of the bushes and see where they were at.  To my surprise, there were plenty that were ready.  So I pulled by bike to the side, found a paper bag in one of its baskets, and got to work. 
 Before I knew it I had completely lost track of time and even space.  Mindfulness came naturally as I slowly scavenged around the thorny bushes for the black berries.  My hands and arms were getting scratched liked crazy, but the dull pain from it was almost unnoticeable, because the reason for it was so much larger than the pain itself.  I kept picking, always spotting more ripe berries at some other corner of the plant, unstoppable.  As they fell on top of each other in the bag, the intoxicating sweet smell of their juices came floating out of it and into my nose. What a fantastic moment.
I was present.  For a good twenty to thirty minutes of my day, nothing else mattered.  Just there, then, that.
 Eventually I decided it was time to give my scratched skin a break (plus I also feel a little greedy whenever I gather fruit, it's good to leave some for raccoons and deer), so I went home and pondered what I wanted to do with the 4 or 5 cups of blackberries I had just magically acquired.
 Lime-Blackberry Sorbet was the answer.  It turned out great.  It's intense in both color and flavor, nice and creamy even though I used no corn syrup or stabilizers. Just fruit, sugar, lime juice and love (ok, maybe a little anticipation too), and everytime I have some it brings me back to my foraging moment as well as others from the past.
Most if not all of those fruits were  going to go bad had I not picked them.  Free food would have been wasted.  Instead, it provided a fun, grounding experience, and some delicious dishes for further enjoyment.
 I believe that growing some food, even if it's just a few herbs off a windowsill, and foraging in our area, are incredible ways to be a little more in touch with how our nourishment is produced.  But the truth of the matter is, it's also a great way to relax, have some fun, and bring back memories of times gone by that we never think about anymore.
 So if you drove by a mango tree that was more than full not too long ago, or if there is fennel growing wild in your neighborhood, or even if it's just a weed, like mint, taking over a corner you walk by regularly, plan on stopping by next time, and collect a few items for your next meal.
The results will be delightful, and the experience itself, eternally rewarding.

When life gives you mutton, make muttonade?

For those of you not familiar with the term, mutton is a lamb that is over 2 years old. Typically, regular lamb is under one year of age at the time of slaughter.  Baby lamb is between 6 and 8 weeks old, and Spring lamb is usually 3 to 5 months old.
Some people don't like lamb at all.  Its rather strong flavor seems to be unbearable for a number of folks.  For others it's the peculiar smell that does it.  But a large number of us think it's absolutely delicious, and I can't tell you how many times I randomly crave the beautiful juicy lamb chops from Kokkari restaurant in San Francisco. 
That being said, I have never really craved mutton.  For a while I wasn't even sure what it actually was.  The french word for sheep is mouton, so I figured it was at least the same animal.  After some research, mostly verbally questioning my friend Courtney, who works at a lamb farm and has a small heard of sheep that she keeps for dairy, I became familiar with the word and it's definition.
So on Monday afternoon, when I got a message from her about how the mutton they had brought over for their dog Lucy and forgotten in our fridge was totally edible, I got pretty excited.  I thought there were just bones and had been planing on making stock out of them.
She rambled something about how I might think it was gross to eat mutton : why would I think it was gross if I had never had it before? She assured me that it was safe to eat and USDA inspected: why would I think anything fresh from the farm was any less safe than all the stuff we buy at the supermarket not even knowing where it comes from? And since when does an inspection by any US government agency (specially the USDA and the FDA) mean anything anymore?
She also mentioned, and this did mean something, that because this mutton had been raised on grass, grazing on pasture the way that nature intended, it mostly tasted like regular lamb, instead of having mutton's much stronger flavor.
  She suggested I braised it being that it would be rather tough since it was an older animal, and not raised in confinement. The more they move, the leaner they are, the more muscle they have, the less tender their meat is.
So yesterday afternoon, I got to work.  I inspected the meat, as it had been in the fridge for a week now.  It was originally vacum packed and frozen when they put it in the refrigerator. We agreed that since there was only a tiny opening on the seal of the plastic, not enough oxygen could have gotten in there to spoil it, plus we considered the time it must have taken it to defrost inside the cool fridge.  Sure enough, it smelled and looked beautiful. Nice and red.
  I dried them well and seasoned them generally with salt and pepper.  I seared them until a nice golden brown on all sides, and then threw in some onions, carrots, gypsy peppers, and herbs from the garden. Then some wine, and a few spices and garlic. I opened a jar of crushed tomatoes I had preserved last summer and added that as well. Mixed, tasted, re seasoned, and put the meat back in. Into the oven for a few hours. In the meantime, I cooked some white rice. I also made a glaze out of a little vinegar and some cherry jam I had purchased at the Auburn's farmer's market, where this mutton came from.
 Once the meat was nice and tender, I took it out of the sauce, skimmed the fat, glazed it with the jam, put it back in the oven on a sheet tray for a little while, and then added it back to the sauce.
At the last minute, I threw in some zucchini to the mix, poured a hefty serving over the rice, and we sat down to enjoy our dinner.  Needless to say, it was delicious. It has been rather cool in our valley in the evenings so it was the perfect dish for the weather.
 As we savoured every bite, I wondered how many people would have just thrown it away, the minute they realized it was in there.  We thought they were bones and we still kept it!
 I was taught by my parents not to waste food. As a little girl, if I didn't eat my dinner I would have it served for breakfast the next morning, and consecutively until I ate it. As an adult, I have always been very respectful of food, my main argument being that millions of people don't have enough of it, or sometimes any at all. Coming from a country where you meet those people on a regular basis, it's hard to not think about it. Even scraps should be saved, as they are very useful for compost, and then you are giving back to the land, instead of just taking all the time and not giving anything in return.
Then there is also the fact of how much it takes for our food to be produced: how many people's work is involved. How much patience for it to grow, how much time, money, effort.
 Most people don't think about any of this anymore, and it's not necessarily their fault. Our food system is out of control with imports and exports, processed chemicals that are sold as food, and air conditioned supermarkets with neatly packed aisles of millions of items. If you ask any child right now where milk comes from, chances are the answer will be: from the supermarket, if not from the refrigerator!
 This mutton didn't come from the refrigerator. It was once a live animal, who gave its life. It was the fruit of at least five people's hard work. It was at least 2 years old, therefore, it had at least 730 days of hard work, 17 500 hours of hard work. Throwing that away is not an option for my husband and I.
 Instead, we were nourished by it. We mindfully ate the food that was the result of time and effort and a sheep's life.  I took pleasure in preparing it, we took pleasure in eating it, and we raised our glasses to Lucy,  Courtney's dog, whose dinner we were having.

Yoga and Enlightment

Early last week, my dear friends (the bycicle giving ones) came up for a visit.  They are very familiar with the Northern California region, yet had never been to Sonoma proper.  We spend some quality time at our home, I showed them my favorite thrift shop and Mexican restaurant, and then we went to check out  the plaza.
They recently found out they are having a baby. As we browsed in one of the shops I decided to gift my friend a Prenatal Yoga video to help her overcome some anxiety that she is experiencing as a mother to be.  As I was getting ready to pay, I spotted the last issue of Yoga Journal Magazine and quickly grabbed it and added it to my purchase.
I am a subscriber to that publication, and every month, I eagerly await its arrival.  I never know when exactly it will show up, so it's always a pleasant surprise, and I cherish my time to read it, reflect on some of the articles, or even practice it's monthly "home practice" routine. Yoga Journal is part of my practice, and in lots of ways, it's my therapy.
With our move to the West coast, there was a gap in my delivery service, and I hadn't yet received this issue, and was not positive if it would actually arrive.
Being that my husband and I are on a rather tight budget, buying a magazine that I might actually receive in the mail is not very sensible, or something I would usually do.  But my peace of mind had been shaky lately, and my worrying voice had been way louder than usual, so I was yearning for those therapeutical readings and practices, and decided it was worth the risk.
That night, I started reading. I hadn't even gotten past the first pages, the editor's letter, when I was already gaining so much from this issue, I realized it was worth the few dollars extra it cost me. As she spoke about being grateful for life itself and everything that we get with it, she wisely made reference to the fact that if we really think about it, "the stuff I sometimes complain about "having" to do,  is actually the stuff I "get" to do."
It was a giant slap in the face. As the active person that I am, there is always something I have to do.
My husband often jokes with me by calling me a hummingbird or a bumble bee. Even though I enjoy most of the things I self appoint myself to do, I sometimes find myself dreading the fact that I never have time to do nothing.  Even now that I am unemployed.  Reading that letter I realized that I have just been looking at it in the wrong light.  I don't have to do these things : I get to do them. I went to sleep that night a little more at peace than the night before feeling grateful for everything I had/got to do.
The next morning, I decided to switch up my practice and try out the home practice from this issue.  As I prepared for it by reading the suggestions on what to do before and after the session, I read : " Set your intention to trust that everything unfolds as it should when you loosen your grip and allow yourself to be open". WOW! As my worrying voice had been nagging me lately, I tried to remind myself to trust with breathing exercises and friends and family's pep talks. This was the final straw.  I read the words again, this time focusing on them as well as my breathing, and immediately felt my muscles relax and my worries dissolve into the realization that I do trust, that things will work out, that I have to loosen my grip and allow myself to be open.  It is usually not possible to be open if we are tense and preoccupied in an active manner.
Definitely worth the extra couple of bucks.
That night, calm and relaxed, I read the mantra section of the issue: "When you recognize the power of Sri within you, it leads to contentment no matter what your circumstances. (...) No matter how much time, money and love you have, you will always feel as though it's not enough until you can evoke and honor the sri within you. When you do this, what you have feels like more than enough."
 Again, so worth the extra bucks.  I work very hard on quieting my inner chatter: I meditate, I practice asanas, I breathe, I read and write, I cook (which to me is the best therapy in the world), I talk to friends, I vent, I think, and lately I even garden. But sometimes, everybody needs a little extra help to get things done. This issue of Yoga Journal Magazine, was my little extra help. 
I am eternally grateful for that snap decision, that made me quiet my worries about money, and reach for that collection of shiny pages on the stance. By quieting my negative thinking for a few seconds, I got the tools I needed to quiet them for a longer period of time.  As with everything, practice makes perfect, and although perfection in yoga is kind of an oxymoron, by practicing regularly, I can see the benefits slowly but steadily open themselves to me, as I allow to open myself to them.
Oh, and by the way, I never got that issue in the mail!

How can silence be so noisy?

We have been living in Sonoma for a month today. In our house for three weeks.  So far it has been wonderful.  We have been really enjoying our yard, living in a smaller community, and above all, being back in California.
Most people who know my husband and I well enough, will undoubtedly describe us as city folks.  We love walking as our main method of transportation, we love cheap ethnic eats, people watching is one of our favorite hobbies, and the conveniences that most cities have to offer, as well as their diversity, are just priceless to us.
However, the truth is, we are both country folks at heart.  We have been patiently waiting for the opportunity to have a garden.  To hear the birds singing, to hear the crickets at night.  To see the stars, to go fishing, to take an afternoon hike: to be outside.
We both love nature, we are kind and compassionate towards all animals (with the exception of cockroaches for whom I have absolutely no sympathy whatsoever), we are respectful of the land and of everything that grows in it, and we always literally take the time to admire and smell the roses.
 However, I hadn't had one good night of sleep since we moved here.  As I lay in bed at night, listening to said crickets and the silence that is a background to their song, I somehow managed to be disturbed by every little noise that arose.  I hear the wood expanding. I heard random "bangs" downstairs.  I heard our very large cat's footsteps on the carpet, coming up the stairs, going down again, his tail thumping on the floor, or his loud meowing whenever he heard or saw any other animal outside.  I heard EVERYTHING.  And everything kept me awake.  When I did manage to engage in some pranayama (breathing exercises) and put myself to sleep, I was quickly awaken by the next note of the night's orchestra.  I heard something strange in my husband's breathing, or the cat snoring, or something unrecognizable that prompted an unfamiliar fear in my gut, and in that fashion, the night would go by while I listened to it.
Mind you, we used to live in San Francisco.  The level of noise pollution in that city almost counteracts the beauty of it. The  bells of the charming cable cars will quickly get on your nerves when you have to listen to them day after day, the fog horns, the MUNI buses, the loudest fire trucks and ambulances you will ever hear, let's just say, not very relaxing.  I slept just fine there for six years.
We also lived in Boston for over a year.  Our apartment was in the North End, the historic Italian neighborhood.  Not to be stereotypical but  Bostonians are not the quietest type, and when you add the Italian element to their heritage it gets exponentially louder.  I slept just fine there as well.
 So what is it then? Or I should say, what was it? Last night I finally slept.  I slept well.  I feel rested this morning for the first time in weeks. Unfortunately it will not be easy to figure out what the problem was since there were five variables in question.
Trying to set myself up for success I decided to switch sides of the bed with my husband.  I had been sleeping on the left side for a long time, but when we travel, I usually choose the side based on which one is closer to the bathroom.  I had made the same choice in this house, so I decided to give my old regular side a try.  However, a few other things happened as well: my husband fell asleep on the couch, so for the first part of the night, I had the bed to myself; the cat didn't make a peep all night long; I didn't change our pillows when I changed sides so I ended up sleeping with a different one than usual; and last but not least, I had a job interview yesterday. 
So... Was it just one of them, or a combination of all that finally allowed me to sleep?
It's hard to say. But the more I think about it, the more I have to wonder how much of my subconscious was at play all those restless nights.  When I heard noises, I didn't wake up and worry about money, or about being unemployed, but as I said, I did have an unfamiliar fear in my gut.  Maybe that fear was prompted by my daytime worries.  Maybe I couldn't relax at night because I spent the day tense.  Maybe our emotions affect us more than we care to give them credit for, and they become a vicious circle. The more I worried during the day, the less I slept during the night.  The less I slept during the night, the crankier I got during the day, and the more prone I was to negative feelings and emotions. 
I didn't really think about it.  Even now as I reflect on it, I'm still not positive.  It was just an interview.  I still don't have a job.
Even though I am not 100% on what the main factor that made it happen was, I will cherish all of them.  I will change our night stands today and appropriate myself of the left side once again.  I will keep my new pillow.  I will put the cat in the garage if he wakes me up at night, and I will even have my lovely husband fall asleep on the couch if I have to.  But most importantly, I will give some credit to my emotions, and I will work on practicing a little more meditation and yoga, to calm myself not only on the conscious level, but  on the subconscious one as well. Maybe the noise wasn't really outside, but in my own head after all.

My first set of wheels

Last Thursday I met a young couple from Kansas.  I don't remember where he is originally from, since he moved around a lot as a child.  His lovely wife is from Idaho. He is in the army and they now live in a small military community.
We got to talking about our new life here in Sonoma, and he was baffled to learn that we don't have a car.  As the conversation went on, he was even more shocked that I have never owned a car.  When I divulged the fact that I have never actually had a driver's license, he almost fell back in awe.
His world would be impossible to live in without a car to get around in. 
The truth of the matter is, lots of people react the same way.  People who have known me forever don't get it. 
It wasn't something I planned for.
 When I was a teenager -overachiever at heart- I decided I couldn't drive unless I knew how to fix my car in the event of a breakage. Then I got over that, but I was in a time in my life in which the French Education I was pursuing forced me to study for several hours a day, after several hour long tests after several hours at school. Learning how to drive was not a priority.
 Once I graduated I got a permit and  started to learn manual, since the overachiever was still in there and I didn't want to learn just automatic. 
For anyone who has not been to my country, I shall let you know that driving there is not as simple as it is here.  Learning was a bit harder than I anticipated since you have to watch out for cars and motorcycles coming at you from all directions, legal or not,  physically possible or not.  Before I knew it, I left for the States and I still hadn't secured the license.
At school I relied on my friends and their driving.  At one point I tried to get a permit, and at the DMV in Poughkeepsie, NY, they wanted me to provide them with a ridiculous amount of identification, which of course had to be all legally translated into English, which is a costly and annoying process that did not seem worth it to the 18 year old version of myself.
From there I moved to San Francisco, where, lets face it, you don't need a car at all.
I had always loved to walk, and after living in that beautiful city for a while, it became a part of me more than ever. I returned for a year to the Island, and cultivated my hobby of walking, surprising friends and family alike, since it is not customary for anyone to get around walking in that city.
 Then I returned to San Francisco, and from there somehow ended up moving to Boston, where, again, you don't need a car.
Now we live in Sonoma, where you obviously can't live without a car, right?  Wrong. 
As we first arrived back in California, I was sharing with my friend Eric my plans of purchasing a bike as soon as we got settled.  He had bought his girlfriend, my dear friend Courtney, a bike about four years ago for her birthday, which she had somehow never used.  He offered it to me, she approved, and I inherited a brand new, if a bit weathered, Giant mountain bike.  It even came with a wicker basket!
It's not the bike I had pictured I would get for myself, but it actually turns out to be so much better this way, since I can go on rough roads and mountain paths in it.
I have been using it as my main mode of transportation.  I get our groceries in it, I run errands in it, I made friends with the owner of the local bike shops  and the the guys who work there because of it, and I have explored the area around our new home extensively in it.  That's before getting to how good of an aerobic exercise it is to ride my bike around town.  And how much fun and therapeutic it is as well.
As we debated on what car to get,how much we want to spend on it, what our needs are as far as a vehicle is concerned, I realized a few things.
The first one was that even though we don't have children, we actually need a back seat for all of our little friends that we have around here.
The second, that right now, we don't really need a car per se. Right now, a car would be a great convenience, but it would be more of a luxury than a necessity.
The great Mexican band Molotov, states in one of their songs that since we were not born where there is nothing to eat, we don't have to ask ourselves what we are going to do (" porque no nacimos donde no hay que comer, no hay porque preguntarnos como le vamos a hacer").
My bicycle and lack of car made me realize, that sometimes, when we are fortunate enough to have lived a life full of necessities and luxuries, at whatever level those may be, we tend to forget the difference between need and want.  For those less fortunate than us, who have lived with a lack thereof, the line is much clearer.
A car would get us to the city to see our beloved San Francisco, and our dear friends.  A car, would get us to Petaluma, and Point Reyes, to go to the beach, to explore northern California. A car would get us to Auburn, to spend time with my bike-giving friends. A car, would make it much easier and faster to get downtown to get food. It would get me to the chicken man, to buy the chickens I yearn for to have fresh eggs everyday. It would also get us an ironing board, which would make it a lot easier to  iron my husband's work shirts on (I can imagine my sister in law and my friend Natalie cringing in disbelief that we still don't have one). 

Sure, it will be great to have. But as long as I can bike to town, and he can walk to work, we don't really need it, and I am proud to know that we accept that, and are doing just fine without it.
My grandfather once questioned me about the reason why I had never gotten my license. We where in Seattle, on our way to Alaska. As I told him the story I have written here, I realized, that for someone who has never driven, I have gotten pretty damn far....

A lesson in Patience, and it's little sister Impatience.

We are finally settled in our new home. We really did live in Boston, and we really did leave Boston. I am currently not working, and although as my husband says, I am a darn good "housewife" I have started to get impatient about finding employment.

I didn't even realize it. All of a sudden, this terrible feeling had completely taken me over. It was on my skin, in my blood, in my every thought and action. I was going a million miles an hour and had absolutely no time to waste. I also had no idea.
That's the thing about impatience, sometimes it just creeps up on you, without you noticing it. It starts very slowly, ironically enough with lots of patience, so as to acclimate itself to your being and you to it. Then one day, it's there, a part of you. And it has completely changed you. That is unless you take the time to scan yourself regularly for behavior changes, in which case you will eventually spot it. Everywhere.
I spotted it this morning, as I was getting ready to go out for breakfast with our friend Ray. He had come to visit from the city, as we have still not made it down there. I was trying to pick out the right outfit, then put on makeup, matching jewelry, and then I went downstairs and realized it was so much colder than I thought it was. So, I should go change since I was wearing a summer dress. No, I shouldn't! It will be fine...I have a jacket. I don't have time to change! He will be here any minute!
 Well, it took him longer to get here than my impatient self had thought it would. So I waited, still in my summer dress, still cold.  Then he got here, we went out for breakfast, and I remained cold. Stubborn, impatient, and cold!
We had a lovely visit, and he was kind enough to drive us around to do some errands since we still don't have a car. One of those errands consisted of getting a few herbs to perk up our yard.
This is my first attempt to keep a garden. When I got home with my compost, my potting soil, my herbs and some larger pots for existing plants, in my same impatient manner, I immediately got to work.
I turned the soil, I shoveled, I raked, I sweat. I planted the little purple flowers that we choose as ground cover. I scavenged around the yard for more rocks and made a little fence for our newly planted area. I read somewhere that peppermint likes part shade so I planted a few of them as well in that space.
 I replanted the hot pepper. I filled an old half wine barrel with soil and planted thyme, basil, sage, lemon verbena and oregano in it.  Time went by and I was completely unaware. I was being as present as I could. Gardening away.  Thinking of how I had never done this before. Of how great it was. Of how amazing it was that I had found all those stones right there in our yard. And then it hit me. I had to be patient now.  This was as much as I could do. How slow or how fast the little purple flowers were going to take to cover that area was entirely up to them.  And there is nothing I can do about it but enjoy every step of their journey.
In the same way, how long it will take for me to find a job is out of my control.  I look everyday to see what's out there.  I apply to everything that I feel I can do. And I have no choice but to wait.
My lesson in patience comes with the realization of what I can and should do with my time while I wait.
So I cook everyday and enjoy the bounty of delicious fruits and vegetables that are available right now all over California.  I do Yoga for longer than I'm used to, and mostly in the yard. And I have decided I will also write. Maybe once I am so comfortable in my routine that I have forgotten that I was looking for a job, a fulfilling job will find me.

We're going home! (not really)

Day one.
The first box is officially packed. Closed. Full. A few cookbooks (those always come with us), a few sheets, two picture frames, both with girls in them. One of them has a picture of Laura and I, in Florida, my skin so tanned I look like someone else, as it glistens on the developed photo with an almost copper tone to it. A flower in my hair, Laura smiling next to me. I wonder how many times her and I have been smiling next to each other?
The other picture frame has a little girl sitting on a beach. Her back to the camera, her perfect soft brown skin glowing in the sun, the mustard colored sand underneath her, and the perfectly blue Caribbean sea almost reaching her feet with its bubbly white foam.

Now they're leaving Boston. As are we. Relocating to California, I wrote on my reason for leaving in my resignation letter. Then I held it in my hand as I waited for the elevator, and I looked at it, the perfect curves of the capital C, followed by the a and the l, then the i and the f, effortlessly drawn onto the white paper, then the o, the r, n, i again and finally a. As I smiled at the word a thought slowly took over my brain: we are not going to San Francisco, we are going to California! Yes, Sonoma is right around the corner, but we're not really going home. This is another new adventure.
Day one of packing, slowly but surely, every single object in this apartment will go into some sort of container, and then into the back of a truck, and onto the great American highways.

About three or four hours later, one and a half boxes are now packed. You might say I took a very long break. As I tried to concentrate into what else I might want to neatly place inside that box, I couldn't shake the thoughts of fried chicken sandwich out of my mind.
In the kitchen I had some chicken thighs in some rock salt that had to be taken care of. So I stopped packing for a few hours, and took care of it. Now that the chicken is waiting for me swimming in a buttermilk, Chile powder and garlic pool, I can try to go on with this packing party.
The biscuits are also done. And in the oven there are some heirloom tomatoes baking with some rhubarb for a crisp. I macerated them with some lime juice and zest, Serrano chiles, ginger, lemongrass and agave nectar. Then I added some flour and threw a star anise and about a third of a whole vanilla bean in there. It's in our green le creuset baking dish that Kevin gave us. The plan is to top it with a cornmeal streusel.

Kevin showed up with two six packs: Anchor Steam and Razor 5, both from the Northern California area that we are moving to.
I made some coleslaw with some thinly sliced cornichons, some guacamole, smothered the biscuits with bacon fat and built our sandwiches. Although the chicken was a bit too salty from sitting in the rock salt for too long, the sandwich itself was delicious. We watched "Big trouble in little China" on Blue Ray, with a commentary from Kurt Russel and the director.
Time goes by so fast. I still remember that night at No 9's kitchen, when Ben and Kevin started arguing about the Big Trouble Little China DVD and I realized that Kevin was gonna stay with us just like the cookbooks.