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.