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.