A Modest Goal

Blog. Every. Day.

A brief explanation to anyone who followed this blog as “Countdown to 30,”  — I really loved doing it.  I loved blogging, and counting down to something tangible was a great gimmick, even greater because it was natural, built in. I miss it.

But now that I’m 30 (plus a couple or more months), it’s gotten hard to get back into blogging.  It’s hard without a goal in sight.  I tried something out on Blogger (http://serendipitousparadox.blogspot.com/), but it didn’t stick.  I did transfer the best posts from there over here today, so enjoy my sickening descriptions of the south of France, eating sheep unmentionables, making bizarre ice creams, etc.

So I’m back — with the same URL — this blog has remained somewhat popular on stats, so why not?  I love you WordPress!  There is no blog platform like you!  Even though it’s not legal to advertise, and I won’t even be able to attempt to make spare change for coffee!  It’s cool.  You rule, so what can I say?

Welcome back!  Enjoy some fantastic videos, why dontcha!

Guts ‘n’ Toeses

(Re-post from September 26)

Oh boy did I have an appetite for destruction last night. Tired off my ass, and I mean so tired that I almost didn’t leave my hotel room (then remembered that eating one small sandwich all day long and having walked 10k+ wasn’t healthy and consequently nearly fell asleep several times over dinner) — I ordered the only thing on the menu that would send every foreign tourist running for the hills — “Pieds et Paquets.”

Pieds et paquets translates as “feet and packages.” Yes. You heard that right. Even the “packages,” part. The dish consists of sheep tripe folded into elegant little objects much resembling large tortellini stuffed with herbed breading, as well as sheep feet (bent ankle bone and all the stuff further south), slow cooked in a very lovely savory sauce which I’m told is based on white wine.

I don’t know how I did it. I really don’t. That’s not to say it wasn’t delicious. It was. I eat strange things. All the time. I think it’s exciting and makes life more interesting to take risks like this. But when you think you’re coming down with a cold and feel weak and haven’t slept in two days and are not really convinced you’re hungry in the first place, this could have been a disastrous mistake.

Thankfully it wasn’t. I don’t know if any of you dear, dear phantoms of readers have ever experienced this before, but I’m going to try to describe the sensation of what I was going through. My brain and body were in a battle from the moment the covered silver platter was set down beside me, and a deep elegant ceramic bowl was placed in front of me. See, I really wasn’t sure what I was going to get. Didn’t know how it would look or smell or anything. I did have an inkling of what the texture would be like, having eaten tripe many times before. But not sheep. And not in this manner. And certainly not in my vulnerable physical condition. The word I would use for the entire experience would be “musky.” For some that’s great. For others it’s sickening. It was gamey and gooey and chewy. And the whole time I cut apart my first piece, the musky gamey smell wafting up into my nose, I was fighting nausea. Not a strong nausea. But a tiny persistent, “ah, you there, ya you…are you quite sure that’s such a good idea…” kinda nausea. Some people would have listened to that little voice. But not me. And in the end, as I didn’t get sick, slept very well through the night, and feel better than ever today, I’m very glad I didn’t.

Most of you will never want to eat tripe, especially not sheep tripe rolled into big meatball-sized bread-filled bundles and stewed with its relation, the foot (which by the way, is all fat and skin and cartilage with hardly a trace of muscle). Hopefully, though, I’ve now communicated that it cannot and will not kill you, and if you can get over the musky smell and uber-strange texture so common to offal, you may enjoy it, and it may in fact cure your weary body and send it on its healthy way.

Anyway, I just got to Avignon. Again exhausted, but not quite so much as in Marseille. And instead of a steep 2-story walk-up with super-heavy luggage, I had a 4-story walk-up with heavier luggage (thanks to a chance encounter with an H&M yesterday and an adventure in an immigrant-filled market this morning).

The town is gorgeous, and it’s so sunny, it really does look like an impressionist painting or a post card. I’ll have a gander as soon as I rest my weary head for a spot and consider showering off the accumulating sweat. Yes. I just said accumulating sweat.

Cheerio! Or rather, A bientot!

And if you ever want to try making your own paquets…

Ice Cream en Provence

(re-posted from October 5)

Taking solace in churning out home made ice cream isn’t a bad way to cope. In fact, the results can be positively inspirational. Especially if you’re vacationing in rural Provence with middle aged eccentrics some of whom you didn’t really know beforehand.

It was destined to be a weird week with my hosts. Not that it didn’t have it’s highlights.

The beautiful vacation home was as lush and beautiful as you could hope for, with comfortable bedrooms, a large in-ground pool, carefully chosen decor (bullfighting was the artistic theme…that and several bad reproductions of impressionist masters), stunning landscaping (olive trees, rosemary, and lavender, lavender, lavender…), an indoor kitchen, and an outdoor kitchen beside the pool connected to a separate pool house, decked out in a master bedroom and open plan bathroom.

The village of Tavel, home to some of France’s best Rose wine and a mere 15 minutes from Avignon, was quiet, charming, and full of vineyards as far as the eye can see.

My hosts and I would get into a rental car or cars after a breakfast-nosh of leftover cheese rinds, salami, crusty bread, and way too much coffee, and we’d head for — where else — Chateauneuf du Pape, center of some of the very best wines in France — or Avignon for some casual sightseeing and an artful eyeful of gourmet lunch — or Arles, the famed adopted home of Van Gogh, for some ancient Roman ruins and a quick 7-course bite at a Michelin-starred eatery.

The vacation kind of kept happening like that. It was oddly like being stuck in the back seat with some overgrown brothers and sisters on a long road trip to Disneyland, except the theme park was everywhere, and all you had to do was throw money on it to make it jump up and do miraculous things for you. A lot of wine. A lot of decadent food. Marijuana smoke billowing in our wake. Literally.

Yet, I often felt stuck. Here I was, a guest. Kind of. On someone else’s family vacation. I should have felt grateful. Just to be there. Most of the time was pretty good. Of course, in retrospect, I probably subconsciously feel I have to tell myself this. The food was amazing — we, my hosts and I, are great cooks, and every night was a feast. A real feast.

But it went from awkwardly great, to awkwardly good, to awkwardly emotional, to just plain awkward, and by then of course, my neurotic paranoia was well on its way to getting the best of me.

Little things — from thinking everyone could hear everything I was doing in the bathroom (which kept me from relieving myself until I was convinced nobody was around), to slightly bigger things — thinking that nobody really wanted me there and that I was at best an annoyance and at worst ruining everyone else’s vacation — made it difficult for me to have fun. I kept accidentally cutting myself, too, with the ridiculously-sharp Japanese Damascus steel kitchen knives they brought (6 times in total, some of them deep gashes), and it became an inside joke during the trip. Finally, when I woke up gasping for breath, filled with worry and on the edge of a major panic attack, I realized something larger was going on. PMS. Since I quit my meds, life has been pretty OK. Until 3-6 days before my period. When moderate to major depression kicks in. Here I was in France, in Provence, with good friends, people who cared about me, and I was rocking in bed at 3 am, absolutely convinced that I had nothing to look forward to in life, and that it was next to impossible that I would ever find a partner.

It was the cooking that saved me. Or rather, the ice cream. Early on we hit a huge grocery-superstore, a kind of Wal-Mart meets Whole Foods, and seeing who I was with, it was like one of those supermarket sweepstakes TV shows — everything went into the shopping cart. Including an ice cream machine.

Every day I made at least one, but sometimes up to three new flavors. I ended up contributing less and less to the actual cooking of the meals, and just came up with a frozen dessert every night. Which suited me fine. I got to have my little island of solitude. On a trip where I had little choice and next to no freedom of movement, making silly savory locally flavored confections was my pride, my joy, and really, my vacation.

So, I’ll leave you with the list, the lovely little list of the treasures I created, the products of my vacation:

1) Goat cheese and roasted pine nuts, the first, and the week’s ultimate winner
2) Real rose and rosewater, this was delicate and the favorite of some
3) Pear cardamom – subtle and comforting, like apple pie but with a Mediterranean twist
4) Chocolate chili chunk – darkest chocolate you can imagine and exceptionally spicy
5) Lavender honey meringue – an experiment with mixed results
6) Verbena and ginger sorbet – another experiment inspired by Mr Avignon Michelin
7) Basil Lemon – the only one made from a recipe, and it was exquisite
8) Goat cheese, creme fraiche, honey, and roasted cashew – a twist on day one with excellent results

I went through something like 3 dozen eggs in making all of these custards. A real feat. Oh, the vanilla, the spices, the herbs. It was fun. On my last night, everyone talked about how I should start a twitter-based traveling ice cream business. Because it was just that good.

4 Days: Butter is best

Just made luscious pasta.  So scrummy.  We eat far too much pasta, I think, but if there are enough veggies and flavor, it should be OK.  The secret?  Butter.  Butter is always the secret.  Why?  Nobody wants to know it’s there.  But if your food tastes extra-amazing at a restaurant…it’s because of the butter piled on as a finisher.  You can count on it.  It’s my secret, too.

Pasta is my sisterly tradition.  I have two sisters.  When we’re together, one of us very often hops into the kitchen and whips up some pasta.  When one of them does it, it’s pretty plain.  A can of tomato pasta sauce, maybe some extra garlic, salt, and pepper.  When I do it, I usually make my own sauce.  Veg, of course onion, tons of garlic, tomato, olive oil, sometimes zucchini, bell peppers, greens, ginger, mushrooms, and so much more.  I like my pasta spicy.  I throw in a ton of chili.  Cayenne.  Hot paprika.  I’m fond of Vietnamese fish sauce instead of salt (don’t tell my sisters!), and sometimes, I throw in butter at the end.  Oregano, basil, rosemary, thyme, cilantro.

Then we sit, each with a deep Asian soup-cereal type bowl, and watch sappy cable TV.  Sometimes it’s America’s Next Top Model.  Sometimes it’s a a wildlife documentary like Big Cat Diary, which my youngest sister, Indiana Jones Jr, loves so damned much.  And my personal favorite — British Murder Mysteries – Dalziel and Pascoe, Inspector Linley, Miss Marple, Midsommer Murders.  These days if we’re lucky there are some great Gordon Ramsey shows.  It’s fab that he has so many damned ventures, because he’s on in some capacity all the time…and usually fantastic entertainment.  I dream of being on Hell’s Kitchen these days.  I have the skills and training.  Wouldn’t it be cool to be screamed down by that blond monster?

But these days, our middle sister is stateside.  We miss her.  Jones Jr and I are boiling and sweating in our skins, watching Finding Neverland, after a slew of boring modeling, wedding, and other ridiculous reality TV shows didn’t make the grade.

Pasta.  Spaghetti.  Al dente.  Cooking in water as salty as the sea.  Tonight served with zucchini.  And butter.  Always finished with butter.  It’s best that way.  Warmed with memories.

176 Days: Irish Contentment

The Winding Stair Overlooking the Ha'penny Bridge

Today is my last full day here in Dublin. I’m a bit sad to leave tomorrow, but not heartbroken.  It’s given me energy and a bit of peace of mind being here.  It’s really exciting to be “going for your dreams.”  Life can be stressful, but goodness gracious, there is indeed so much to look forward to.  A lot of things are hard (publishing a book, building a company, making ends meet, creating a lasting mark on the world…), but it can be fun, exciting, joyful, and good to simply be going for them.  Putting in a strong effort.  This simple optimism is missing from my life on a day to day basis, quite often.  And it’s something that was essential in my life when I was in uni, and especially when I lived in Dublin 9 years ago.  I’ll have to find a way to remember this.  To make it mine, daily, again.

Yesterday, I had a “day of decadence,” I think I’ll call it.  Got up quite late, went to The Winding Stair, an old independent bookstore that has a cafe above it.  Well, it’s been completely redone, and the cafe is a gourmet restaurant in the best liberal Irish tradition — local fare, local ingredients, organic produce, imaginative yet wholesome menu — and just a lovely bright room, lots of wood, overlooking the Liffey right at the Ha’penny bridge.    I ate lamb liver, streaky bacon, mustard mash, and whiskey sauce, with an interesting amber beer from Italy I’d not had before.  Really lovely.  Liver was more cooked than I liked, but still a good meal.  Very warm, smart, attentive staff.  I’m so glad I went back there.  In college, I used to hang out there a bit.  The cafe then was “literary themed” which I do kind of miss in the place now.  You could get sandwiches named after famous books, and I was quite looking forward to a “Watership Down,” or an “Anna Karenina,” or something like that.  Lamb’s liver was more than fine, of course, but it would be fun if they’d included more books in the decor, and added back some of the whimsical which made the place so special before.

I then rushed up to one of the main cinemas in town off of Parnell Square, and I saw the much praised Slumdog Millionaire.  It was fun to see a film in the middle of the day.  It was a feel-good experience.  Nice story.  Having just been in India, I actually wasn’t too keen on “being back there” so soon.  But everyone’s been raving…  Thing is, as good as it was, it wasn’t anything to write home about for me.  It was fun, it was romantic, it was a nice glimpse into India.  But it doesn’t seem like Oscar calibre to me.  It was average-good.  A box office hit, sure.  Nice color, nice young people, hard work triumphing, a deserving youth.  But I don’t think I saw any stellar performances.  We shall see…

Then, I went to Kilkenny, not the place, but the design shop on Nassau Street.  There is a jewelry designer I am absolutely smitten with, and I was told I might be able to find his stuff at this shop.  Sure enough, a whole case of Alan Ardiff.  His works move!  They do!  It’s like gorgeous clockwork in miniature hanging on your neck.  Ducks bob on water, stars rotate, doors open…it’s amazing.  And so very pretty.  All silver, all cute, and so unique.  Problem was, I didn’t have a spare 200 Euro.  I think I’ll have to create a list of birthday requests for my family…it’s cheeky, but I would really love to have one of those pieces.  It’s art.  And it would make my day.  Here is one of my favorites, called, “Follow Your Star.”

Follow Your Star

I then dashed over to The Market Bar on Fade Street where I met some old friends from Trinity.  Such fun.  Munching on tapas (well, I got a cheese and meat platter and they barely ever pecked!), drinking wine, and catching up with such good people.  One is a filmaker who I pray will make it big.  The other a director and arts administrator who basically runs the Dublin theatre Festival.  A great evening.

And now, now, now, I must get offline, get dressed, and get out of the house!  I’m going to another wine tasting extravaganza with the lovely S, this time at the Guinness storerooms.  Hurrah!  I love Dublin.  Should I find a way to move back?  Should I find a way to export my friends to be near me?  Start an Israeli-Irish winery?  Perhaps, perhaps?  Ah life.  It’s good right now.  We’ll see about tomorrow when I have to be on a 6 am flight out of here…

178 Days: Cristal Serendipity

How does the world do it?  The gods and the cherubs and saints and dead Israelite forefathers have conspired to make my Dublin trip bizarre and incredibly amazing.  I have spent the entire day with a brand new friend S, a gorgeous ridiculously intelligent woman, a mutual friend of my friend who turned 30, for whom I came to Dublin in the first place.  And we have been swilling world-class wines!  All day!  And to top it off, I have had my first glass of Cristal!  Amazing.  And Tokaji, and 10-year old and 20-year old Portos, and climax-inducing Muscatos, and Reislings to change your world, and more and more and more (including a local cheese spread, the best ham I’ve ever tasted, and a smoked fish selection — tuna, mackerel, wild salmon, and kippers — that I thought were the absolute best).

How did this happen?  S’s parents own an off-license (Irish for liquor store) and pub in a nice Dublin suburb, and she’s in business with them.  This wine tasting?  A wine distributor she works with sometimes had this amazing array set up at the Four Seasons.  And they welcomed me with open arms.  And we met more and more people, one of whom was a weird-ish Maltese guy who’s been living in Dublin for 15 years, being a chef and restaurant manager, who latched on to us.  We ended up closing the tasting with some Proseco, then moved on to the hotel’s bar, drinking a Rioja and a Reisling (spent 80 Euro, goodness), some horrifically overpriced bland fish pub food, and then moved on (well, we crashed…) the post wine tasting dinner event.  See, S had never heard of these happening, but when we got there, we just snuck happily in and had a huge free meal — black pudding and rocket salad atop some stewed apples (I think), veal and mashed potatoes, lemon tarte and brownies, cheese platter (!!!), and coffee and tea.  With, of course, a huge amount of great great great wine.  Our bizarre (socially awkward) Maltese friend with us the entire time, and joined by my birthday girl friend after she got out of work, it was just one of those evenings that dragged on and on, but didn’t drag.  It unraveled and unwrapped itself like a gift.  The Maltese man ended up inviting me to Italy to plant grapes at a new vineyard that he was going to be investing in as soon as he’d raised 75,000 Euro, insisted I take his number, and did all but beg me to get together later in the week to, “have the finest glass of wine you’ll ever have in your life.”  AND the gorgeous manager of this upscale wine bar cum gourmet Irish restaurant who I’d been eying and who may have been eying me at the wine tasting earlier in the day asked for me number!  Yay!

I’m more than a bit frazzled, giddy, and delighted to have made new friends, spent time with old friends, and I’m currently being horribly anti-social by typing away at this blog while my two girlfriends are chatting around me at 12:30 am.  Life is lovely.

And for your viewing pleasure, a film you MUST all see.  My friend’s original show.  That’s right.  She wrote and directed this funny gem, and she’s touring to Abu Dhabi tomorrow.

190 Days: Scrum-diddli-umptious Food Photos!

Shots from my first catering gig, detailed here.  Enjoy!

My To Do List

The base for a salmon hors d’oeuvre

The Buffet

Eggplant with a nipple or underdeveloped Siamese twin

Organic beef liver, fresh goose fat, handmade fig and onion jam, and oh so lovely

Fancy Deviled Eggs

Wild Mushroom Filo Triangles

Shrimp, Bacon, and Roquefort

Pate, pate, and more pate

The party!

192 Days: Glistening traif and shiny happy Jews

You want to hear about my first huge kick-ass professional catering experience?  Well, you’re gonna.  I served traif to Israelis, and they lapped it up like tiny kittens tasting cream for the very first time.  (Insert evil laugh here).  Traif, for all you non-Jews out there, means non-kosher food.  And in this case, oh boy, oh boy did I go all out!  The timing was perfect.  Perfect!  A different tray of hot food came out every ten or fifteen minutes or so.  There was just enough food.  Not too much left over.  Nobody went hungry.  And people were raving.  I’m thrilled.  The menu, for your reading and salivary pleasure:

Bacon wrapped shrimp smothered with Roquefort cheese

Crisp filo triangles of 5 types of wild mushroom sauteed in red wine

Baked prosciutto-wrapped medjoul dates stuffed with almonds (THE hit of the evening)

“Gourmet” deviled eggs, complete with capers, dijon mustard, anchovy paste, and fresh chive

Smoked salmon on garlic dill creme fraiche mousse with fresh thyme

Veal liver and goose fat pate (yes, I made this by myself, from scratch) with homemade fig and onion compote (b-day boy loves figs)

A vegetable platter to end all vegetable platters (carrot, fennel, baby cornichon-style cucumbers, celery, tri-colored peppers, vine-ripened cherry tomatoes) with three homemade dips: slow-roasted sesames in fresh goat labaneh cheese, fried garlic and fresh chive in a creamy farmer’s cheese, and a killer thousand island (don’t ask me why, but Israelis are gaga for 1000 island.  It’s like their ranch)

Ceviche of Dennis fish (a local fatty fish), and as the birthday boy cannot stand cilantro (aka fresh leafy coriander), this was made with parsley, ginger, chive, green onion, shallots, lemon zest, lemon juice (of course, to “cook” the fish in), olive oil, salt, pepper, and a dab of chilli (I served them in tiny little cups, like rectangular shot glasses, with adorable wee forks.  Gone like hot cakes)

Baked Brie: a lovely creamy brie cheese, raspberry preserves, and slivered almonds, all melted inside the golden loveliness of a buttery puff pastry (the Israelis went orgasmic on this one)

AND

The Main Course

Two Moroccan Tagines:

Beef stewed with onion, garlic, dried apricots, figs, prunes, and dates, seasoned with cinnamon, ginger, allspice, and course black pepper

Eggplant, zucchini, onion, garlic, fresh vine tomatoes, and chick peas, stewed with a bottle of red wine, bay leaves, and a touch of chilli

Both served over couscous

AND

Three salads, of various compositions, the most interesting of which was the fresh baby leaves, red onion, anjou pear, and roasted walnut salad (funny story  – totally forgot to make salad dressed and rushed at the very last second, dumping a ton of freshly squeezed lemon juice that I had on hand into some olive oil, and then added a few spoons of the fig jam from the pate, whisked a bit, salt and peppered, and dumped over a couple of the salads, and then used the 1000 island on another one.  Well, my lemony concoction apparently went over so well, people were scraping the last bits of salad from those two bowls…1000 island went almost untouched…)

AND

Punch: fresh mint lemonade with ginger, spiked with vodka. Hit the spot.

It was a very ambitious menu.  I only realized this after I presented it to the family, them oohing and aahing.  It took every bit of effort over the course of the week not to have a panic attack over this.  See, the difficulty was this.  It was a surprise party.  Which meant, this ambitious menu could not be cooked in the house in which it was going to be served.  No, oh no.  It was arranged that I could use the kitchen of an aunt in the same neighborhood, and then transport all of the food 2 hours before the party was to begin.  Right.  But this was going to take more than cooking some things on the same day.  My uncle very generously offered me his kitchen earlier in the week (my kitchen is less than a galley with absolutely no counter space), and I took him up on it.  I was there for about 10 hours on Friday, making as many preparations as possible so that I wouldn’t have a heart attack the following day.  The pate was made there.  All of the veg for the platter was chopped up there.  All of the dips were made.  The mushrooms were sauteed there, so they could be rolled into filo the next day.  Etc. etc.

I haven’t worked this hard in ages.  Maybe ever.  And you know what?  As hard as this life may be.  As strenuous physically as this was and may continue to be.  I am still glad I left my high tech job.  I’m still over the moon I’m out.  I have no regrets.  When my finances crash, I may think differently, but I am really OK now.  I was really proud of the job I did.  The food was very pretty, as stressed as I was.  I almost lost it on a few occasions (would you believe that early arrival guests, sitting next to the kitchen, started eating raw shrimp and raw bacon they found on parchment paper on a baking sheet, and managed to eat half of this particular batch before I found them and nearly started fuming and scolding them!  How crazy do you have to be to eat that shit raw!  They were in the kitchen, for goodness sake…it wasn’t my fault they were butting their noses into my domain!  Ee gad!).  But I ultimately survived, appeared professional, passed out a couple dozen business cards, and hopefully, hopefully, will get a few jobs out of this.  Because this was for family friends.  Not exactly a profitable gig.  But seeing as it was my first, I proved to myself I could do it.  And do it impressively.  Score!

249 Days: Lentil Comfort

Agam's Dizingof Fountain

I’m sitting in one of my favorite Tel Aviv spots finishing off a lovely bowl of lemony black lentil and spinach soup: Dizi, a vegetarian cafe, DVD rental, and laundromat.  It’s right on Dizingoff square, across from an aging cinema, a flaking fountain, and the site of the twice-weekly antiques market.  It’s also around the corner from a tiny used book store that I discovered has a mega-collection of English-language sci-fi books selling for dirt cheap.   Not a bad place to spend an afternoon.  Oh, did I mention this cafe is also an internet place?  You can rent a laptop for 40 shekels/hour, and for customers, there’s free wi-fi.  What place doesn’t have wi-fi these days, of course, but still.  When i arrived in Israel last year, laptop-less, it was nice to be able to rent one for a while, work on CV’s, feel normal for a change.

DIZI Cafe Interior - I'm sitting on that sofa now!

I’m working on an article that I hope will be done done done within a couple hours, so that I can treat myself to a glass of wine and chocolate cake.  Ah, food.  Ah, lentils.  Ah, wine.  Ah, life.  And maybe I’ll have the courage to call the new man in my life, cutie gentleman that he is.

I got my ticket to India today, and I bought my mega huge insurance package.  Now…all I need is a VISA!  Please, please send good karma to the Indian Embassy in Tel Aviv, dear friends.  I need all the luck in the world.  One week to India…I hope…Fingers crossed!

260 Days: MASSIVE CHANGE

I quit my job yesterday.

I bought a ticket to India today.

I leave on December 1st.

When I get back on January 2nd, I immediately begin a 6-month manuscript workshop with an excellent instructor and small group to get my book beaten into shape enough for me to send to agents and publishers.

Also on January 2nd, I begin my life as a full-time freelance writer/food writer and personal chef.  I am already creating a business plan, of sorts, and I at least own the textbook bible how-to of setting up this kind of business (thanks to B).

I am shocked.  I am shocked and stunned and awe-struck because I am achieving my goals.  I wrote them down.  First, here in this blog, and second, on paper this week.  And I’m checking off the list.  I am nowhere near professional success…but I’m not on square one.  And I am much nearer personal success than I had believed.  I have accomplished or am about to accomplish the first four items on my list: finish the book; go to India; get a pet; find career/money/happiness balance.

• One – I’ve signed up for the manuscript workshop, it’s costing a lot, I have to work hard on the thing even before it starts (in the 2.5 weeks I have!), and I’ll be damned if I don’t make something of it with all of this structure I’m creating.
• Two – I got my ticket to India today!  I go for a month.  I wish it could be for two, but a month is a long trip, still.  I am being realistic.  I can’t see all of the country in this amount of time.  But I can focus on three or four regions, have a good time, and learn something.  I’m planning on taking classes on Punjabi and Kerala cuisines, and really try to get an amateur-mastery level before I come back.  Plus — I have number three to worry about…
• Three – I adopted two cats on August 8 of this year.  It was a spur-of-the-moment decision.  And I don’t think I would have done it otherwise and under different circumstances.  My sister asked me.  It was her last day on her archaeological dig, and the all kittens the site manager had brought with him from home to be adopted had been — apart from two.  I suspect they were the runt and the bad egg.  However, Cassiopeia (the runt) and Fischer (the bad egg, aka the tornado) have been wonderful.  After I got used to them.  The first month or two were very hard.  Very hard.  I always thought I was a pet person.  Instant companionship.  I felt invaded.  That my life was taken away from me.  My only safe haven in Israel destroyed.  But apart from keeping them from chewing on precious artwork (I live in my grandfather’s old art studio), and having to empty a litter box, they’re my family now.  I don’t love them like I love people.  But it’s nice not to be alone.
• Four – Figure out the work/life/money/creativity – well, I’m doing it.  I quit the job that was horribly for me in many, many ways.  And I’m going to put in a real, hard-working, 6-month effort at food and writing and food writing.

So, there you have it.  Living my dream.  Still, I’m alone on a Thursday night (like Friday night everywhere else in the world).  But it’s better.  I talked to several friends today, and I have some plans for the weekend.  No dating.  Kind of.  Mr 23 is still loitering in the outside lobby of my social life.  But tonight, I have an iMac, two (thankfully) sleepy cats, an apartment to clean, some old movies, a novel to edit, and a trip to India to plan.

Congratulate me, if you will, if you’ve read this far.  And let me know if you have suggestions for India.  I’m a (nearly) blank slate. You know, you can do it, too.  How simple it is.  Just write it down, and check the items off as you go.

My first blog entry: Just Another Number? Just Another Life.

My List of things to do before 30