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May in Miami

~ Eat well, travel often.

May in Miami

Monthly Archives: April 2013

Eating lunch

30 Tuesday Apr 2013

Posted by May in Feast

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

Adventure, band, bar, france, life, love, lunch, memories, music, Paris, quotes, whiskey

“Beautiful day today,” I tease my waiter. The air is too thick, the breeze smells like rain. The sun is taking the day off, which is fitting since today is my day off too. He laughs, “It is!” he insists regardless, with a velvety french accent.

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“Days like today remind me why I left Paris.” He gestured towards the sky, “The Sunshine state, as they say. No?” I blush. I’m here at my fave little french cafe because I miss Paris. Hungry for my European escape to start, restless for another month, I’ve sought comfort here. French music plays in the background, dangerously sexy accents fly across the kitchen, the smell of pan au chocolate hits your face as you walk in the door. It’s the most romantic little spot. I’ve frequented for years, always on days like today, a little cloudy, a little rainy. Perfect for a bottle of rosé and hours languidly picking at pâtés, walnuts and cheeses. I have every intention of indulging in every last last sip and bite of whatever I want. 

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I am one of three patrons here this afternoon, each of us in our respective corners. All of us, I shamelessly note, has a bottle of wine to ourselves. The owners are French- I’d met them years ago watching the World Cup at an Irish pub. I think one is here now, with an ever present cigarette in one hand, espresso in the other. It was like he’d left Paris for Miami, but brought a chunk of it with him, just in case.
 
The feeling I get being here, is exactly the feeling I get in Paris. I am an observer, and I am alone. I don’t know what it is- but I am almost always alone in Paris. My first of many visits was 6 years ago, Paris being  my first venture into Europe. I was fresh off of months of work aboard a yacht and was ready for my own adventure. 
 
I arranged to be there for weeks, leaving Michigan post Christmas, flying to Paris for New Years, and returning to Miami. It was such a thrilling idea in theory. Only now, years later, will I admit that I was lonely. 
 
I had planned everything leading up to my arrival and very little of what I’d be doing there for weeks by myself. One night, tired, lost and disoriented, I finally sat in a doorway trying to muster the courage to go eat solo again. A woman in a gorgeous full length fur coat walking a tiny white dog passed me, then doubled back. My jaw dropped at her presence, which filled the doorway (and probably all of Paris)  with assertive grace. She began in rapid French, which I meekly interrupted with, “Je ne parle pas français”. She asked me, in lovely English, where I was going and I told her I was looking for a restaurant. She quickly beckoned a right, left, right, and finished with a flourish, pointed finger in my face,
“In Paris- only meat, never fish” before rushing off into the night. 
 
I acclimated to my role of observer, and became familiar with places that are still favorites of mine to this day. One of which is a little Irish pub right by the Seine River in Saint Germain. I went one night to hear a band at the suggestion of the bartender and now friend, Eddy.
“They’re fantastic” he promised. 
 
Arriving early, I sat in front with the little red journal that I kept at all times, penning little snapshots of my time there for safe keeping. The bar filled, and the band took their place, the singer joking with the audience over his microphone as they tuned guitars and checked sound. As they began to play, and my Guinness started to slip down my throat, I warmed and sank into the music. 
 
It was a great night. The band played to the crowd, the crowd played to the band. Toasts were made, songs sung by all bonded us in the moment. The singer grabbed his mike, and as he started transitioning from one song to the next his eyes locked onto mine. 
“Where are YOU from?” He questioned. 
 
I gave him the- Me?…Really?!? face, tipped up my chin and said, “Miami.” 
“Well,” he laughed looking over the crowd. “Who’s going to buy Miami a drink?” Only then did I turn around and realize that I was the only single girl in the bar. Everyone whooped and hollered like good drunken friends and three shots of Jameson hit my table. Suddenly bashful, I gave one to the singer and raised my glass like a good Irish girl. “This,” he paused for emphasis, looking meaningfully at me. “This song is for you” he toasted and kicked back our whiskey.
 
“And so it is…” he began to sing the Damien Rice song, The Blowers Daughter. Immediately emotional, tears were in my eyes. I love that song, and as it was happening, I realized simultaneously it would be one of the most romantic moments of my life. Years later, no matter where I am, when I hear that song- I am forever the girl in the pub in Paris with tears running down her face; hopeful, romantic, hopelessly lost. 
 
Inspired, I wrote in my little red journal that night, after stumbling home full of life and love I penned, “I can’t wait to meet the man I’m going to spend my life with, so I can tell him how much I missed him in Paris.” It’s a phrase I’ve thought of a thousand times since then. 
 
Thunder begins to roll. Startled, it brings me back to the here, the now. I ask my waiter for “l’addicion s’il vous plait?” It’s fully raining,  drops splashing into my wine and over my plate. As I transfer inside, I change my mind and instead of leaving, I order an espresso and a pan au chocolat. I rationalize I’m not going anywhere. Not anytime soon anyway, so why not? Moments are mine, and this is no exception. I close my eyes, listen to the rain, and relax into my seat. 
 
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Making dinner

26 Friday Apr 2013

Posted by May in Feast, Love

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

chef, cooking, date, excitement, feast, Food, love, new, ocean, travel

I’ve been flirting, lately. A lot. Ill spare you the details about how he is halfway around the world, and how I saw him for only hours…over a year ago. How somehow, we’ve stayed in touch. Sporadically, he will cross my mind. I’ll smile, feeling warmth in my tummy and send him a quick hello from my side of the ocean. The important thing to know is this; if all goes well, I will see him soon.

Throughout the day my phone pings texts from him and my heart leaps. I love when its all new and exciting, when the possibilities are endless. What goes unsaid and unknown is woven into little hopeful romantic daydreams. I am in full girl crush mode, my anticipation level is through the roof. Especially when we start to talk about food.

Today I coyly, yet honestly- offered to cook for him. Sometime. Maybe.
His response, “What’s on my menu?”, stopped me mid prance. I fumbled a response about how I’d think about it and get back to him.

I rarely work from menus. My food is usually a manifestation of my thoughts and environment that moment. Something I saw, something I hope to replicate, refine, personalize. A change in the weather. A trip I took. The way I felt when I ate something, anything. Everything inspires me.

Cooking for someone, to feed someone, is so incredibly gratifying that its almost selfish on my part. It’s satiating feeding people I care about. But rarely do I cook for someone I like. It’s too much pressure. What one expects from a chef (I assume) is fantastically inspired food with perfect technique sprinkled with Michelin Stars. I haven’t disappointed anyone yet, but still. I can’t assume I know what they like, or how they like it. Its also a little intimidating. I don’t always use Michelin Stars when I cook. I prefer rustic and simple, yet one does not want to disappoint when one has upped their own ante.

There are other factors. Although I’m hardly a food snob, I have a hard time respecting overly picky eaters. The phrase “I don’t like it” is only ok for me from a child. And even then I’d respond, “How do you know? You’ve never tried it. What if it’s your favorite food and you’re missing out?”
(Side note- my double standard is this; I will not eat peanut butter. Or ketchup. Or mangos. So there.)

What to make for someone I’m trying to impress on a personal level is very different from the party tricks I pull on a professional job. What do I communicate through my food? My plate? I think of the things I love most when I eat; smoke, fat, meat, crunch, juice, acidity, balance, crisp, fresh, tender. My grandmother’s spaghetti sauce, my Mother’s apple pie. I am always looking for the next perfect bite. Not a thing on my plates is without purpose, everything is there in harmony with everything else. It is my craft, my art.

In the end, when I get the privilege to cook for this man, or when he gets the privilege to eat my food (however you want to look at it) of this I am sure, It will be something beautifully simple and honest, prepared with the utmost attention and care. What I give to other people through my cooking is love, from me. What it will be is yet to be determined, but oh the fun of daydreaming tastes delicious. Plenty enough to hold me over until I can taste the real thing. Until then : )

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Crossing the pond

23 Tuesday Apr 2013

Posted by May in Adventure

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

Adventure, beginning, books, epiphany, Europe, explore, Ireland, jet setting, library, love, Paris, peace, plateau, travel, universe, vision board, world

There is a tiny bookshop in Paris on the river Seine that I love. If you wander to the back and climb the steep wooden stairs, you’re treated to a lovely little library. Rows of older books line the shelves, not to buy, but to curl up with and read at your leisure. An afterthought; a perfect, organic finish to the room, there sprouts an almost unnoticeable tiny nook. It houses a school desk chair and a typewriter; serving only as a suggestion since the typewriter itself stopped working long ago.

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Like leaves on a tree, thousands of scraps of paper are carefully placed at every angle and every way imaginable so that when you sit at the desk, there are incredible sentiments penned everywhere you look. On metro tickets, the back of receipts, scraps of paper are written things like, “Paris summer 2010!!!”, “This is my favorite place in the world”, (and my favorite, which I seek and find every visit), “My Grandfather met my Grandmother here”.

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Last summer- alone, full of whimsy, high from Europe- not wanting to come down- ever…. I visited the little nook and paged through a book looking for my own space to write something. I’d sat in the same place many times before, never writing a thing, absorbing instead. I was intimidated, feeling as if only something significant would do. I looked around at all the new love notes, layered upon the old. Suspended at eye level to my left was the phrase Marc and I had thrown back and forth for my entire trip. It said only, “Where are you?” I laughed out loud and gave a nod to the universe and its candid sense of humor. I sat for a minute soaking it all up and finally penned into a tiny corner of a book page, “If you believe everything can happen, then it will”.

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Now, months later- I conjure that memory in my head. “I want to live in Miami six months- and then travel for 6 months”, I willed silently, eyes gently closed, breathing into the idea. I sat, allowing myself to explore the possibility of what I “want”. I. Me. Only Meaghan.

It has been almost a year and I am flushed just thinking of the possibilities. My own advice I wrote back in Paris…This is foreshadowing. The foreplay of words. I know it. I’m excited in a way that comes from my instinct tapping me on the shoulder. She’s already seen what happens, and she’s spoiling the ending for me. And yet, not really. I don’t know what is going to happen, but I know I’ve set myself up for something really good.

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I’ve learned that whatever I want is certainly possible. I dare to dream. I’m also spontaneous, resourceful and impulsive, so the recipe is there. I’ve thrown myself into unknown adventures so often that the thrill is comfortable, familiar, palpable even. Yet as things come together, the stars align, and everything starts to click into place, I’m still so full of grateful wonder. Do I really get to live this life?

I pass by my vision board, suspended on my wall, every day. The other day, I realized I’d stopped seeing it. Crouching down, as if to press my nose to it, I began to rearrange the magnets to see every detail. I marveled at the beauty of the cohesiveness of the images, like I was seeing them for the first time. I was reading my own treasure map. Fingers gliding across the images and phrases, I wondered how these things would come to fruition. After squirreling away hundreds of images over the year, I painstakingly, purposefully placed pictures that made me feel something, a pull from my subconscious. Perfectly in sync, these pictures were of things I hoped for. Seeing them every day helped guide me to them. That’s the thing, I smiled to myself. Wishes come true.

I have only whimsical fantasies of what this summer holds. For the longest, I didn’t have anything concrete. Except now…Now I have Ireland. After singing loudly in my car, and languidly perusing tour dates stuck in traffic. I now know that on July 14th I’ll be at Mumford and Sons. In Dublin. It is to date, maybe my best impulse purchase, and now serves as the anchor around which my entire summer swings. I’m going back to Europe. It calls! It’s pulling me for something, and I can’t wait to see what.

This means everything. Once I let myself wish for the opportunity, it presents itself. I find when the right things are happening, they are effortless. The elated feeling of sure-footedness and confidence are strong and present. It’s the things that are meant to be, that happen. Although assuredly at their own pace, and at the right time. Being open to opportunities is my key, being patient is my hard part. The journey? That is the best part. Eager and alive, adventurous and willing, confident that everything can, in fact- happen. I am ready.

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