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May in Miami

~ Eat well, travel often.

May in Miami

Tag Archives: writing

Making promises

10 Tuesday Dec 2013

Posted by May in Adventure, Feast, Love

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

discipline, Food, friends, goals, honor, hope, project, promise, restaurants, wine, writer, writing

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I promised something the other day. A promise so promising that the little hairs raised on my arms. It was not without a bit of hesitation- the tug I felt was a nagging reminder of my habit of over commitment. I get so excited about things and ideas that I overcommit myself. I’m invincibly capable and optimistic, I’m also flighty and passionate in spurts. I grant myself naps as easily as committing to 10k runs (note to self, T-7 days til the next one).

I’m sitting at the bar in my favorite restaurant; the place where I go for my birthday, the place I recommend to strangers, the place I take myself on dates. I’m lounging alone, shamelessly slurping truffled tagolini through my teeth, twirling pasta onto my fork with a spoon, savoring sips of Montepulciano between bites.

There is an ebb and flow to restaurant life that engages the best parts of me. I love the hustle and flow of hospitality; the service and care of food and wine, moments punctuated by clinks of glass, sounds of voices filling the space. It’s the rolling of an ocean of little moments of bliss. What an amazing industry this is.

“They treat the grapes like it’s an Amaronè,” Jen’s schooling me as she pours me another glass of wine. “It’s honey and sunshine,” she coos while pouring herself a taste. Jens in work mode, she’s speaking in the dignified respectful tone of voice she reserves for guests. I’m just her friend here in the midst of all this energy, contributing my commentary via written words and appreciation.

I’m writing a bit between courses, pondering the things that make us better. I’ve promised 10 min of writing a day- each day, until the 21st. I am desperate for the nudge I need to write regularly again. Honoring myself is one thing, honoring my friend’s faith and admiration is another. I adore her. I’m better because of her. I’m writing this on my phone in a restaurant at 11:30pm because I respect her- and am hopeful that this; like every other thing we’ve collaborated on is a brilliant success. Legendary tales of epic proportions. Magic between magical people. Also- I respect myself. I want to set goals and not only meet them, but crush them. I want to be a writer, but writers are only writers if they write.

I’ve decided to give myself permission to succeed- taking my wildest dreams and taming those damn stubborn fearful beasts into docile lap kitties. It is possible. I’m wrestling with doubts and fears- nothing more. I’m capable of whatever I want. Overcommitted or not, my playing small does not serve the universe.

I like this. All of it. The challenge, the spontaneity, writing to be better; to honor something bigger. It feels right. It tastes good. One step, one bite, one sip after another.

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Writing it down

05 Sunday May 2013

Posted by May in Adventure, Love

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Adventure, beginning, change, driving, epiphany, explore, future, hope, Hopeful, letter, love, note, quote, self, travel, universe, writing

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Back in September, I was driving late at night, suspended over the ocean on the causeway, top down, music slightly louder than my singing…. Utterly content, belly full of food and wine, I felt invincible. I felt like I was capable of whatever I wanted. Of course, the question popped into my head- What DO I want? I mean really truly deep down want in my life? I grabbed my phone, hit record, and began to ramble whatever thought went through my head. Keep in mind I was slightly cocked.

This- is that ramble of thoughts. I listened to it today- going through old voice memos on my phone. A little funny, a little scattered, I’d completely forgotten about it. It’s been 6 months- and it’s curious to see what’s come true and what’s coming to fruition. Regardless, it feels like a time capsule, a nod from my subconscious. A “Hello future self” letter to me, from me. A little reminder to keep me focused on what I want to surround myself with, who I want to be.

Sept 19, 2012
1:41 AM
Things that I want;
I want perfectly soft scrambled eggs. I never want to eat burnt toast. Bread should crackle like it does in France. I want chewy bacon. I want medium rare steaks.

I want pants that fit correctly. I want heels that are the perfect height, and never give me blisters. I always want my hair to look absolutely amazing.

I want my women selfless, kind and generous. I want my men to be slightly unavailable, completely loyal dashing gentlemen.

I want to be able to travel anywhere I could possibly want to go. I want to be able to make my job photography, writing, food and travel.

I want to be held to the highest regard because I am completely respected. I am admired, and I am trusted. People want to be around me, people want to be me, people want to be with me. I want to be important, but I want to be completely unaffected by it. I donʼt want to be an asshole.

I want to spend the rest of my life from here on out with the man that I am supposed to be with. I want to be with somebody that I adore as naturally as breathing. We’ll bring out the best in each other, inspiring and supporting, each the others biggest fan. We’ll reciprocate all that is good, build something strong. I want us to be stupidly, ridiculously consumed with love. We’ll have our own language; our routines, habits and inside jokes invent our own universe amongst everyone else here. I want the world to be ours, and I want our world to revolve around each other.

I want to write. I want to have the diligence and perserverance and patience to be able to write things that are really important. I want to be able to write things that are unimportant. I want to be able to write whatever comes to my mind, have the wherewithal to be able to continue it, and pursue it in a way that is consistent enough that I could do something like a blog or a book or a movie…. I want to be able to submit that to somebody and have them say, “Where have you been? Youʼre revolutinizing things! You are brilliant we are going to publish this immediately! We couldnʼt be happier.”

And to this I will say “ Yesss yess yesssss….”

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Wearing a sweater

29 Tuesday Jan 2013

Posted by May in Love

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Tags

Adventure, explore, friend, friendship, Haiti, superman, sweater, world, writing

I wake up, and with my eyes still closed, I realize there is someone in my apartment. Noises; shuffling, drawer, bottle top popped. I am hardly cognizant of anything other than how parched I am. Vaguely noting my general lack of alarm, all sensory aptitude coated in a hazy sleep cloud, I remember. Nathan is here. Oh, right.

“Mmmmmmph”, I summon, and stretch myself across the sheets. “You’re here,” I state the obvious, sleepy and needy. He appears with water. “Did you sleep here?” I asked, still a bit drunk. He laughed. “You were awfully cuddly for someone who doesn’t remember someone else in their bed.”

This startles me. Was he teasing? Or did my subconscious recognize him through my blackout and snuggle in like a puppy in a huddle? It’s certainly possible. We’ve never been in the same country long enough to actually date, but we’ve always held an odd candle for each other. Over the years we’ve evolved to a kind of beautiful plutonic love. The feeling that you get from wearing your ex boyfriends cashmere sweater; it was something else once, but now it’s gently comfortable and familiar, nostalgic even. That is my Nathan now. Definition unnecessary, we just are.

He is back from volunteering in Haiti doing medical work in situations that I, nor 90% of the planet have the capacity to comprehend. It is one of the thousands of things about him that I marvel at. He’d walked into the clinic and was stunned by the instant relief and gratitude for his presence. “Thank God you’re here,” they’d said. I could just picture him looking over his shoulder for the person behind him that they were surely talking to, not realizing that he was their hero. Of course, he jumped right in. A woman tending to a man needing stitches said to Nathan, “Here, stitch him up and I’ll be right back”. Despite the fact he’d never done that before, he stitched him up. “She never came back.” He said, telling me the story. My hands flew to cover my open mouth at the mere idea of stitching someones face . “But he looked great.” He laughed. “I high-fived him on the way out.”

He is in the states for 4 whole days before heading to Africa, a long stretch for him. He’s never somewhere for long. He moves seamlessly from one amazing cause to the next, leaving every thing and everyone better. One of his more endearing traits is just that. He has no idea how incredible he is. He is modest and humble in a way that you only see from someone who is so complete with themselves, they are able to truly give to others without needing anything in return. From his perspective, it’s just his life.

He’s just the regular guy that free dives the deepest oceans, has been attacked by sharks twice, taught children English in Korea, has been a Chef, an Engineer, and apparently a doctor. He spent months on a whale watching expedition. He can play guitar, dance and speak Spanish from a stint in Guatemala. He writes love letters. And once, he laid on the top deck of a yacht with me under the stars in the Bahamas and planned out my “things to do before I turn 30” list. He has been to every corner of the globe, probably twice, and is as brilliant as he is charming. He even slightly resembles Superman.

The night before, both of us desperate from a break from our current situations, we’d plunged into the type of Miami night that can not be planned. A birthday drink with a friend turned into a feast at La Sandwicherie, shots at The Deuce and karaoke at Studio. It was a grimy free for all kind of fun that you can only achieve by not caring abut a single thing, toasting everything and regretting nothing.

I needed it so bad. Nathan being there was like therapy. Of course I couldn’t shut up about my stupid ex stress, and Nathan listened like the great person he is despite coming from Haiti a few hours earlier. A place with actual problems. “Well, that says a lot about his childhood.” He’d pointed out when I told him how abandoned I felt. “That’s probably what happened to him, and why he does that now.” We sipped Hierbas from Ibiza, Amstel Lights, and backed it up with the Haitian rum Nathan had gifted me, fully aware that the night held exactly the kind of promise one could hope for when one starts by triple fisting drinks.

This morning he had woken up after only sleeping a few hours, needing to purge thoughts onto a page. Waking up to the sound of him typing on my laptop was sweet. The result was an incredible email, sent to loved ones and myself. When forwarded to my mom she responded with, “Left reeling by the power of these words. Reading this makes me realize I don’t use my brain, or my life to anywhere near its capacity. What a wonderful human. How good he is for humanity.”

Before he left, all too soon, I showed him my Nathan Diaries. A series of emails between us that spanned our 5 years as friends. We sifted through letters, reading each others writing. It is the closest thing I have to an actual diary, seeing as though I never seem to write as consistently as I promise myself. It is enlightening to read over years of our struggles and triumphs, our paths winding around the world on land and at sea. Despite always being apart, we are so connected. Knowing he is always mid adventure inspires me.

I sit now wearing a sweater he’d worn the night we went out, the two of us again in different hemispheres, grateful for his words.

“So often I catch us sneaking a glance at the last page and then just putting the book down. That just leaves us with nothing to read, and far worse, seems to say that the point of a book is the last page! If that we’re true the best books would be the shortest and the most certain way to enjoy a book would be to read it quickly. Neither is true. We read for the love and the joy of it and I’m pleased you got to the end of this story the way it was intended.”

For his words… inspire mine.

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Reading a fortune

29 Monday Oct 2012

Posted by May in Feast

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Tags

beginning, break up, change, date, epiphany, focus, humor, jet setting, love, new, old, proposal, single, writing

For days, a week even, I’ve been not so patiently waiting for the urge to write. It’s a very unsettled feeling- I need a release…but in order to let it go, I need to be inspired by something. I am like a maple tree waiting to be tapped. I am so full of thoughts and ideas and stories, but unless there’s something to encourage the sap to flow from my soul to the page, I get stuck. My dear friend in Australia and I were chatting the other night about this very thing. She asked me how my writing was going and I told her the truth, “I can’t force it. I just get frustrated. I have to strike when I get inspired, then it just flows”. To this, my keen, dear, wonderful friend replied, “You’re a true artist then.”

Feeling unsettled has become normal lately as I am in an oddly resigned stage of singledom. I want to be next to a man who isn’t here, and I’m feeling his absence deeply. In the meantime, I’ve pushed myself to get involved in numerous things, and I am so grateful for the distractions. Anything to pass the time until  he arrives back in Miami for season. He is a jet setter, guided by the urge to come and go as he pleases, the rhyme and reasons of which I have rarely understood or been privy to.

I teased him once, reminding him that when 90% of people talk of seasons, they are usually referring to the weather. I get momentarly submerged with a wave of anxiety when I think that he will be here. Here… a mere mile away from me, any time now. I have to calm and center myself, telling my heart that everything happens exactly as it should; that all I can do is love him, and hope that he loves me back. Whatever we are meant to be, we will be.

I am grateful there has been so much going on in my life. I had the honor of planning a wedding, and after months of strategic organization, the event went off beautifully. The couple got married at a little church who describes itself like this, “No matter who you are, or where you are on life’s journey, you are welcome here.” Post ceremony, the smiling throng of guests celebrated with cheers and applause. It was a full blown parade escorted by a band to the reception a few blocks down the way. Groomsmen carried a “Just Married” banner, ribbons and bells were passed out to the guests to wave overhead, and the glowing bride and groom led the way, hand in hand.

They had bought out a restaurant for the evening. They were fans of the Chef, the decor, and the ambiance of the place. It fit them perfectly. Even though the venue had never done anything like this before, the genuine effort made by the incredible staff blew me away. Everything was just so. The food was the focal point, huge spreads of charcuterie, cheeses, oysters, and veggies adorned the restaurant as delicious decor.  More food was served than anyone thought was humanly possible to eat. The flowers were perfect, arranged in house by an incredibly talented staff member. The photos in decorative frames had been replaces with their own quirky engagement pics. The bathrooms were decorated with toilet paper tossed around like a high school prank, the TP itself adorned with stick figure bride and grooms.

After the parade transitioned into cocktail hour, I watched the evening festivities unfold- adhering to my minute by minute schedule I kept  folded into itself in my pocket, confident and fully present in my wedding planner role. Looking around at all the details, the people, what blew me away was the incredible energy ricocheting around the place. I was deeply honored to plan someone’s wedding, and I took the responsibility very seriously. Everything had gone perfectly, and I was glowing with accomplishment and genuine affection for the friends and family surrounding me. Wedding traditions were guiding the evening,  and after everyone had feasted and had a proper cocktail in their hands, it was time to toss the garter and bouquet.

My ex loved to toss things to me, just to see me over dramatically flinch and flail- completely incapable of catching anything, ever. I do not catch, as a general rule. I drop everything as if someone had literally tossed me a hot potato. Yet somehow, when the bride tossed the bouquet, it arced through the air and hit my hands like a magnet. I stood there stunned, stupidly smiling, the next one to be married.

The night had slowed to a simmer, everyone toasty from bourbon and full from midnight snacks, the last few to stay were the last ones who wanted to call it a night. We had another mini parade straight to our collective favorite bar. Almost immediately, a tall, handsome man approached me- the single girl, holding the bouquet. My fancy for hopeless romantics and the air of wedding bliss thick amongst us, I let myself get swept into a new possibility just for a min. After all, it would make a great story.

He asked me what I was doing next Wednesday and I sat, trying to figure out whether I should begin to explain how wholly unavailable I was. He took off his expensive, fancy watch, and without me answering his question, said to me, “Let’s get married Wednesday,” as he slipped the watch around my wrist explaining, “This is until I can get you a ring.”  My jaw dropped, then I burst out laughing. “Charming,” I teased him, shaking my head. “You don’t know the first thing about me.”

I knew immediately, this wasn’t the man for me. This guy didn’t stand a chance. I had been with someone whose goal was to make me feel special and appreciated. His intentions were genuine, not just to get me into bed, which I firmly believed due to overwhelming evidence. Our last visit, we had stayed true to his decision to be celibate. And he had flown me to Spain. SPAIN. It was the first time in a long time I was with someone who’s only purpose was to make me feel special, and he did. It was enlightening, empowering. In a world where it seems every guy’s goal is getting laid, I am so grateful to have been enlightened to the fact that there is so much more than that. I will not settle.

About a week later, I woke up, inexplicably at just past 6 AM in the morning. I lay still, silent, trying to figure out what had roused me. In my first waking moments I succumbed, thick with sleep, to the reality that once I am awake, falling back asleep is incredibly elusive for me. I rolled over, sinking into that thought and my phone buzzed. My heart leapt as I looked at it.

It was him.

“These are my kind of Sunday fundays.” He responded to the pic I had sent to him of the rack of lamb I had seared off and finished with Moroccan mustard. I love sending him food pics, even though his responses are as rare as the perfectly cooked lamb I had devoured the night before. (Forever a Chef, I had cooked lamb as an appetizer for  my friends before eating delivered Chinese food.) He is still in Spain, and although we still keep similar sleeping hours, his side of the planet’s clock is out of sync with mine by 6 hours. And yet… I wake up moments before he texts me- still inexplicably connected to this man. I feel him.

I responded with something I hadn’t been coy enough to say in awhile, sleepy and brave and needy I typed, “Baaaaaaabbbbbyyyy”. He quickly asked if he had woken me up and I told him that I had awoken moments before, for no reason at all. Both of us realizing we were curled up in bed, in our own corners of paradise far far away, I reminded him,
“We’re connected…..Still.”

Encouraged by a rare receptiveness from him, and still too sleepy to over analyze and complicate things, I sent him a pic of my fortune cookie from the night before. The phrase so accurately described the root of my conflict within myself. I know he wants to move on, be single, doesn’t want a relationship, but no matter what he says I can’t stop the feeling in my heart that we aren’t finished. What he says is one thing, what he does speaks volumes. Even though he said that we weren’t going to work out, he kept me in his life, and by his side in at least three different countries this year. We went to Paris 3 times in 6 months. We briefly rekindled for that week in Ibiza where he granted one of my lifelong dreams of swimming in the Med, taking me for my first dip off the back of a boat, his hand in mine, the two of us sinking into the sea together. “You deserve this,” he’d said to me.

We haven’t been a couple since June, but I feel like I’m still his. Despite being painfully aware of how vulnerable this makes me, I feel it. I love him, but I have set that feeling free, and it brings me peace. I know that people who want to be in my life, will be in my life. I have spent way too much energy analyzing and pining and wallowing. My poor overworked head says, “This is over.” My heart simply smiles and says, “It’s not.”

The night before had been a nice reprieve. Surrounded by friends, enjoying the company and a night in, I had smiled and mentally high fived the universe when I crumbled the cookie in my hand and pulled out the slip of paper.

My fortune read,

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Making an Omelette

06 Saturday Oct 2012

Posted by May in Adventure, Feast

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

Adventure, beginning, chef, cooking, help, kitchen, learning, love, mentor, shoemaker, taste, writing, yacht

I am so hungry. I am staring at my computer screen, wrought with the overwhelming task of trying to whittle down a lifetime of ideas to an appropriate point to start a blog, and all I can think is that I’m hungry. Very. I give up, and open my fridge.

I love the rhythm of cooking. Efficiency of movement guaranteeing not a bit of energy is wasted. Room temperature eggs sit, waiting to be whipped. Tea kettle full and warming, quick careful consistent knife strokes slice through red onion and zucchini. I heat the pan not bothering to wipe out the truffle oil from last nights popcorn snack, pour the hot water into my favorite mug and flick the tip of my knife through the tiny string of my tea bag- cutting the lifeline and letting the bag sink and steep, admiring how at home I feel with 8in of sharp steel in my hand. It makes me feel bad ass. I am grateful for the ease of it all.

There was a time I wasn’t so graceful cooking. In the beginning, I bumbled and fumbled through the kitchen blissfully unaware of how amateur I looked, hacking apart vegetables and boiling over unsalted water. It took time, and many patient teachers gently sliding my grip from the knife handle to the knife blade, curling my fingers until my knuckles were flush with scary steel.

I watched chefs with awe. I had only my palate, which was untrained yet naturally knew how to put together food that tasted delicious. That was the end of my talent. My technical skills in a kitchen were non-existent. I had been hired by someone to cook professionally who thought my food was delicious, and had no idea I was holding my knife the wrong way. Eager for a new opportunity, and fueled by the fact that someone had eaten my food and was willing to pay me to cook, I threw myself into a professional arena I knew nothing about. I was a Chef on a yacht!

I learned on the job. I absorbed everything I could. I was determined to be great at what I was doing, but lacked the confidence that only experience can bring. Long after I proved I had chops, I was still secretly terrified that someone would come and whip back the curtain one day and point their finger at me while yelling “She’s not really a Chef!!”.

For a long time, I cooked by myself. I was in an industry where people would hire you based on reputation, job duration, and salary requirements and you’d be on a plane heading to a yacht somewhere without anyone ever tasting your food.I figured out things on my own and tried to learn all I could, but I was no Chef. I am who I am in the kitchen now thanks to the people I got to work with. Now, I am reminded of them in most everything I do; the way I slice an onion, the way I plate food, I learned from someone who took the time to show me.

Food has a universal language, there is a collective brotherhood amongst Chefs. My mentors came from everywhere in the world, and from every culinary background. There is precision in way they move; the way they hook their fingers over bottle openings measuring a pour, the way their hands are held high above the food as the sprinkle grainy kosher salt. The phrase itself, “salt to taste” meaning, add enough salt to make it taste good. How does one hone that instinct? I was in awe. I wanted to look like that. It was a dance, it was art. It was professional, and commanded immediate respect. Cooking takes pride, and love, and skill, and I wanted into that club badly.

“I don know how you cook, but you cook!” Tony would say in his indescribable accent mashed from living half his life in Spain, and half his life in France. “Zees food!” he would say, with large sweeping hand gestures. “Your food eez delicious my darling”. I would glow from his compliments, and worked really hard to justify them. He cooked like a maniac. He was best when he’d had a few beers, even if it was 10AM and we were floating on a mega yacht off the coast of Mexico, far from a proper bar. He’d blast the Gypsy kings and scratch prep lists in thick black sharpie. He would spend his nights, sometimes well into the morning hours, in thick jackets and a hat, shivering in the freezer carving ornate sculptures from ice. Tony made me feel like I could do anything, and I worshiped him.

He took me one incredibly rare evening that neither of us was cooking to a Parisian bakery, hidden, it seemed amongst rocky streets of Puerto Vallarta. The fact that there was even a bakery there at all made no sense to me, much less a proper Parisian bakery with pastel pillow arrangements of macaroons and impossibly buttery, light, crisp croissants that immediately melted onto your tongue. He was friends with the owner, and they spoke with affection for each other in rapid, dramatic French. I will never forget that meal, in the Frenchman’s little apartment upstairs from his bakery. We ate intestines, and snails, and goat one bite at a time from the outdoor charcoal grill- incredibly exotic for me at the time, yet every last bite was consumed. I was surrounded with international guests, the 5 of us without a common language. Everyone spoke either French, Spanish or English, everyone nodding and laughing at the appropriate times even if they didn’t understand. Somehow as wave after wave of food came from the grill, and the kitchen and bottles of wine emptied, we all laughed and drank and understood each other perfectly. I felt the magic of a perfect meal. I felt like I belonged.

It is a beautiful thing, to learn to cook. It comes from an instinct to nourish, and create. There is a music to food, it requires all of your senses. Pressing your finger into a steak, feeling for firmness to tell the temp. Listening to the way food sounds as its cooking, pops and snaps and gurgles telling you where it’s at. The moment intuition kicks, and you inexplicably, know to pull something from the oven. The smells, their progression, the tiny tastes taken along the way with a dip of your finger, the back of a spoon. The visual art of presentation- watching a chef place food on the plate, the sheer intensity of it, the concentration and precision demands silence. No one chatters while the Chef is plating. The moment, that it is perfect- the look at the server, the words, “Ok, go”.

“Dress your greens,” David told me as I was assembling a sandwich. It was from him I learned the most. “Clean as you go.” He was an amazing teacher, but I was an unreceptive student. Unfortunately, it was because we were dating. Living and working together on a yacht meant that in the event that you needed space, there wasn’t any.

He was way more qualified to be the Chef than I was. I was a cocky asshole by that time, overestimating my experience. I would deflate when he would correct me. I felt like he was the one I’d been dreading. He was the guy who pulled back the curtain, exposing my shortcomings.

“Don’t be a shoemaker” he scolded, catching me in the middle of a shortcut. “A what?” I’d asked, immediately defensive.“A shoemaker.” He explained. “Someone who half asses what they’re doing. Do it the right way, follow through. You can taste it in the food.”

I thought back to the day he walked into the galley one morning and commanded “Open”, popping a piece of pineapple into my mouth. I chewed and pulled out the tiny pock mark of brown I’d left on the outside edge. “Do you want to eat that?” he asked me. “No” I replied, feeling small. “Let me show you how to cut a pineapple,” he offered and showed me exactly how to take this bumpy football of a fruit and cut it into perfect tiny slices that fanned across the plate.

Looking back, I wish that I’d had the maturity to be receptive to his constructive criticism. He is amazing in the kitchen. He taught me how to move. I loved to watch him cook, each of his movements ninja like, quick, efficient. He had such flair- tossing food by flipping pans with swooping arcs, everything flying through the air and landing back into itself. Chop chop chopping his knife across the cutting board with such ease and speed.

He was culinary trained, and subsequently spent years in the kitchen learning painfully the way the game is played in a restaurant. The scrutiny, the tiers of respect, the intense pressure, the comradery. There is a constant measure of your worth, judged and re judged every time you put food on a plate. He learned in the kitchens of award-winning Chefs, and it showed in his every movement.

I take my favorite plate out and set it down, thinking the china blue will be the perfect back round for the gentle yellow and green and purple of my meal. The plate was a gift, a throw back, really, from a photo shoot for a cook book a favorite Chef had produced. Chef Michael Schwartz was a James Beard award-winning Chef, and yet managed to stay completely unaffected by all the glitz and glam that had seized the food world, launching Chefs to celebrity rock star status. I glowed, thinking of my admiration, my total food crush I had for this man. I had waited tables in his restaurant for a year, just to be close to his food. Though he was rarely in the kitchen, having been ushered instead into the famous Chef arena still in his Chuck Taylors and T-shirts that said things like “coleslaw”, his presence was there in every detail. It was his Chef de Cuisine, Brad that ran the kitchen.

It was from Brad and Michael I learned to respect food in it’s simplicity. They sourced things locally, seasonally, and did everything in-house. If they couldn’t get tomatoes from Florida, they simply took them off the menu. The creativity there was palpable. Everyone in the kitchen had a bit of ownership, and contributed ideas.

I always stood a little taller and smiled a little bigger when Brad would beckon me into the kitchen and ask me to help come up with something. The menu changed daily, and standards were high. The things they came up with were incredible. They once hunted and served local wild boar, creatively utilizing every last bit that didn’t get broken down and shoved into the wood fire oven. He made porchetta, letting it cook for hours until the skin puffed up and you could crack it in your teeth like hard candy. Huge local fish came down the pass in the mornings to be portioned off and served that evening.

He served things you never see on menus, cheeks, tongue, necks and feet, eyeballing us at pre-shift saying, “don’t be scared”, meaning; make sure your guests order this because they’ll love it. I was constantly excited by the things they came up with, it was easy to engage the guests. I had a genuinely good time acting as a server, guiding people through amazing dining experiences night after night.

Brad’s respect for food, the industry, and how a kitchen should be run are far more mature than his 20 something years let on. He is respected. He is hard-core, and just enough of an asshole to keep everyone in line. I invited him to dinner at my house once, laughing at the look of shock on the line cook’s faces when I said I’d be cooking for Brad. He and his beautiful wife and their almost human dog came over on a rare Monday evening off. I was more excited to have them over just to hang out than I was about the food. I’m pretty sure I overcooked the pork and didn’t let the sauce reduce enough- but it was more about sharing a meal with friends than it was cooking for a mentor. He finished everything on his plate. The only compliment you could hope for from Bradley was, “This doesn’t suck”, but late that night, after everything had been eaten and we were topping off wine glasses, he thanked me and said everything was great. I floated for days.

My meal is almost ready…I pour olive oil from the long slender glass bottle, finger hooked over the opening, drizzling the perfect amount over fresh peppery arugula. I fold smoked motz into fluffy eggs, pulling them from the heat and letting them cook into themselves for the last moments. I glance at the 5 different kinds of salt I have in my kitchen, settling on the salt I picked up in Ibiza. It’s crunchy, and glitters the way sand does in the sun.

Hand held high above the plate, I salt to taste.

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