#i love artichoke and i have one in my possession now how could i not want to consume it immediately

[returntosaturn271995]

Sunday, August 18th: Brat Summer, Demure Fall, and all the other memes that make horrible sense

First of all: check it. Soil could help save 1/7th of our super deadly carbon emissions. Is my ultimate conspiracy theory that it's already to late to save the planet but scientists can't handle all of humanity panicking? Yup. Still, uplifting.

Reading: Princess Diana's autobiography. Also Anna-Marie Tendler's autobiography got absolutely ROASTED by Celebrity Memoir Book Club and that has swiftly become my new favorite podcast.

Writing: An essay on running from a depressive view point

Cooking: Made artichoke and feta burgers today. Heavy is the hand that adds the garlic.

Political Awareness: Kamala Harris wants to incentivize affordable housing, ban fracking, and curb "greedflation" on important medications. JD Vance wants to fuck a couch. How is this election fucking close?

Loving Relationships: Monika, Makenna, Dad, Mom, Lauren, Ash, Bonnie, Natalie, Aunt Kelly and so on. No beef as far there is beef to be had. Such a relief always to be surrounded by the right people for me.

Getting Outside: Ruined my hair but I slathered on some sunscreen a ran around PB for a solid 30 minutes. It's pathetic how quickly I'm memorizing what streets have shade on them. Grabbed a Pressed Juice that went down a little spicy.

Dressing w/ style: Light green and white floral midi-dress handed down to me from Makenna (so sweet), white slide sandals, and a simple single pearl on a necklace.

Cleaning: My eyes may have lost a layer of moisture but the toilet is shining, the mirrors in the house have been windexed, and the floors have been mopped. I took out the trash and put away the dishes. Still to brace ourselves: dealing with the now very dead and rotting bee hive in the wall. *gags* Why do bad things happen to good bee-killers?

Organization: Planned like a woman possessed for the week ahead. Tomorrow for rougher tasks I plan to implement the Pomodoro technique- and maybe implicitly acknowledge I have ADHD in the process.

Yoga: 20 minutes stretching and supposedly relaxing while reruns of The Bear (the most intense show about beef) were shown on TV. Downward Dog? Yes, Chef.

Cardio: Those stretches were needed however as I hit 200 miles today baby! Knocked out a 5 K and my larger goal while sweating and listening to the "Six" musical soundtrack. Can I get a buzzer? Goalllllll! You didn't think I could do it, did yah? WELL, I DID, MOTHAHFUCKAHS. And while this is definitely a late 20s cry for importance, it's still cheaper than having a baby.

Meditation: I actually whipped out my meditation cushion and incense for today's focus on shedding. What does one gain from meditation? Nothing. It's about what we lose: fogginess, anxiety, impatience, and the need to change the current moment. I found myself so excited about the plans I made for tomorrow and realized I could channel that energy in to the very moment, the very next habit I wanted to nail.

Comedy: I reminded myself of one of my own favorite beginning quotes: You know whose had it too good for too long? Also writing a bit about when addicts swing to health extremes and suddenly act with authority. "Mmmm you once chased me through a vons parking lot on what you were 'pretty sure' was ketamine., but thanks Dr. Oz."

Some version of: that it's great that you went to rehab but it doesn't make you wiser or more of an expert on life now, it's kind of like bragging to other kids that you're more educated than them because you had to go Summer School.

Hydration/Sobriety: Check and check

Sunscreen/Skincare: I'm over here looking like a dolphin

New experiences: Never made that type of burger or drank that pressed juice, never have ran that exact running route, never wore that green dress before, never had listened to the Comedy Memoir Book Club before, never cleaned with such effective bleach before annnnd I woke up earlier today because I played a memory game on my new alarm.

Woof, just reading that I'm a little ty ty. A day worth living that got 100%.

[coldbug]

girl who went to walmart at 9:30pm for goat cheese who’s now about to cook an artichoke at 10pm

[thefearlessgastronomist]

Cookbooks I’m Excited to Dive into in 2019

Cravings: Recipes for All the Food You Want to Eat & Cravings: Hungry for More

BY CHRISSY TEIGEN

I used to be indifferent to Chrissy Teigen. She was that lady married to John Legend and a television personality (what exactly does she do on Lip Sync Battle anways?)... but that that was about it. I didn’t even know or remember her as a model.

Then her cookbooks came out. I don’t know what it is about her recipes, but I think everyone was just as surprised as me at the success of Chrissy’s cookbooks. And naturally, their popularity piqued my interest. While many ingredients and meal ideas are day-to-day staples (like pork chops or mac+cheese), the spicy twists and Thai turns on various foods truly are recipes for food you want to eat. Paging through both books, I’m fairly certain I said “Yum” or “I want to try that” for just about every recipe. Not to mention, her humor makes her so incredibly personable.

Pull Up a Chair: Recipes from My Family to Yours

BY TIFFANI THIESSEN 

I’ve mentioned Tiffani before, but let me do it again.

The first recipe of hers that I tried in my own kitchen was the Blackberry Jam portrayed on her show, and it became an instant hit (I even gave small jars away as parting gifts for a family get together; it is amazing on vanilla ice cream). As simple as making jam may be, I knew then that I wanted to try more of her recipes. I immediately ordered her cookbook when it was released. 

Some of her recipes I might consider slightly posh, but trust me when I say they still easily doable and sound absolutely delicious. Just remind me to try her Grilled Artichokes again, now that I actually know how to properly eat them. *facepalm* Also, her hostess flair comes through in the last section of the book called “Picture Perfect Parties” – which has menu, decor ideas, and other such notes for hosting various types of get-togethers (i.e. tailgates, brunches, family campouts, etc.)

The Home Cook: Recipes to Know by Heart

BY ALEX GUARNASCHELLI

Over the years watching Food Network and Cooking Channel, I’ve really become a fan of Alex Guarnaschelli. She’s a fellow Italian (Italians have an unspoken bond lol), the first female to win Iron Chef and the second overall female Iron Chef (after Cat Cora), but really... the lady just knows her stuff. When I heard that she was releasing a cookbook, I was super excited to get my hands on it. Yes, me being excited about books of any form is a recurring theme for me.

One thing I look forward to in Alex’s cookbook – as well as with Giada’s down below – is experiencing how a fellow Italian does Italian food (although that is merely a portion of The Home Chef). We all have our own interpretations of Italian dishes based on our individual backgrounds. But I suppose that could be true of many cultures and many dishes. 

Also mildly prevalent in Alex’s cookbook is the sort of... “upscale” demeanor that I might associate with professionally educated chefs. It’s not many cookbooks you find recipes for bouillabaisse, unless they trained went to culinary school or studied in France  – or in Alex’s case, the two combined (she attended La Varenne Cooking School in Burgundy, France). 

Magnolia Table: A Collection of Recipes for Gathering

BY JOANNA GAINES

I always try to resist the charm of Chip and Joanna Gaines... but guys, it’s really hard. And, not gonna lie, a lot of the merchandise from their line at Target is SO PRETTY and on my wishlist 😍 Damn you, Gaines’s. 

While I am not entirely into the modern farmhouse aesthetic showcased on Fixer Upper or loosely included in their Target line, I am really feeling the down-to-earth homey recipes that Joanna shares in Magnolia Table. Many have that “fresh from the farm” Southern feel (based on her childhood in Kansas), where a handful of others include her Korean and Lebanese heritage. 

Eat What You Watch: A Cookbook for Movie Lovers

BY ANDREW REA

I discovered this book at work and I absolutely LOVE the concept! In fact, I’ve been plotting a project for myself with a similar concept (more on this later). 

Eat What You Watch encompasses 40 recipes to help recreate the amazing food moments in film – butterbeer from Harry Potter, the apple strudel from Inglorious Basterds, the titular ratatouille from Ratatouille. Essentially, this cookbook is the PERFECT way to combine my two favorite things. And I’ll get to watch some new movies in the process 😋

Giada’s Italy: My Recipes for La Dolce Vita 

BY GIADA DE LAURENTIIS

I have an... interesting connection to Giada de Laurentiis. 

Noooo, no it’s not just because of our shared Italian heritage (she was born in Rome!), but rather a foodie experience I had a few years ago. 

In late 2016, I traveled to Las Vegas with my aunt for her birthday. As a special birthday meal, we dined at Giada’s namesake restaurant on Vegas Strip. Sparing you the details, I think this was actually the first fancy-ish and refined dining experience I’ve ever really had. I spared no expense and splurged as much as I could, from appetizer to dessert. I really don’t know how to explain it properly but Giada just holds a special place in my and my aunt’s hearts thanks to this experience we shared. Later on, I even planned and together we cooked an entire meal inspired by our experience, utilizing Giada’s own recipes from her website Giadzy. 

Unlike her other books, however, I felt that this one was more authentic. There are the people that want “everyday” and “weeknight” recipes for oversimplified meals, but Giada’s Italy to me just felt more... real. More Giada than her other titles. And, as I mentioned along with Alex Guarnaschelli’s book, I look forward to tasting Giada’s interpretation of Italian food, especially knowing that Giada’s recipes incorporate a Californian flare, spawning by her childhood in Los Angeles. 

Bread Illustrated  BY AMERICA'S TEST KITCHEN

This cookbook is part of my ever-evolving desire to cook more items from scratch. As an Italian (I know I know, I’ve already mentioned this too much in this post), there are two things we (or at least I) really love as eaters: pasta and bread. It seems only natural for me to be excited to utilize this book. And, of course, it makes the house smell amazing! There’s nothing like the aroma of baked goods. I am always so fascinated by how varying measurements of flour, yeast, and wet ingredients can create beautifully diverse loaves of bread.

Mediterranean Cookbook

EDITED BY MARIE-PIERRE MOINE

A final repetition of this concept – Mediterranean Cookbook is another way I want to discover Italian food interpretation. However, this title is also much, much more than that. The Greek, Spanish, Andalusian, etc. foods within Mediterranean Cookbook allow me to uncover the flavors of the entire region, flavors that go well beyond Italy. I just might have to get over my distaste for olives to tackle this one.

Equally as entertaining will be trying to understand and use the titles of dishes – most, if not all of them, are not in English. But, if anything, I consider it a way to immerse myself into the culture of each dish.

Regions include (listed in the index): Middle East, North Africa, Morocco, Portugal, Spain, France, Italy, Sicily, Greece, and Turkey.

HONORABLE MENTIONS: The Book of Greens: A Cook's Compendium by Jenn Louis with Kathleen Squires In a strange turn of events, I've taken an interest in *gasp* salads and vegetables and healthier foods 😝 And while I also purchased The Vegetable Butcher by Cara Mangini a couple years ago, I knew it couldn't hurt to get my hands on a book just about greens; how to select, break down, cook them AND what flavors pair well with them. Let's be real, I just love any book that is essentially an encyclopedia for chefs. Instant Pot Electric Pressure Cooker Cookbook by Sara Quessenberry & Kate Merker Now that I have two Instant Pots in my possession (a 3-quart and an 8-quart), it is now a matter of actually using them. My first meal from the Pot was butternut squash soup, and I have since experimented with hard boiled eggs, a pot roast, and chicken breast (both from frozen!) that all turned out wonderfully... but I would definitely love to add more to my Instant Pot reportoire. I may still enjoy cooking the old fashioned way, but you can't deny how well the Instant Pot works. The Kinfolk Table: Recipes for Small Gatherings by Nathan Williams I got this book as an absolute steal at a garage sale; I think I literally only paid 10 cents. I may not read Kinfolk Magazine, but I was immediately drawn to the beautiful composition and cultural aspects of it. Not only does the cookbook encompass recipes from around the world, but also the stories that inspired them from the people who shared them. Although The Kinfolk Table is divided into Brooklyn, Copenhagen, The English Countryside, Portland (Oregon), and "The Wandering Table," the book's contributors span the entire globe.

[a-butterfly-on-his-tummy]

Touchdown

The doorbell rings, you walk towards the door, turning the handle and opening the entrance to your house.

“Hello! How much do I owe you?” You ask the man on the other side of the door who is holding three pizzas.

The pizza man from Homeslice Pizza Co looks down at the receipt and then tells you the amount. “£64.27.”

“Okay!” Grabbing your purse off the table by the door, you pull out your wallet to get the amount plus a tip out and hand it to delivery man.

“Thank you! Enjoy!” The man says as he hands you the three pizzas Harry ordered.

“Have a nice night!” You close the door behind you and take the pizza into the front room. You have no idea why Harry decided the family could eat three pizzas. Maybe he wanted choices. Setting the pizza down by the others snacks you had prepared, you walk into the kitchen to get plates.

Harry has been patiently waiting for The Green Bay Packers to start their season. Today is the first day of regular season and Harry is ready to celebrate.

“Smells tasty.” Harry pads into the kitchen wearing his personalized Packers jersey. “I ordered a Courgette & Artichoke pizza just for you!” Harry wrapped his arms around you from behind. He kisses your temple as you pull down plates from the cupboard.

“Thanks babe!” You say leaning into your husband. “All set for the game? Where’s Gracie?”

“She’s comin’ and it’s a good thing. The game starts in 10 minutes!” Harry claps his hands in excitement. Walking over to the fridge he pulls out a beer for himself and a juice box for Grace. “Want a water babe?” Harry asks.

“Yes! Thank you.” You say. Harry grabs a water bottle from the fridge.

“DADDY!” Grace calls. Her voice echoes through the house. “I all ready!” Taking a jump off the bottom stair, Grace lands on the wood floor with a thump.

Harry walks into the front room with the drinks and sees his daughter. Harry’s face explodes into a massive smile.

“Looking good Gracie girl!” He says.

“so fashion!” She says putting her hand on her hip and poking it out. ‘So fashion’ a phrase Grace uses when she thinks she is looking cute. She loves fashion as much as her father.

Harry had custom jerseys made for the family. They were the exact same as the uniforms for the team except these were special. Each jersey had 'STYLES’ on the back and corresponding numbers depending on the order they came into the family. (Harry 1, you 2, Grace 3, Bob 4, and Poppy 5). Grace is wearing her jersey with gold leggings. Green and gold bows are placed in her curls, and Bob is in her arms, in the same jersey. Harry found out they made jerseys for pets, so he had to buy one for Poppy and one for Bob. “Everyone in the family needs a jersey love, Poppy and Bob are part of our family.” He had used this as an excuse when he was buying the jerseys online.

“We love fashion!” Harry gave his daughter a high-five. “Ready for the game bug?”

“Yeah! Bob too!” Grace walks over and climbs up on the couch. Her green and gold toes almost to the edge of the couch. Setting Bob next to her on the couch, she positions him so he can see the telly.

You walk into the front room, Poppy following behind as you bring in three plates for the pizza. After handing one to Grace, and one to Harry, you sit down next to your husband as Poppy lays down at your feet.

“Pizza?” You ask. Both Harry and Grace nod their head. You give them eat a slice as well as yourself. The family digs into their pizza as the game starts.

The Packers are playing the Seahawks for their first game of regular season a game Harry is very excited about. This is the first game since 2012 that the Packers have opened their season at home, so this game is a big deal. Harry and Grace are focused on the Telly determined not to miss a second.

“Come on boys! Let’s do this!” Harry shouts at the screen, clapping his hands a few times.

“Go Bay!” Grace throws her hands up in the air in a cheer.

“Green Bay love.” Harry corrects with a giggle.

Grace looks up at her daddy with a curious facial expression. “Go gold Bay!” She yells at the screen.

Harry looks at you and shakes his head. “It’s the thought that counts right?” You chuckle at your daughter and her attempt to cheer for a sport she doesn’t understand.  

“I like gold Bay! Goes well with your gold boots!” You scrunch up your face in a smile. Harry rolls his eyes and continues to concentrate on the screen.

“Get 'em get 'em’” Harry stands up shouting at his team to tackle the Seahawk player.

“Get 'em!” Grace looks up at her daddy as she yells and giggles, feeling a little bit silly.

“What the bloody hell are ya thinkin’?” Harry throws his hands on his head in frustration when Aaron Rogers, the quarterback, throw a pass that is intercepted by the opposing team.

“Harry!! Language love!” You say remembering Grace is sitting right next to him.

“Deep breaf daddy! Deep breaf.” Grace tries to calm her dad down. Harry takes a deep breath and lets out as sigh as the first quarter comes to a close. “Stay calm.”

Green Bay starts the second quarter with the ball in their possession.

“See number one, two?” Harry shows Grace, pointing at the Telly. “That’s Rogers. He is the main man. He’s called the quarterback.”

“Court-a-back? Wha’ that daddy?” Grace looks up at Harry confused.

“He throws the ball. Watch him and he will throw the ball.” Aaron Rogers throws the ball as part of the play.

“We get points?” Grace asks arms up ready to cheer.

“Not yet love. But we will!” Harry says.

A time out is called and the Telly goes to an advertisement.

“Bloody 'ell!” Grace pouts.

“Gracie love, don’t say that. Let’s find better words to say!” You say. Harry looks over at you and shrugs. He whispers sorry and leans in to give you a kiss. You kiss him back, because even though he swears at the Telly during sports and in front of your daughter, you still love him.

The second quarter comes to an end with a grumbling Harry as the Seahawks score their first set of points with a field goal. The score is 0-3 with the Seahawks in the lead.

Harry finishes off his beer and decides to recharge with food during half time.

Grace and Harry had spent the morning preparing for the game. He helped Grace make football shaped brownies.

“This a good treat daddy. We a team. Like Gold Bay!” Grace states.

“A very good team indeed!” Harry giggles.

The Packers have the ball at the beginning of the third quarter. Harry is very on edge watching each play. Jumping up from his seat Harry begins to shout.

“Go! Go! Go! Go! Go!!!”

“Go go go!” Grace shouts along with her father.

“Touchdown!!!!!” Harry picks Grace up, and throws her over his shoulder as he runs around the front room. Poppy chases Harry around the room. Setting Gracie down he begins to dance. “We scored Grace! Happy dance!” Grace and Poppy join into the happy dance as you watch them with a smile. Giggling at Poppy who is just as excited as your favorite people who are shaking their little bums back and forth.

Cuddling on the couch as a family, Harry has relaxed a little now that his team is ahead. It is starting to get late as Grace yawns big. Her face scrunches up as her mouth opens wide in the universal sign of exhaustion. Harry pulls her in close and throws a blanket over the top of them.

As the Packers score another touchdown, Harry is aware Grace has fallen asleep.

“Touchdown Packers!” He whisper yells hot in your ear.

The game ends with a score 9-17. The Packers winning the game and getting a good start to their season. Harry kisses your temple a couple times until your eyes slowly open.

“Gonna take bug upstairs. Then I’ll come back to get you!” You nod as Harry adjusts his position so he can pick up the sleeping toddler. Slowly walking up the stairs, Harry reaches Grace’s room. Pulling back her covers, Harry sets his sleeping girl in her bed.

“We win?” Grace says half asleep.

“We won Gracie bug!” Harry kisses her forehead. “Love you!”

Harry leaves his princess asleep in her bed knowing that he will always be a winner with his two favorite girls by his side.

A/N: As always, Thank you @whoopsharrystyles you are amazing and I love you lots! Go check out my wattpad page for more the previous parts to this adventure! PLEASE SEND FEEDBACK I LOVE IT!!!! love you all!!! 

[outletcheapggdb-blog]

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I Hid Who I Was for So Long. Until I Became a Cook...

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I Hid Who I Was for So Long. Until I Became a Cook...

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I was a curly-haired, wide-eyed toddler with a big smile, and I was mute. My parents, worried that their three-year-old had yet to say a word, took me to a speech therapist, only to find out there was nothing wrong. I simply was not ready to speak. I couldn’t yet open myself up to the world.

Soon I learned to say made-up words, like gheneh for ice cream and hom hom for food. By the time I was four I could speak well enough to ask for the birthday gift of my dreams: a Fisher-Price kitchen. Standing at my bright white plastic countertop with its yellow sink and pink cookware, I thought I was a petite Jacques Pépin. You have to understand: I didn’t watch Power Rangers; I sat in front of the TV mesmerized by Pépin and Julia Child and Martin Yan on Yan Can Cook.

When I was still light enough to be picked up and set on the kitchen counter, I’d gaze at my mother as she combined spices from unlabeled jars to create dishes she had learned from her mother in Iran—ones that I would eventually learn from her. I’d watch as she went through the meticulous steps of making polo, fluffy Persian rice, before tossing it with saffron that had been bloomed in rose water. In the summer my eyes would tingle and begin to water from the harsh smell of vinegar all over the house, as my father and my grandparents would make torshi, Iranian pickles. Food, and cooking in particular, is what my parents brought with them when they emigrated from Iran to Berkeley, California, in 1977, 12 years before I was born. I remember the charred, lacy texture of piaz dagh—literally “hot onions.” I was in awe of the rich colors of the thick, glossy fruit jams my dad would make. I didn’t know it at the time, but it was the beginning of my education as a cook.

When I started to experiment in the kitchen in my preteens, I wasn’t making anything complicated. My idea of fancy was topping a frozen pizza with sun-dried tomatoes and fresh basil. By the time I was 15, my cooking got more elaborate. I began studying cookbooks and making labor-intensive dinners: artichoke soup with tomato confit one night, roasted quail stuffed with pine nuts and currants another.

After the love I had for my mother, food became my second love. It turned into an obsession. But not until recently did I realize that it is what allowed me to figure out who I am.

Photo by Fatemeh Baraghani

Little Andy celebrates Nowruz, Persian New Year, in style.

When I started kindergarten I was a painfully quiet boy with a deep love for a particular purple turtleneck sweater, little interest in sports, and zero desire to kiss girls. While I didn’t know the exact term, I knew I was gay—and I was picked on at school because of that for years.

I was six years old when I got chased for the first time by a group of boys with sticks.

I was eight years old when I realized I was the only boy at an all-girls birthday party.

I was nine years old when a group of laughing boys locked me in a bathroom stall, and I just hoped no adult would find me, to avoid any further embarrassment.

I was 12 when I ran faster than any other boy in a race. I’d had plenty of practice.

I could barely say aloud the words that I was being called. If I repeated them, I would be calling myself that, revealing my sexuality for the first time.

Finally, when I was 12, I transferred to a new school district where I didn’t know anyone. It was my Madonna Ray of Light/Kabbalah moment: a time to rebrand. I changed the way I dressed; I tamed my thick black hair. I became a master at hiding my sexuality.

By the time I finished high school, I had already worked in three restaurants, including Chez Panisse. At the time there was a sous-chef at the café upstairs who was gay: He was calm and quiet and strong, and he was an exceptional cook. There was no tolerance for dismissive or negative behavior toward anyone for their gender, sexuality, or race. I remember a male line cook being fired after saying to a woman who was interning, “Just sit over there and look pretty.” Chez Panisse showed me that a kitchen was a place where I could belong.

Photo by Alex Lau

Get Andy’s recipe for tachin, Crunchy Baked Saffron Rice with Barberries.

That is, to this day, the only restaurant kitchen I’ve worked in alongside another out gay man on the line. While the restaurants I cooked at were male-led, they weren’t exactly environments that encouraged me to come out. But I liked being part of a team, working toward a common goal: We were all there to make food that was as delicious as possible. I liked wearing a uniform. But more than anything, I liked feeling, for the first time, that I was being judged on my skills and nothing else. And as I became more confident as a cook— gliding swiftly and efficiently at my station, tasting a dish to decipher whether it might need more salt or acid—I began to accept my sexuality both within and outside of that space.

When I moved to New York for college, I met someone who would become my first boyfriend, and there was no turning back. We were each other’s first boyfriends, and, like many other young people in love, I thought that my first relationship would be an everlasting one. With his help I came out to my mother. But I wasn’t ready to come out to my dad, and I asked my mother not to tell him. She kept that secret for what must have been a year and a half.

When I finally told my dad, I didn’t say, “I’m gay.” I said, “I’m seeing a man.” He said, “No matter what, I’ve always wanted you and your sister to be happy and healthy.” I thought I would feel a huge weight lifted after coming out to my dad, but it doesn’t really happen like that.

A year later I was in front of the historic Stonewall Inn in New York the day gay marriage became legal. I don’t know how we all ended up there—hundreds of people celebrating in the late afternoon. I just remember everyone texting each other: When are you getting there, how are you getting there, are you leaving work early? I was 21 years old; it wasn’t like I was planning to get married any time soon. I just knew I needed to be there.

In the middle of this, I got a call from my father. I’m not even sure why I answered at that moment (rather than calling him back later) because typically he just likes to check in and make sure I’m dressed warmly enough. But that day was different. He said he didn’t want to hold me up; he just wanted to hear my voice and say that he knew it was a big day for us in New York. I spoke to him for barely a minute. He said so little, but it was everything I needed to hear.

Photo by Fatemeh Baraghani

Four-year-old Andy and his prize possession: a Fisher-Price kitchen.

By the time I turned 21, I had found my sexuality and my career. But there was another part of my identity that took longer to figure out. To explain it, I have to rewind back to grade school, to the morning of September 11, 2001. Watching the news, I had no idea what the consequences of that day were going to be. In the years that followed, I became, for the first time in my life, highly aware of my ethnicity. As an adolescent, I no longer stood out because of my sexuality but instead for my coarse hair, my olive skin, my thick eyebrows, my full beard. I had Iranian painted all over me. The name-calling started again, but this time it wasn’t “he/she,” “gay,” or “girl,” but instead “terrorist,” “sideburns,” “durka.”

I learned early on that since my last name began with a B, I’d be one of the first people on the list during roll call. Well, I guess I should tell you now: My real name is Andisheh, not Andy. Every year, on the first day of school, I could see my teacher hesitate when pronouncing my name: “Ahhnnn…” I’d quickly cut the teacher off and say, “Andy is fine.” From middle school into college: “Andy’s fine.” I’m surprised no one ever called me “Andysfine.”

I began to throw away my lunches; I didn’t want anyone to ask what was in them. No more kuku, my mother’s Persian herb frittata; no more kalbas sandwiches: all-beef mortadella wrapped in lavash bread. I would ask my parents not to drop me off close to school in fear that my peers would see their brown skin or hear their accents. When it came to the beard that appeared on my 12-year-old face, I shaved every day and stole a bit of my mother’s foundation to cover it up. I started telling people I had some Italian in me. My last name Bar-a-gha-nee became Ber-e-ghee-nee. I invested in a T-shirt that read ITALIAN STALLION; it would later become infamous among my best friends. Even when it came to my first love in New York, I initially told him I was only half Iranian, which was a partial truth that freed me from being entirely associated with my heritage.

Around this time I interned in the test kitchen at Saveur. The editor in chief at the time, James Oseland, and the executive food editor, Todd Coleman, told me they were going to do a story on Iran. My first thought was: That is just an awful idea. This was 2010. Tensions were high between the U.S. and Iran, where Mahmoud Ahmadinejad was president at the time. After all that time spent working my way up in restaurants, I wasn’t sure I wanted to be associated with Iranian food. Ever since I was a gutsy 16-year-old working up the courage to ask the staff at Chez Panisse if I could help out on Friday nights, I’d been dedicated to mastering a particular style of cooking. My most recent stints had been at the fine-dining restaurant Corton and a Scandi pop-up called Frej. Iranian food was what I’d grown up on, but I had worked so hard to get away from it.

James and Todd asked me to help develop the recipes for the Iran story. While I had eaten Iranian food nearly every day growing up, I didn’t actually know the processes and traditions. I was familiar with saffron and barberries, but I couldn’t prepare any of the fragrant stews or elaborate rice dishes that serve as the backbone of the cuisine. So for the next three weeks, I called my mom almost every day and talked to her for hours, translating her “handfuls” and “pinches” to cups and teaspoons, re-creating her recipes in the test kitchen. Eventually, about ten of the final recipes that appeared in the issue were adapted from my mother’s. Saveur published a piece titled “Behind the Iran Story”; it was a letter dedicated to my mother and me, in which Todd thanked us for our contributions and said that the story couldn’t have happened without us. When the issue came out, people both in and out of the food industry embraced it and reached out to me, thanking me for shedding some light on the cuisine. My shame began to recede.

Photo by Alex Lau

Not quite the same as his father’s torshi, but Andy makes Hot-Pink Pearl Onion Pickles.

While I still had a ways to go, for the first time in almost a decade, I felt drawn to the food and culture I had put aside. My Iranian-ness was no longer something to be embarrassed by. I started a pop-up inside my Brooklyn apartment, where I cooked Iranian dishes that I grew up on and ones I had never heard of. These dinners, definitely not approved by the health department, began to sell out rapidly.

When I started working at Bon Appétit a little more than two years ago, I had the same feeling as when I got that Fisher-Price kitchen: in slight disbelief yet overcome with joy. But that first year, while my excitement was still high, I wasn’t happy with the work I was putting out. I was the new kid—the baby—and I could barely get a full thought across without my nerves creeping up and taking over. I struggled to find my voice, my point of view. My lack of confidence was inhibiting me from creating the food I wanted to cook; it got to the point where something as seemingly simple as developing peach dessert recipes became paralyzing.

So as nice as it would be for this story to end with that Iran feature or getting my dream job at Bon Appétit, the truth is that I’m still trying to figure things out. It’s not always steady progress. For as many moments of clarity as there have been, there have been periods of shame and confusion and out-of-season peaches. All I can do to move through them is to try to set my doubts aside, get back to the kitchen, and cook.

Listen to Andy read his essay on the Bon Appétit Foodcast:

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[barefootblogger-france]

I’m digging way back into the archives of the Barefoot Blogger to republish the post about my first Beaujolais Nouveau day in France. It’s because of stories and friends like this that I’m still loving life here four years later. By the way, Beaujolais Nouveau is coming up this week. Enjoy it wherever you are!

Introducing Beaujolais Nouveau on the third Thursday of November is traditionally a celebration of the end of the harvest in the Beaujolais region of France. In Uzes, the event is another good excuse to meet with friends in bars.

I wish I had the imagination to make up this crazy life I’m living in France. The best I can do is to write it down. The day and events of Beaujolais Nouveau are no exceptions.

Beaujolais Nouveau Day: A quiet start

The most exciting thing I had scheduled for Beaujolais Nouveau day was to finish up a blog entry, then to drift down to a wine store at some time to sample the first crop of Beaujolais. The wine store is a new find since it’s quite well hidden. It is in a “cave” at the back of a florist shop. If I could read the signs, I would have known about it before now. Nevertheless, I literally ran across the “Cave” on Wednesday and I stopped in to check it out.

Just by accident I asked the shop owner about Beaujolais Nouveau. He informed me that my query was quite timely. He was “unveiling” his Beaujolais Nouveau the next day, Thursday, November 21. Showing my total ignorance about wine,  I asked if I could taste the new wine right then. I was already at the shop. Politely he informed me that French law forbids anyone to open a bottle before the prescribed date. He invited me to return the next day for a sampling.

On Thursday, November 21, when I was getting into writing the blog about my first house guest, and later going to the wine shop, Geoffrey called. “Looking for adventure,” he said.

I could see a smile on his face through his voice on the phone. “What’s up” I responded. “I’m really busy today, and I don’t want to spend any money.”

Apparently my reply wasn’t taken as a “no.” It showed I had a spark of interest. He had me on the hook. “Won’t cost you a dime,” he promised. “Just thought you might like to ride down the road to this little town for lunch,” he said cheerily. “Real French country food,” he added. You’ll love it.”

I agreed to meet him in 15 minutes in front of my building.

Beaujolais Day Begins: Blauzac

Somehow I had forgotten that  I have “possession” of Mustang Sally. So Geoffrey has no car. That meant he was picking me up in the blue van. Fair enough. As promised, Geoffrey and the blue van showed up at the downstairs entrance to my apartment building, I squeezed into the front seat of the car that has no dashboard and no upholstery; I strapped myself in; and we headed to Blauzac, a tiny village about 20 minutes from Uzes.

The views along the road were of vineyards and ancient stone farm houses. The ride itself was already enough of an excuse to have put my other plans for the day aside. Arriving in Blauzac, I was immediately impressed with its raw beauty. This little town, tucked in the middle of nowhere, among wine fields, reminded me again that I am truly in France.

Blauzak, France near Uzes

Blauzak, France near Uzes

 Lunch with the boys

The cafe Geoffrey talked about all the way to Blauzak was exactly as I imagined. The small, quaint, restaurant and bar was filled with men and smoke. Introductions to “Deborah” were accompanied with the offer of a drink and a toast. Only one person in the cafe could, or would, speak English — aside from me and Geoffrey. Soon the three of us started talking, even though there were many interruptions for translations.

We mostly talked about why so many French people smoke. I asked why rolling cigarettes is so popular. I was told that rolling cigarettes is not only cheaper than buying them by the pack, it’s also better for your health. Here’s the rationale: 1) rolling cigarettes means that you know what’s inside the wrapper. Cigarettes in packs are full of “garbage”;  2) rolled cigarettes have less tar and nicotine; and, most convincing to the roller fans, 3) you smoke fewer cigarettes because you’re pre-occupied during the few minutes it takes to roll them.

Where’s the beef?  Soon it was 2pm and no sign of food… except for sightings of steaming hot onion soup the owner of the cafe served to lunch patrons who had shown up. I reminded Geoffrey why we had come this distance at lunch time. Almost immediately a table was set for Geoffrey, me, and our three new friends. Then out from the kitchen came our baskets of crusty bread, bowls of onion soup with croutons swimming on top, complete with melted cheese. After devouring the delicious soup, the “plat” (main course) was served. A choice of gardiane de taureau (bull stew) or saute de veau aux les olives, les champignons (veal stew with olives and mushrooms) — both resting over rice. All served from this modest kitchen by our gracious host and chef.

Nicholas, Blauzak

The kitchen

Saute de veau aux les olives, les champignons (veal stew with olives and mushrooms)

Gardiane de Taureau (bull stew)

Good thing I’m retired and have nothing really important to do. But I do wonder how so many people can spend so much time in bars and cafes. By the time we left Blauzac, there was evidence that no one, with the exception of the bar owner and staff, planned to do any work that day

Beaujolais Nouveau Bar Hopping

I was bushed from all that eating and from struggling to participate in part English/mostly French conversations. My sweet little apartment and a nap were calling. The idea of going to the wine shop to try the Beaujolais nouveau was going on the back burner for next year. Geoffrey and I said our farewells and I thought that was that. Not so. Within 30 minutes my phone was ringing. Geoffrey. “I’m coming to pick you up to taste the new wines,” he said. “You can’t miss this.”

“Good grief,” I said to myself. Then realizing I’d hate to miss this blog opportunity, I said to Geoffrey, “OK, I’ll meet you downstairs.”

Beaujolais Nouveau Tasting #1

It was after 7pm when we reached the wine “cave” I had hoped to visit. It was closed. We took off down the street to another wine shop where there was definitely something going on. It was a party… not a big party …  a gathering of the shop owner’s friends. We were invited to join the group and I was handed my first glass of the new wine. The small celebration included bottles of wine, baguettes of bread, a few types of cheese, and thin slices of French cured ham, all spread casually over the store counters near the checkout. According to Geoffrey, the wine connoisseurs were discussing the quality of the new wine — or lack, thereof. they said there was the presence of an artichoke flavor, not fruit, in the wine. They could have been joiking. I miss so much not understanding the French language.

To me, the taste of the new wine was very watery. Not uncommon for a freshly bottled Beaujolais, I was told. It was certainly drinkable and we could have stayed on and on. Another bar adventure was calling.

Wine merchant, Uzes

Beaujolais Nouveau Tasting #2

The second stop for Beaujolais Nouveau tasting was at a cafe/bar I’ve walked past many times since living in Uzes. Admittedly, I always walked on the opposite side of the street. As in most places in town, Geoffrey knew everyone in bar #2. He was greeted with open arms. They eyed me with suspicion. Trying to make my 5’10” self invisible was impossible.

“OK,” said I to myself: “You’re on this mission for a purpose.” With that, I bellied up to the bar beside the others. The bar keeper pulled out the wine flavor-of-the-day, Beaujolais Nouveau, and served me a glass. In no time, I’d made some new friends. At a table nearby, the young men offered to share the cheese, ham and bread.

When it was time to move on to the last leg of our Beaujolais hop, I was determined to make friends with the “big guy” at the end of the bar. He’s a former rugby player and he lives with his mom. I mean, who would expect the “big guy” in the corner to be a teddy bear?

“Teddy Bear”, Uzes

Provence Cafe owner, Uzes

Beaujolais Nouveau Tasting #3

Les Pieton is a cafe/bar I walk past several times a day. Sometime I stop to join people I know for a drink or a meal. This night there was definitely a party going on. The place was packed inside and out. The scene seemed even more crowded because all the other shops and restaurants along the main street had shut down. Even on the night of Beaujolais Nouveau, everything in Uzes is closed by 10 pm.

By this time I was ready to sit down and actually taste the wine. I pulled a bar stool up to a tall table outside and covered my legs with one of the blankets provided for chilly evenings. It is getting cold in Uzes with temperatures in the 40s and 50s farenheit  (I don’t speak French, nor do I know the metric system!)  To me the temperature is pleasant. To the French residents here, it’s really cold. They wear parkas with fur trim and hats. After another bottle of wine was uncorked and new acquaintances were made, I said my farewell to all. The night of Nouveau Beaujolais 2013 was now history.

Perhaps others bring in the end of the wine harvest with fanfare and at great expense. For me, I realize just how lucky I am to be having this simple, strange, new life. What I’m certain of — and learning more everyday — is that life is what we make it; we are all more alike than we are different; and that a spirit of adventure, instead of fear, leads to learning more about ourselves, understanding more about others; and to truly loving one another.

  My First Beaujolais Nouveau Day in France I'm digging way back into the archives of the Barefoot Blogger to republish the post about my first Beaujolais Nouveau day in France.

[chassidyculley-blog]

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