Like Biting into August

I've become nostalgic lately. A friend and I were texting back and forth a couple months ago, and she said that with all that happened last year, I've had to come back to zero. Back to zero. I wrote that expression down on a sticky note and tacked it to my wall. She's right. In order to plod on, it's necessary to start right where you are. To be here now. To come back to zero. Oftentimes I feel like life is one of those childhood gadgets. The Etch-a-Sketch. I was obsessed with drawing pictures and writing words, and midway through, shaking the little toy like there's no tomorrow. Funnily enough, life would similarly follow suit.

I believe each word of the empowering quotes out there about being very gentle with yourself. Tenderness is required. It will be ok. Therapy has revealed a necessary, critical even, step backward in order to move forward. And I've always identified with the old Japanese proverb, "fall down seven times, rise up eight."

So it comes as no surprise to embrace nostalgia in the form of food. Do you ever find yourself preparing foods from your childhood in order to stay young, of course, let's be honest here, aging isn't a picnic...but also something more. Something deeper. To remember? A nod to innocence? I recently watched the film The Hundred Foot Journey (twice) and was captivated from start to finish. That is a blog post in and of itself. Breathtaking. Exquisite. The first time it was all visual and my senses were on overload. What a feast of the eyes. Upon a second viewing the language started to hit me, the writing, and the quote "food is memories" struck a chord. Food IS memory. Food is identity. Food is nostalgia. Remembrance through flavor of a time long past, fondly held onto.

When I left the theater all I could think about was sea urchins and what it would feel like to carefully pinch my fingers into one and insert that flavor into my mouth. Then I thought of tomatoes. Not sure how the two were related but at first glance they were the two scenes that captured my attention the most. I hope I'm not giving too much away, but when the main character, Hassan, bites into a tomato like an apple a wave of nostalgia overtook me.

Immediately I was transported to central Pennsylvania, summer in the 90s. Walking through the tiny lanes and avenues of my grandfather's small garden. It was my comfort zone, in an otherwise anxiety-ridden environment. When tensions were high I was able to walk out to that little plot of land and immerse myself in the tomato plants. They were high and they smelled like nothing I'd smelled before. Hot, raw earth. I'd sort through, scanning the big red globes with my eyes. I was probably 7 or 8. I'd spot a ripe one, instructed by my grandmother to only go for the ruby red ones, the ones that felt bulky and soft in the hand, and gently tug. Such care and obsessiveness. It was in that garden, safe, where I started my lifelong love affair with food. It was there, plucking that huge tomato, dipping it into the pool and crunching in, where I felt the healing properties of food, the bright sun and deep soil and rainwater converging in my mouth. The welcome pause on summer. Like biting into August.

Few experiences are as gripping for me. I've yet to grow a tomato myself that in any way compares to my grandfather's beefsteaks. The burst of sun-ripened flesh and seeds (combined with a little chlorine) is what kept me going the long weeks of summer.

I want that feeling again any time I pass by a farm stand during the month of August. Anywhere. I'm in Virginia now, in a town where I'm happy to discover farmer's markets and local food to be trendy. I was driving one night and veered off into a little Episcopalian church parking lot on the way home. A tiny farmer's market. Virginia country roads beg for you to stop alongside and see what the locals are growing. I love taking drives and finding fresh eggs on the side of the road, sitting out in a cooler next to a little envelope. The honor system. Americana. Or a veggie share, composed of a wooden rack covered with cucumbers and zucchini. The benevolence of neighborhood farmers. This day, I was drawn to a friendly-looking vendor selling homemade canned dill pickles, the old-fashioned style in a large Mason Ball jar. I had to get one. I've purchased 3 since. In 3 weeks I have spent $28 on pickles. Then this past Friday night I was driving home again and saw the same farmer on the side of the road by himself. Stopped again. And the most marvelous grouping of tomatoes were splayed out on his stand. Smelling one, it took me back. There's that nostalgia again. I know it's repetitive, but isn't nostalgia supposed to be? I was again in central PA clambering among the thick green vines, searching for solitude and the perfect pluck. I bought the gnarliest looking tomato and another jar of pickles, and couldn't wait to get home.

There was one thing on my mind. A tomato sandwich. Just tomatoes. Nothing more. Plain and simple. The tomato, the bread, and maybe a little salt. That's it. I searched some websites for recipes. Well not really recipes, because it's kind of self-explanatory, but stories. I needed to read through the familiar history of tomato sandwiches even though this would be my first of the kind. Luckily there were a plethora of articles and I settled on a few, one from Eatocracy and one from The Huffington Post. They did not disappoint. (And Kat Kinsman is a brilliant and hilarious food writer. I just love her. And kind of need her job.)

I faced my fear of mayo and dove into the Hellman's jar. It was a quick swipe, but one that I think produced the full effect. What you need is two pieces of store-bought white bread. I know, I know. No artisans, please. A huge tomato, thickly sliced. My slices turned out to be all different sizes and cuts. Some were thick and some were thin, but only because I don't have knife skills. And clearly I will be gifting my parents with a knife sharpener for Christmas. The trick is to not use overkill. A little salt goes a long way. It pulls the juices. A tiny dash of pepper, just enough for me to start sneezing all over the kitchen. The bread can't be toasted. It will be the kind of bread that sticks to the roof of your mouth. That's actually how you know the sandwich is working. And when pressed ever so slightly with the tip of your finger, a little fingerprint emerges. Totally normal too. You pile the perfectly haggard tomato slices on one side. And then cover and cut. Bite into it, preferably at 1 am standing over the kitchen sink. In your pjs. I'm not sure there is a better sandwich. Sorry BLT, I'm breaking up with you.

The photo does not do the experience justice, but I'm glad I took one. To remember. It's all about nostalgia here. Again, biting right into August. Ideally one should eat one a day at least during the final month of summer, which is why when I discovered Jonathan's (the name of farmer) tomatoes at a little Amish store, I bought 4 right away. It is 12:40 am and I think I'm going to go have one right now...

Bad Birthday

My birthday was kind of lackluster this year. In therapy I've been learning about setting intentions. So I set some. I set the intention not to celebrate my birthday. At all. To not have ANYONE celebrate me or toast me or take me out for a drink. I still can't quite understand my rationale in setting those intentions. Couldn't I have taken an eensy weensy little bite of cake? I LOVE BIRTHDAYS. But for whatever reason, there you have it. I didn't want to be celebrated. In fact, should they post my picture on the work Facebook page I was going to humbly please tell them to take it down, giving my best Mother Teresa smile. Should my family plan a dinner out with cake and ice cream back at home, I was going to say no cake for me, thanks! And don't worry about taking me out, there are starving children in Ethiopia so let's donate to a good cause. The past few months I have felt the same mania that followed me around during college, and I just haven't been much up for celebrating. So I set the intention to celebrate others and sort of give back.

What was I thinking. I am a LEO. We like parties. Even an introverted Leo, like myself, would be lying if we told you "Nah, no party for me. I'm good." A leo thrives on events.

Even if they are the ones standing in the corner nursing their gin martini, observing, a Leo wants to be at that party. You can count on that. What did Andy Warhol say about attending the opening of a cardboard box? That is how a Leo is. That is how I am. I like dressing up and going to fun things every now and then. (I probably majorly butchered the Andy Warhol quote. If it was even Andy. I'm bad at remembering quotes.)

So my birthday came. And I went to work. And my birthday went. Oh, and I threw myself a party! A great big pity party. I was crying and so bummed, with mascara running all down my face and then Robin Williams committed suicide. On my birthday. Like he died, the day I was BORN. I sobbed myself to sleep just after dragging my dad down to the family room to watch Mrs. Doubtfire together. We laughed and cried together. But I mostly cried because a legend had just vanished from the earth, and all I could think about was how alone he must have felt right before he went. So it was not really the best sort of birthday. The next day I called in sick. I hate doing that. But I was paralyzed with no birthday depression and paralyzed about Robin Williams and when I tried to get out of bed, all I could do was fall over. Vertigo. Excellent.

But while I was laying in bed all day, between sobbing and hiccuping and reading all of the horrendously sad and upsetting and heartbreaking tributes, all I could meditate on was newness. Life. Growth. Togetherness. I started counting my blessings, truly counting them. All of the people in my life I am so grateful for, the people that haven't abandoned me and who I know never will. I've struggled with depression and anxiety at different points of my life, and it's all through my family. And yet, we're all still kicking, bum birthdays and all. I can call up my sister and vent. She is still alive. In fact, we are closer than ever and best friends again, and she loves me so much that she split an airplane ticket so I can fly down to see her at the end of this month. Because she misses me and wants me to see her beautiful new house and share that with me, and meet her incredible ball of fluff new dog and make dinners together. And she sent me a gorgeous moon tote for my birthday and it is so me in every way, and supported an etsy shop in the process. I love that.

Then my other sister and I went out for cupcakes last week, and she agreed to buy me a cupcake. With her birthday money.

So we got our favorite cupcakes and went out to one of our favorite lunch places. Together. And she is 13, and suffering through some incredible teen angst and half the time calls me lame, but it was FUN. We laughed a lot. She blocked her face so I couldn't take any pictures of her. You know. Teen sister/31 year old sister bonding time.

And then my brother MADE DINNER on the night of my birthday. Pizza. He is 19 and doesn't really prefer cooking per se but he did and he even told me happy birthday. And then my mom and sister brought a little mini rose bush plant to my work, and I was so resentful that my face wasn't on the office website even though the other receptionist's was for HER birthday, that when I saw them, I sort of burst into a smile and a biiiiiiiit of an ugly cry once they left. Flowers make a girl feel special. Family makes me feel loved. Laying in bed, all of the memories of my family started flooding in. We are a close family. I didn't have a curfew in high school because I never went anywhere. I didn't want to go out on Friday nights. I wanted to be home with my people. Prom was fun and it was exciting to get all glitzed up and go to a nice restaurant, but I couldn't wait to get home and tell everyone about the night. Home was my place and I couldn't leave them. It is hard to think of being apart from any of them, no matter how crazy we all can drive each other. We are thick as thieves, for lack of a much better metaphor. There is no breaking our family thread. Laying in bed all day of August 12th, all I could think about was the memories. The good times. Going to Maine every year together, Christmas traditions, Mom's eggnog, New Year's celebrations at grandma's, Liverpool Rummy games that go on for hours on end. A lifetime of having a really precious family. 31 years of love. So it wasn't a bad birthday at all. It was one I will treasure because while mourning someone's death who I didn't even know personally, I could focus on and celebrate the ones I do.