Posted on June 24, 2015
I think we are well-advised to keep on nodding terms with the people we used to be, whether we find them attractive company or not. Otherwise they turn up unannounced and surprise us, come hammering on the mind’s door at 4 a.m. of a bad night and demand to know who deserted them, who betrayed them, who is going to make amends. We forget all too soon the things we thought we could never forget. We forget the loves and the betrayals alike, forget what we whispered and what we screamed, forget who we were. ― Joan Didion, Slouching Towards Bethlehem
By this time next week I’ll be somewhere in the Middle East, en route to Singapore. At first I thought planning a trip smack in the middle of summer, a short month before I pick up my life and move out west, was insane. However, as the days near I’m grateful for the time and introspection. I’m humbled to return to Bali, a magical place I visited four years ago when I was admittedly a broken woman. Normally, I don’t do travel repeats because there’s so much of the world left to see, but this trip feels auspicious. I’m seeing a place from a different vantage point, and in a way I’m revisiting the woman I used to be and being present enough to see the journey from one version of myself to another.
Last week I had lunch with two dear friends. I’ve known them for nearly fifteen years and we talked about what it’s like to reach the middle of our life. They’re planning a family and I’m embarking on some major changes, and we consider our once-frenzied states, and how now our lives pretty much demand introspection and calm.
I go into next week having juggled three clients for months and I’ll leave Asia in two weeks time readying for the maelstrom that will ensue. So know that I’ll be enjoying this private space between the two, gathering strength, being quiet.
INGREDIENTS: Recipe from The Sprouted Kitchen Cookbook, modified slightly
For the meatballs:
1 cup lentils, preferably French le puy lentils
1 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil
¾ cup goat milk ricotta
¼ cup grated pecorino romano
2 cloves garlic, minced
½ tsp fennel seeds
2 tbsp chopped fresh parsley
½ tsp chopped fresh thyme
1 tsp sea salt
1 tsp freshly ground black pepper
⅔ cup gluten-free breadcrumbs (you can also use almond meal)
For the lemon pesto sauce:
1 clove garlic
¼ cup pistachios
Grated zest and juice of 1 lemon
Pinch of salt + pepper
1 cup packed fresh basil leaves
¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil
2 tbsp water
Place the lentils in a pot and cover with 2 inches of water. Bring to a boil on medium-high heat. Reduce heat to simmer and cook, uncovered, until lentils are tender, about 15-20 minutes. Drain and set aside to cool
Once cool enough to handle, place in a large bowl and mash lightly with a potato masher. It should be half mashed, half whole lentils. Add eggs, olive oil, cheeses, garlic, fennel, parsley, thyme, salt, pepper and breadcrumbs. Stir to combine and set aside for 15 minutes so the flavors blend.
Preheat the oven to 400F. Cover a cooking sheet with parchment paper.
Meanwhile, place garlic, pistachios and lemon in a blender and blend until smooth. Add lemon juice, basil, olive oil, and water. Blend until smooth. If you like a thinner consistency, add a couple tablespoons of water.
Form 1-inch “meatballs” using the lentil mixture. If it’s too wet and not holding together, add a couple extra tablespoons of breadcrumbs. If it’s too dry, add a couple tablespoons of water. Place each meatball evenly on the baking sheet. Once you’ve made all the breadcrumbs, spray lightly with olive oil. Bake in the oven until golden brown, about 20-25 minutes, turning halfway.
Posted on June 23, 2015
Years ago, I worshipped at the altar of Seamless Web. Back then I was an equity partner in an agency, working 12-16 hour days, and I’d spend most days in airless conference rooms, on a plane, or tethered to my desk. Weeks would go by and I wouldn’t see daylight, and it had become commonplace to order all of my meals online. When you’re in the midst of frenzy, the last thing you’re thinking about is nutrition. All you want is the comfort you’re not finding in your life. So I’d order an egg sandwich or pancakes for breakfast, pasta for lunch and noodles for dinner and there came a point when my doctor confronted me and told me that I was on the road to diabetes. My insulin levels were that high. My dentist was apoplectic–How did you get seven cavities in one year? WHAT ARE YOU EATING? I was forever exhausted, depleted and sluggish. Over the course of three years I’d gained 40 pounds, and it was only when I could no longer endure retching stomach pain, when I got fed up with my clothes tearing apart at the seams, and my doctors expressed true alarm over my health, did I make a change.
It’s been nearly a year since I first met with Dana James, who sincerely changed (and saved) my life. Words can’t express the magnitude of my gratitude, how she’s empowered me to see the connection between what I put in my body and how I feel physically, emotionally. I’d spent the greater part of my life at war with my body, starving it, hating it, shoveling garbage into it, and over the course of our work I started to recognize that health isn’t a size or a number on a scale. Health is about making conscious choices on how you manage your life. I’m a pragmatist so I realize the pile of cliches I’m feeding you, but it took me months to realize that my weight gain and sickness were a direct result of my inability to manage stress in my job and an overall dissatisfaction with my life. Take that, and add in a predilection for addiction (give me time and I’ll get hooked on ANYTHING), and there goes my health and wellbeing, crumbling before me.
Believe me when I say that I like my anaesthetics. I’m wired such that I deal with stressful situations by turning to things that dull and numb them. This has been my practice for most of my life (insert alcohol and drug addictions), and I had no idea that I’d replaced booze and blow with carbs and cheese. I’d seamlessly moved from one addiction to another without even recognizing it.
I’m grateful to Dana, who’s also a behavioral psychologist and addiction specialist, for teaching me how to rewire my behavior. Instead of reaching for that which soothes the pain, I now confront the source of the pain and make steps to avoid it, where possible. I draft contracts and take on clients in a way that works for me and my need to have complete solitude. I need that time for regeneration or I’ll get panicked and enter a stress cycle. I make sure that I stock my fridge and cabinets with healthy foods and that I skimp on other areas of my life to focus on healthy eating.
For most of the week, I prepare my meals at home, but there are a few days a week when I am in all-day meetings and conference calls. Come nightfall, I’m catatonic, and the only thing I want to do is watch a movie, play with my cat or scroll Twitter. No way do I want to be in the kitchen washing and chopping greens.
Way back when I read a post on Hitha’s blog on Munchery, an affordable, healthy meal delivery service in New York. At the time, Munchery* didn’t service Brooklyn, so I signed up for availability notifications. Recently, they sent me a note, offered me a free meal for signing up for their mailing list, and I’ve since purchased (and enjoyed!) two meals.
Each meal is prepared by a resident chef, and the ingredients are fresh, delicious and locally sourced. What I love about Munchery is the price (meals range from $9.99-$15), transparent nutritional information (each meal has a complete breakdown of ingredients, nutritional and allergen info), the convenience (I order for same-day delivery and I even get texts to let me know my meals are on their way), and the taste (my meals were flavorful, perfectly cooked and plated beautifully).
Part of me wishes I can smuggle this service to California because I can’t get over the quality of the food for the price. What a find!!
*As you know I don’t collaborate with brands for any reason, at any time. This blog is my hobby, not my business, and I only write about things I love and have paid for with my hard-earned money. The link above is part of their referral program (kind of like Gilt), where I get $ towards future meal purchases when people sign up. If that’s not your bag, simply go to Munchery.com and live your healthy life. :)
Posted on June 20, 2015
There are some people who seem tickled to take on your sad history as their own. It’s an object to cuddle and sculpt to their floating aspirations. They see a chance, in you, to be their best selves. You can be the prettying gleam they turn their profile toward. –From Darin Strauss’ Half a Life
People have opinions, and they’ll do anything to share them short of buying a megaphone and shouting from the rafters. Their point-of-view resembles a three-piece luggage set they’re desperate to unpack. Everyone wants to warn me about Los Angeles, a vapid wasteland suffering from a drought of intellect. I don’t understand why you’re not moving to Santa Cruz, some says, to which I respond, it’s not for you to understand. I read endless articles where long-term tourists anthropomorphize New York, throw glitter on a city and call it their unrequited lover, while I sit mute, incapable of reply because New York is my home, not some romanticized idol from one’s misspent youth.
Some want to spend time talking about my move through the lens of their life. They use it as a filter to validate (or question) their life choices. Should I move too? Should I be making a major change? Am I okay? There are those whose sole responses are nothing more than plentiful and positive platitudes. This will be a needed change for you! Let in all the light!, etc–reductive, airless words that don’t invite dissent. My fear feels like an intrusion in this pretty space, and I’m left to express thanks and move on. Others have spent the past six months asking me detailed logistical questions about a move I’ve only started to plan–they want the story neat, packaged, and digestible so they have an aperitif worth passing along to others come brunchtime. Everyone likes the status update about me finding my dream apartment but no one wants to hear about the paralyzing fear and uncertainty of leaving the only home I’ve ever known. Give me a picture painted in sepia without the details.
I’m baffled and exhausted. I’m moving across the country–I’m leaving my home, friends, everything that is comfortable, convenient and known–yet I’m shouldering the weight of the collective self-analysis, the burden of opinions. I’m moving. I, first-person singular nominative case personal pronoun. My move is not about you or your life choices. Over the past few months I’ve felt subsumed by the noise that comes with people telling me how I’ll feel, where, when and how I should move, however, I can count on one hand the number of people who’ve asked, quite simply:
How you holding up?
No one’s asked me how I’m doing. Are you okay?
Instead, every encounter is an hour where I get it up for someone else. I present a tidy story that can be repackaged and sold elsewhere. Sometimes I watch the discomfort when I talk about being afraid of making my rent, my fear of driving and not being able to buy a car. I think: what if I can’t start my new book? What if I fail? (Though I know failure is a good thing, but it doesn’t make the sting of it any less cruel). I watch people wave the fear away, change topics, tell me that everything will be okay because I’m like a cockroach in the apocalypse. In the end, my fear feels small, not worthy of casual conversation, and I go home and collapse into bed and wonder if I can tape record the story of my move and press play so as to avoid all the good things people want to hear.
Don’t get me wrong–I just closed on an apartment and I’m thrilled beyond measure. The idea of biking along the beach and hiking in the mountains makes me quiver. The notion of navigating a new place and creating familiarity amidst the foreign is a challenge I welcome. I’ve friends in L.A. I haven’t seen in years and reuniting with them excites me. But still. I’m afraid, and this fear isn’t simple or neat–it’s raw and ugly and is like a suitcase overturned and the contents strewn all over the place. I want to feel this mess, the whole of it, and perhaps this is why I’m not seeing a lot of people. Perhaps this is why I’m withdrawing. Because I don’t want a broom just yet. I don’t want to spend my time making you feel okay about my major life change. Right now I need to be selfish. Right now I need to go through this.
Right now I need to surround myself with people who will hold my hand through the way–just as I’ve always held their hand during their moments of disquiet.
INGREDIENTS: Recipe from A Modern Way to Eat, modified slightly.
12oz gluten-free penne
1 head of radicchio (about 7oz), shredded
For the pesto
1/3 cup shelled walnuts
1 small garlic clove, peeled
sea salt, freshly ground black pepper
1 bunch of fresh marjoram, leaves picked
1 bunch of fresh flat-leaf parsley, leaves picked
3 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil
Juice of one lemon
In a large pot, bring salted water to a boil. Add the pasta, stir to separate and cook to al dente.
While the pasta is cooking, toast the walnuts in a dry pan for 2-3 minutes. Remove the walnuts and blitz with the garlic in a food processor until it’s a thick paste. Add the herbs and blitz. Add the oil and lemon juice and blitz. Season with salt and pepper.
When the pasta is done, take 1/4 cup pasta water and drain the rest. Mix the pesto, pasta water, pasta until completely combined. Add in the shredded radicchio and mix. Serve hot!
Posted on June 18, 2015
I submitted my first application for an apartment in Los Angeles and the realization of this has me anxious. I’m a bit of a control freak so I tend to react to uncertainty by managing the certainty. Moving doesn’t feel real until you commit to an application process, background, credit, and reference checks, and it occurs to me that I’ll be moving in nearly two months. I’m excited but frightened all at once, so I spent the whole of this morning in organization mode. I made lists, organized links and wrote this post because the unknown feels a lot less daunting when you can break it down into small, manageable tasks.
While I don’t have my new address as of yet (I mean, I haven’t even been approved!), I’m putting planning into motion, and I’ll share my journey and mishaps along the way. It’s taken me a month to thoroughly research apartments and management companies from the other side of the country, and while it’s been a challenging, frustrating process (how much stock should one place on Yelp reviews?! Eternal questions), it’s been an auspicious one.
Today I’m sharing some of my preliminary thoughts and ideas, but I’ll pop in over the course of the next three months with details, mini breakdowns (I’m certain they’re imminent), and lessons learned.
Apartment Search: Without a doubt, the best investment I made was a six-month membership ($120) to Westside Rentals, which is basically an organized, vetted Craigslist. Their database of broker-free available properties is exhaustive, and you can set-up and save different searches based on price, amenities, location, etc. For me, WSR was a launch pad to extensively research and compare properties and management companies. I’m also using Hotpads (cool interactive map + visuals), Apartments.com, Zillow, Apartment List, and Trulia. As you might have guessed, I like options.
However, what’s been most interesting to me over the course of my research is defining the kind of home I want and my non-negotiables. Living in New York my whole life, I’ve always felt bound to what I could afford because space and location come at such a premium. Never did I conceive of living in a apartment that had a washer/dryer or ample closet space. (I realize saying this demonstrates my privilege, and I’m grateful for choice.) I’ve only once lived in a doorman building and that was because I was splitting rent with my then significant other. Browsing WSR’s options (bungalows, guest homes, homes, apartment complexes, lofts), I initially started with an open-ended search and a month later winnowed down to a few properties based on my desired requirements: elevator building, in-unit washer/dryer, dishwasher, ample kitchen space/cabinets, underground parking, and concierge for packages. Since I’m able to deduct a third of my rent for purposes of a home office, I’m considering properties that might have previously been out of my price range. I’m home for most of the day, space, solitude and convenience are important to me.
Also, if you’re moving with a pet, check the pet policies. I’ve been noticing pet rents and pet deposits on a lot of buildings, so read the fine print and ask questions before signing a lease.
Bottom line: Determine your needs based on your lifestyle and income. Be realistic about what you can afford and speak with your accountant about your monthly net income, expenses, any possible deductions, and your budget.
Moving/Movers: Believe me when I say that I’ve spent most of my life in New York as a nomad. There was a time when I moved apartments every year, and I’ve hired everyone from drunk men who broke my furniture to professional movers who ripped me off and held my belongings hostage. Most recently, I’ve used Flat Rate and Schleppers, and have been extremely pleased with the care they exhibit with my furniture and the speed and professionalism of the experience. Many of my friends who’ve moved cross-country have recommended Flat Rate, Charles Wood & Son Moving, and Oz Moving & Storage. I’m also looking into PODS. I’ve yet to make a decision since I haven’t closed on apartment and I need to inventory my apartment, but I’ll let you know who I pick and the cost. Many of my bookish friends have recommended that it’s cheaper to ship my books via Fedex since most companies charge by pound–I’ll look into that, as well.
I’ve learned that it’s smart to book my company a month in advance of my move and know that there might be chance I’ll be without furniture for two weeks. Know that I’ll be shipping my air mattress to Los Angeles as a precaution.
Bottom Line: Move only that which you need (because who wants to pay to move anything that doesn’t bring you joy?), do your research on moving companies, and book in advance. Also, check in with your new home/management company regarding any regulations with regard to movers.
Moving my Special Guy: As you can imagine, I get apoplectic when it comes to Felix. I LOVE HIM SO MUCH. As such, I’m admittedly melodramatic on the level of telenovela. I might have mentioned this, but during the first year of Felix’s life he was abandoned three times. As a result, he gets really upset when I leave for long periods of time or if I get him into a carrier. When I moved apartments a year ago, you can’t even fathom his level of hysteria. Knowing that taking him across the country will be an ordeal, I plan on booking my vet appointment a month before I move while securing calming meds (which I’ll test prior so as to ensure he doesn’t get anxious). I’ve purchased this TSA-approved carrier and I plan on purchasing a one-way, first class ticket on Virgin America, THE pet-friendly airline.
Everyone tells me that at a certain altitude, Felix will konk out, and his body will be in fight/flight mode so he won’t eat or go to the bathroom for the duration of our travel experience. I just know that the trip to and from the airport–especially navigating airport security, for which I’m purchasing a harness should they want him out of the carrier–will be a fucking nightmare. Friends have also suggested that in the few weeks before departure I leave out the carrier and take him for short trips around the block so he gets used to being transported.
Bottom Line: If you’re like me and treat your pet as if it were your child, talk to your vet about all the ways in which you can transport your pet. From stress-reducing pheromone sprays to outfitting your pet with a calming collar to doping yourself and your pet (kidding, well, maybe), do the research and plan so your travel experience is as calming as it could possibly be.
Change of Address: Luckily, you can change your address online and it’s super simple. Since I pay most of my bills online, updating magazine subscriptions, credit cards, Netflix (yes, I still get DVDs–I’m 39), debit cards, student loans, cell phone, and frequently-patroned retailers (for me, Amazon) is a cinch and takes me an hour once I’m in a groove. I’ve made a list of every vendor requiring an update, along with their site link/phone number.
Speak to your accountant to forms you’ll need to complete re: your move (example). I’ll also be completing change of residence forms with the DMV. If you have health insurance, you’re able to change your plan should you move out of state. I’ve Oxford, and I’ll be completing this form to un-enroll due to a life change and will select new providers/plan under California’s insurance exchange. This seems complicated, but I’ll let you know how it goes come September.
Bottom Line: Make a detailed list of every vendor that sends you mail or notices via email. Secure your username/passwords, and spend an afternoon making all of the address changes in one shot. I also plan on sending my closest friends an email with my new contact information.
Miscellaneous Logistics: Know that I’ve made an exhaustive list of all the little things I have to take care of before I leave New York, which includes: ordering a year’s supply of contact lenses, finalizing all of my dental work, getting my annual physical, GYN and mammogram before I have to switch carriers, cancel my safety deposit box membership, purchase new furniture (I’m getting this new couch and rug), repair any furniture that requires attention before my move, comb through all my paper documents and shred anything I don’t need, take another sweep of my books, clothes and posessions to see if there’s anything left to donate/give away, update my W9 forms with ongoing clients, give notice on my existing apartment come July, close out my NY-related utility bills and connect with my leasing office on utility/internet activation.
I’m sure there are dozens of things I’m probably missing, however, I have a notebook where I’ve been tracking anything that comes to mind, noting the kinds of mail I’ve been receiving (as I typed this I saw a Netflix DVD and took that down as a COA!)
Bottom Line: Plan as early as possible and know that nothing is too small in terms of logistics. Map what you need to do along with dates and any milestones you’ll need in order to get you where you need to go.
Posted on June 16, 2015
I feel like my journey through the in-betweens has been a constant refrain, but I can’t help it. I’m feeling the impermanence of my surroundings as I start making dates with all the people I want to see before I leave. I regard my carpet, my couch, much of my possessions with this odd detachment because I know they’ll soon be gone, put up for sale on Craig’s List and removed from the home that will no longer be mine in a few month’s time. I hit refresh on an apartment complex, hoping to find my new home (I’ll imagine this will be my plight when I’m in Asia and I’m more than prepared to leave in August). I sit in my friend’s bedroom while she packs for a business trip and while I adore her wardrobe, I think, so much black. Strange coming from someone whose wardrobe was once the color of night. Yesterday I tell an old friend over dinner about how I’m surrounded by predators posing as house pets, that I’m drowning in mediocrity, and that I need to move to a place that hasn’t been ruined by tourists. I need to not be in a maelstrom, on the verge of frenzy. I’ve abandon red lipstick and consider softening my black hair, and another friend quips that I’m becoming Red from OITNB. Today I think: why do I still own Ina Garten’s cookbooks? I order a story collection penned by an old friend who was my trigger, my drinking buddy, and I’m reminded of a time before we wrote books. We wrote stories and drank and talked about the stories we wanted to write. She’s published them while I’m trying to sell the world on the kinder, gentler psychopath. I think, there was a time when we were on the verge. And now I think that everything that was going to happen has happened and there’s nothing left to happen until I happen to be somewhere else. But I’m stuck here for two months with a trip to Asia breaking up the in-betweens and I’m anxious for what’s next.
This is chrysalis and it’s really fucking strange.
INGREDIENTS: Recipe adapted The Sprouted Kitchen Cookbook, modified to exclude gluten/dairy ingredients, and I changed the whipped cream recipe.
For the cake
1 tsp vanilla extract
1/4 cup honey
3/4 cup almond yoghurt (plain)
3 tbsp coconut, melted and cooled slightly
2 cups almond meal
1/2 cup gluten-free flour (I use Cup4Cup)
1/3 cup cane sugar
1/2 tsp nutmeg
1 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp baking powder
3/4 tsp sea salt
For the strawberries + coconut cloud cream topping
1 15oz can of coconut cream
1 tbsp honey or agave nectar
1 tsp vanilla extract
2 cups sliced strawberries (sliced)
Turn your can of coconut cream upside down and place it in the fridge to chill. Pre-heat the oven to 325°F. Grease a 9-inch round pan and line the bottom with parchment paper. (To do this, just turn the pan upside down on top of the paper and trace with pencil. Cut-out and insert).
In a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, mix the eggs well. Add vanilla, yogurt, honey, coconut oil, and whisk. In another bowl combine and mix together the almond meal, flour, sugar, nutmeg, baking soda, baking powder and salt. Add to the wet ingredients, mix, then pour into the prepared pan. Bake until a inserted toothpick comes out clean, 20 to 30 minutes. Cool completely.
While the cake is cooling on a rack, start the cream. Take the chilled coconut out of the fridge, scoop out the thick top layer and add it to a stand mixer fitted with the whisk attachment. Add the honey and vanilla and whisk until thick, like heavy whipped cream. Put in the fridge to chill for 15-20 minutes.
Pile the cream on the cooled cake, along with the strawberries and DIVE IN.
Posted on June 14, 2015
There was a time when, if you wanted to see someone, you had to pick up a phone, write a letter, or ring a bell. That was the time, I say and my father nods in tacit agreement. We laugh because this is what happens when you arrive at the middle of your life–you look back on the life you never appreciated while you were living it, and you recast it in sepia. You become a revisionist, a tawdry romantic. You forever remember your life as simple, even when it was everything but, even when your days amounted to you taking cover from ferocious storms that passed swiftly. When victory meant climbing out from under gravel and rock, in-tact. Still, you’re tender with your memories because that which you once considered life-altering–the manufactured dramas, the heart that swelled and broke, the incalculable losses–no longer bears the weight you once ascribed. Their intensity diminishes with time, for the fact that have lived. What you once considered large becomes diminutive simply because these are days you’ve endured.
You think Natalie Merchant was right, these are days you remember.
Over lunch I tell a friend that I’m in the betweens. I feel the years, all of them, but I don’t. When you’re young, you consider 40 old (ask any child and they’re certain to make allusions to your imminent mummification), but a certain calm accompanies this perception because all that you don’t know will be resolved by the years. The empty will be made whole, you’re certain of it. Until you reach the middle of your life and realize that resolutions are only met with more questions. The simple becomes a cipher and you spend your days saddled with riddles.
I take a meal with a woman in her 20s who’s astonished over the fact that I still have questions, that I haven’t “figured it all out” when it comes to my career. How do I explain that in the same breath I have it all figured out but I’m not close to figuring it out? That I’m able to reconcile what matters to me but that knowledge doesn’t magically reveal what’s next. It took time to unload all the weight I’d been carrying–the weight of my generation and the expectations of meeting markers by specific age thresholds (married by 30, 2.5 children, house, career, the whole nine) and realizing that I didn’t want what had been prescribed for me–and how do I explain that I’ve merely traded in one bag for another, and the contents of each are demonstrably different?
So I looked up this Santa Monica on the Google, and you’ll be happy to know that there is a Starbucks and a Coffee Bean, my father says, satisfied. I worry that he’ll be worried. Somehow I won’t feel right about leaving if he doesn’t give me his blessing, even if I’m too old for it, even if I don’t technically need it. But I’ve come to realize that his assurance is something I need, and I laugh when he measures the weight of this decision by the proximity of coffee shops. (He doesn’t, really. My pop, like me, needs a non-threatening opener, something that won’t ripple the waters, as it were. We need to take it slow–there’s no other way.)
The coffee, I understand, is my dad’s way in.
What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
From T.S. Eliot’s “The Wasteland”
We spend two hours in a car in front of the water, and I tell my pop I’m frightened. I’ll have to re-learn how to drive (so, you’ll learn); I’ll have to consider work (aren’t you already worried about that here? How is it any different there?); there will be times I will fly into New York and not have a home to go home to (home is in your heart, you know this, not where you lay your head down to rest). He says, of course you’re afraid.
In Spain, there are barnacles that are as expensive as caviar. This isn’t the sort of fish that’s affixed to rocks and certain ships, rather these crustaceans can only be found out in the deep, in the rolicking seas, and the princely sum we pay is insurance for the man who risks his life to harvest what we eat. I describe the way barnacles feed, their spindly legs and unhealthy attachments. We’re by the water now, and he inquires about the barnacles. Where are they? I point to rotten wood and the barnacles the blanket the surface.
What I don’t say is that I’ve been attaching myself to that which has only sustained. I’m taking what I can get.
My pop and I discuss probability, how he’ll likely board a plane to visit me in California than navigate a car to Brooklyn. Last night I walk along a street where I’ve walked over 25 ago, and I think about the girl then and the woman now and I’m trying to reconcile the two (a shadow behind you, a shadow rising up to greet you).
But it’s hard because the woman who grew up in Brooklyn is so foreign to the woman leaving it, and I can’t explain the sadness I feel being in between, over, under, around, beyond, the two.
This is what happens when you reach the middle of your life. You fold the terrific photographs of you from a former life, that young face washed in sepia, into a box. You preserve it. You care for it. You sometimes open the box and pore through its contents. You hold up your former self to the light. You practice nostalgia like sermon, like song. Then you realize that there are boxes left to fill. You realize that you are halfway toward the end of your life and you desire color. You need shadows under red rocks. You need new questions. You need new photographs. You need the life beyond the photo. You need to hold the still-beating heart in your hands. You need to breathe.
Update: I just listened to Isabel Allende’s talk on living passionately, regardless of age, and it was so fitting for this post and wholly illuminating.
Posted on June 11, 2015
Remember that bit about shopping my cookbooks? Well, over the past week, I’ve been on a spree that would put Cher Horowitz’s heart on pause. It’s been nearly a year since I made the decision to overhaul my diet and focus on a plant-based diet, and if I looked at posts from then and compare them to now I’m very much a changed woman. Yesterday I found myself paging through two old cookbooks, Sprouted Kitchen and Sweet Paris, and had this been a year ago I wouldn’t have thought twice about baking rich pastry or dousing my countertops with bread flour. The more virtuous cookbook would have been treated like a changeling, paraded out for the occasional post where I’d fix a salad.
Don’t get me wrong–Sweet Paris is a gorgeous book. The photography is lush and the paper stock, generous. The recipes are decadent, presenting Paris in all her plumage…BUT. I’m able to consume gluten and dairy, albeit infrequently, BUT. I can’t explain it other than to say I couldn’t get it up for brioche. The affection I once had for sweet hasn’t completely abated, rather it’s changed shape and form. While I’ll always love my cookies, sweet loaves and crumbles, I no longer have a taste for the heft of gluten or the saccharine sweet pile-on of granulated sugar. Rather, I’m constantly intrigued by imaginative baking–new ways to transform ingredients you’d never of in a dessert.
Take this lemon crème. Traditionally, I would have made this with lemon, egg yolks and heavy cream, but this version seemed wonderfully odd. If I’ve found success in using avocado as a creaming agent in pestos and chocolate mousses, I thought I’d make the leap with silken tofu.
God, who am I?
Funny I should tackle a vegan dessert after having read this piece on veganism and idealized body types (this article warrants a whole other post, so I won’t get into the politics right now), however, I will say that this crème DOES. NOT. DISAPPOINT. It’s wonderful chilled after four hours but I downed it for breakfast this morning and it’s downright glorious. I love how the honey and lemon are dominant flavors while the tofu serves to give the texture one needs for a pudding. The oats give it a nice finish–all crunch–and made me feel as if I were eating a parfait rather than dessert.
But who can refuse dessert for breakfast?!
INGREDIENTS: Recipe from The Sprouted Kitchen Cookbook
For the lemon crèmes:
1 12.3-ounce package extra-firm silken tofu*
2 tbsp fine or medium-ground cornmeal
Pinch of sea salt
1/3 to 1/2 cup honey (for vegans, you can use agave!)
Grated zest of 1 Meyer lemon
3 tbsp freshly squeezed Meyer lemon juice
For the oat crumble:
2 tbsp coconut oil
1/4 tsp vanilla extract
1/4 cup natural cane sugar
1/4 tsp sea salt
1/2 cup old-fashioned gluten-free rolled oats
1/4 cup chopped raw almonds
1 tablespoon fresh thyme leaves
*This is important. Do not get regular tofu as it’s grittier. Get the kind marked Silken.
For the lemon crèmes: Wrap tofu between a few layers of paper towels and set aside to drain for 10 minutes.
In a food processor or in a bowl using a whisk, blend tofu, cornmeal, salt, honey, and lemon zest and juice until completely smooth, about 1 minute if using a food processor. Divide mixture among 4 small bowls and refrigerate for at least 2 hours and up to 1 day.
For the oat crumble: Preheat oven to 350°.
Melt coconut oil until liquid in a small saucepan or in the microwave. In a bowl, stir together coconut oil, vanilla, sugar, and salt. Add oats and almonds and stir to coat everything evenly. Rub half of the thyme leaves between your fingers to release their fragrance and stir them in. Spread mixture on a rimmed baking sheet and bake until just toasted, about 20 minutes. Set aside to cool.
Once crèmes are chilled, sprinkle cooled crumble on top. Garnish with remaining thyme.
Posted on June 10, 2015
I’ll let you in on a secret: when I first started the master’s program at Columbia, I felt small. I felt stupid. Here I was surrounded by people who’d attended the finest private schools and the most prestigious of Ivy’s, who were as well-versed in contemporary fiction as in obscure 14th Century poets, and I was a reformed banker who read Bret Easton Ellis and the dead. I felt like an imposter in workshop–how did I get in here?–for the form and structure, the basic architecture of writing, was lost on me. My approach to books and story writing was raw, unfinished, and I was overwhelmed by the gleaming, the seemingly poised and polished.
At 24, I felt behind. I was desperate to catch up.
Over a period of a few years (punctuated by a time when I took leave from the program because my life had spiraled beyond my control), I devoured books at a rate that would only be described as astonishing. W.G. Sebald, Joan Didion, Virginia Woolf, Edmund Wilson, Oliver Sacks, Borges, Rick Moody, Raymond Carver, Amy Hempel, Ian McEwan, Marquez, Nathan Englander, Lorrie Moore, Michael Cunningham–the confluence of the living, and the long and respected dead, overwhelmed me, and for the decade of my 20s I read not because I enjoyed books but because I wanted to appear as learned as my peers. I wanted to fit, blend in. And while I discovered authors who would forever alter the way I view fiction and my approach to writing it (hello, Joan Didion, Kazuo Ishiguro, Gary Lutz), my desires were more from a state of urgency than self-investment.
Giving zero fucks is liberating.
I don’t roll with the “smart set”. I’ve few friends from my time at Columbia and even fewer from my stint in publishing. Now I surround myself with wonderful, strange people who challenge and support me. I no longer want the Knopf deal and the requisite story in The New Yorker (although I wouldn’t kick either out of bed); I’m okay with publishing only a second book in my lifetime while writing on this space. After years of hungering for the world and everything in it, I’m finally content with playing small, yet significant.
I’ve finally returned to the voracious joy of reading books like I’d had when I was younger. I read what pleases me rather than follow the trend of reading the right books, which speaks more to privilege than anything else. Lately, I’ve had to balance planning a major move and life change with a great deal of client work and scheduling all the doctor appointments I’d been ignoring for the past two years, all of which leaves little time for rest. When stress mounts and I have to schedule “me” time, I’m finding that spending time with the dead is comforting.
Over the past few weeks I’ve read Maeve Brennan’s The Rose Garden (I discovered Maeve’s work after reading Spinster, and this remarkable collection reminds me of Cheever and does not disappoint), Beryl Markham’s memoir West with the Night (I hope to live 10% of her magnificent life), and I’m knee-deep into Somerset Maugham’s The Razor’s Edge (I found this novel on the street and I love, love, LOVE it). I’m bringing George Eliot with me when I travel to Asia next month, and if I need a break I’ll read a contemporary story that touches on the dead.
Posted on June 8, 2015
What a weekend. Actually, I’m glad it’s over, and I never thought I’d say those words aloud. On Sunday, I discovered this print via an online friend and I bought it, immediately. If I could mark these words along my body, I would, because sometimes I need to be reminded of the obvious. Ignore the expletives, which only serve as shock value (although in this day and age fuck seems less profane and more commonplace), for the advice is spare and honest.
This weekend, I learned that an old friend ushered in a new life, and while I’m happy for her this happiness is imbued with a certain kind of sadness. The kind of sadness where you’re nostalgic about the friendship you used to have, the people you used to be, even if you realize both have no a place in the life you’re living now. Sometimes you think of this friendship as if it were a postcard and it hurts to remember all the strained, uncomfortable silences that punctuated between the lines. You know the friendship ran its course, was good for what it was while you had it, but still.
It also occurred to me that I’m leaving, really leaving. Don’t worry, I don’t plan on joining the legions of long-term tourists and their cringeworthy odes to Joan Didion’s seminal essay because there’s no romance in my leaving, it’s just something I need to do. I’ll spare you the diatribe, but I will say this: one day I woke up and my home became a stranger. One day I was a sophomore in college and everyone I knew had the same points of reference–most of us grew up here, lived our lives here, but time took it all, whitewashed our references, and while others strayed, I remained and struggled to preserve what it was like to be a city kid. And then came a moment when I thought it would be nice to stop struggling. It would be nice to have a new point of entry, frame of reference, and the decision to leave came as swiftly as the sorrow that preceded it.
But I’m rotten at goodbyes–I prefer hellos. So there’s that, and all the logistics (financial and otherwise) that I’ve got to manage within two months. It’s…a lot.
When I read the aforementioned print, a line lingered: The problem contains the fucking solution. Pacing my home, I kept saying that line, over and over. I wrote down each worry, every consideration and dissected it to find the solution. With regard to my former friend, I was sad that I’ll only have the kind of closure I’ve created for myself, and I have to let it all go. And on it goes. On to the next. Committing to paper all the problems and ferreting out the solutions.
Is it no longer that I couldn’t make anything other than what can be tossed into a blender?
Thank pony it’s Monday.
1 cup of almond (or coconut) milk
1/2 cup fresh mango, diced
1/2 cup fresh blueberries
2 tbsp of your favorite protein powder
1 tbsp coconut flakes
1 cup spinach
For smoothies, I tend to start with the base of liquid, fruit, powder, and then I’ll add my vegetables. I’ll blitz this in my Vitamix (you could use a high-powered blender) and then I’ll add the ice so the smoothies doesn’t get watery and all the ingredients cohere. Drink immediately!
Posted on June 6, 2015
Funny how Facebook has a way of breathing new life into old wounds. Killing time, I stumbled upon news of a birth. Someone I used to know and love had a child, and normally I would be unfazed–I’d just keep scrolling, but this singular update, a life change, put my heart on pause. I was reminded of the cold excision of our friendship, a hurt from which I would need two years to recover. I spent most of today reliving that sadness, breathing through it, in hopes that it’ll pass as swiftly as it arrived. Today was supposed to be different. Today was supposed to be an extension of yesterday’s jubilance, of scrolling through potential homes in Los Angeles. Today wasn’t supposed to be this.
INGREDIENTS: Recipe from The Gourmet Cookbook
1 cup boiling water
2 tbsp tamarind (from a pliable block)*
3 tbsp Asian fish sauce, preferably naam pla
3 tbsp packed palm sugar or light brown sugar
1 tbsp granulated sugar
1/4 tsp salt
1 (7 ounce) package dried flat rice noodles (1/8 inch wide)**
2 tbsp vegetable oil
2 large eggs, lightly beaten (I nixed this)
6 garlic cloves, finely chopped
3 small shallots, coarsely chopped
1/2 pound medium shrimp in shells (31-35 per pound), peeled deveined and cut into 1/2 inch pieces (I nixed this)
1/2 pound plain ultra-firm tofu, rinsed, patted, dry and cut into 1/2 inch cubes
8 scallions, quartered lengthwise and cut crosswise into 1 inch pieces
4 tbsp crushed unsalted roasted peanuts
1 1/2 tsp red pepper flakes
Lime wedges are tasty
*The tamarind I purchased at my local market was fresh and already in liquid form so I nixed this whole process.
**I used brown rice noodles.
Pour boiling water into a bowl, add tamarind, and stir mashing gently, for 3 minutes to soften. Pour mixture through a fine-mesh sieve into a bowl, pressing hard on solids; discard solids.
Combine fish sauce, tamarind mixture, palm sugar, granulated sugar and salt in a small saucepan and heat over moderate heat, stirring, until sugar is dissolved, 1 to 2 minutes. Remove from heat.
Soak noodles in 10 cups boiling water in a large bowl until softened, 5 to 8 minutes. Drain well. Alternatively, you can cook your rice noodles to package directions. As long as you rinse the noodles in cold water, you’re fine.
Heat 1 tablespoon oil in a wok ( or large deep skillet) over moderate heat until hot but not smoking. Add eggs and cook, stirring, until scrambled and just cooked through, about 1 minute. Transfer eggs to a bowl and tear into small pieces.
Heat remaining 1 tablespoon oil in wok ( or skillet) over moderately high heat until just beginning to smoke. Add garlic and shallots and stir-fry until just beginning to brown, about 1 minute. Add shrimp and stir-fry for 1 minute, then add tofu and stir-fry until shrimp is just cooked through, 1 to 2 minutes. Transfer to bowl with eggs.
Heat wok over moderately high heat until hot. Add tamarind sauce and bring to a boil. Add noodles and stir-fry until tender and excess sauce is absorbed, 2 to 3 minutes. Add egg and shrimp mixture, 1 1/2 cups bean sprouts, scallions, 2 tablespoons peanuts, and red pepper flakes and toss well.
Mound pad thai on a platter, top with remaining 1 cup bean sprouts, and sprinkle with remainging 2 tablespoons peanuts. Serve with lime wedges.
Posted on June 5, 2015
Years ago, a friend of mine, a lawyer working on a stop-and-frisk case, talked to me about privilege. He could be someone who walks the city streets carrying drugs, yet he’d never be stopped, never be given more than a passing glance, because he’s an attractive white male who doesn’t look the part. Doesn’t fit the profile. On paper he’s the poster boy of privilege–Swarthmore undergrad, Harvard Law, and skin as pale as parchment–until he holds his husband’s hand. Until they publicly embrace. Then he’s a fag, a homo, a queer, and it’s as if all the privilege he was able to enjoy before he touched another man’s hand vanished. On that day my friend reminded me to check my privilege and check it often. And while I have to endure the indignities that come with being a woman in America, I have to remember that I’m, by all appearances, a white, educated woman (even if I’m genetically nearly half black and Spanish), and I’m able to navigate spaces where many are denied trespass.
I think about this a lot, especially when I re-read old stories I’ve written where I talk about my hair as a “betrayal”, rather than a piece of my makeup worthy of pride and love. I think about this when I email friends listings of expensive apartments in Los Angeles of which I’m able to afford. Yes, I work hard for everything I have, but I have to remind myself, constantly, that it’s easier for me because for the whole of my adult life I’ve played the part of a white, Ivy-educated woman. I have to remember this when WOC speak cogently and brilliantly on the dangers of whitewashed feminism. And isn’t it tragic that we need a comic, albeit an eloquent one, to remind us of all that we take for granted–all the ways we need to make the world better for those who are unable to occupy our seats of privilege.
Over the past year I’ve been reading scores of articles that invite you to change your life. In this rarified life the word “impossible” is verboten because if they’ve achieved the unthinkable you can too. It’s smart marketing, really, the way in which these stories sell you on an idea, an alternative life you could be living if only you’d make the leap. If only you’d sell your possessions and hop on a plane. But that’s what marketing does–sells you something that’s actually not the thing you’re really buying.
What they’re selling, unbeknownst to them, is their privilege. Privilege has become the unspeakable, the ultimate taboo, because no one wants to hear that their journey to break ranks, regardless of how difficult it seemed to be, comes at lower cost than if someone else attempted the leap. No one wants to feel the guilt that comes with being born into a certain race or economic advantage because perhaps they think it reduces the brave choices they’ve made. It doesn’t, really, but the blindness that the currency built into these choices is a kind that can’t be bought by others, is dangerous.
You may weep into your yoghurt when you read this, but not everyone can wake up one morning, quit their job (and life), and travel the world. Not everyone can drape their tawny body on a beach or sit perched in front of a laptop in Phuket. If that were the case, everyone would do it. We don’t exist in binary states, and those major leaps can’t be copied by all but perhaps they’ll cause a ripple in someone’s life. Maybe those dramatic changes will inspire small, meaningful choices in others.
Two years ago I contemplated a move to Europe (I know, line forms to the left). In retrospect, this was the dumbest idea in which I’ve ever conceived, but back then I was unsettled, unhappy, and I was grasping for something big that could fill the emptiness I’d been feeling. Yet, so many people told me to just do it! I’ll figure it out! Don’t think! At first I was exuberant–why not just put the cat on a plane with a passport? And then I woke to the reality: I’ve six-figure student loan debt that has to be paid or the corporations that hold my debt will sic the dogs on me, and I’ve no doubt they’ve global bloodhounds in their arsenal. I’d no savings. The only language I knew was Spanish and Spain’s tanking economy was out of the question. I had no partner with whom to share my expenses and fears, and I owned a pet that would require nearly six months of paperwork and anxiety attacks to transport to another country. While I wanted to pursue this fantasy, real life logistical questions and concerns put me on pause, yet the whole of social media was intent on admonishing me for thinking logically. Apparently logic erodes delusional thinking.
All this empty talk reminded me of a piece Mark Manson wrote on the steaming pile of bullshit that is The Secret. He writes,
Other studies show that people who engage in “self-affirmations” and are then presented with information that threatens their affirmation (even healthy criticism or feedback) actually engage in more faulty reasoning than people who don’t use self-affirmations.10 In fact, people who indulge in delusional positive thinking ironically become downright angry when someone tries to contradict their wall of airy-fairy thoughts. The truth about their situation just becomes that much more painful to them.
Delusional positive thinking ironically generates greater closed-mindedness in people. They must always be vigilant and block out potentially negative feedback or criticism of their beliefs, even if that negative feedback is life-or-death important to their health and well-being.
I don’t have the privilege of parents who could finance my adventures or give me shelter should I falter from pursuing them. I don’t have the privilege of a debt-free existence because how was I going to scrounge up the $40K/year that was the cost of my Columbia education? Do I regret graduate school? Do I regret that I’ll likely pay loans until I’m steeped in earth? Sometimes. But what am I going to do other than deal with the hand I’ve dealt myself and take responsibility for my choices.
But still. These articles, for a time, made me feel guilty. Made me feel as if my life were lacking, that I wasn’t brave enough to make the choices these women had made. Honestly, that was my own shit. That was me realizing that I’m not these other people living their lives with the privileges they have. I’m me. This is my life. And while I can’t teach snorkeling in Borneo, I can make the leaps that feel right for me. The leaps that my privilege + my hard work can afford.
I guess what I’m trying to say is this: don’t let these stories make you feel small. Don’t let my story make you feel small. You are the author of your own story. Write it. Live it. Share it with others. Try to help others with their story if you see them struggling, or if they don’t have the equipment or the means like you do.
Or at least acknowledge and feel grateful for what you have.
Posted on June 3, 2015
But I opened my eyes too suddenly, for no reason at all, and the beach at East Hampton has vanished, along with Bluebell and the cats, all of them dead for years now. The Turkish towel is in reality the white nubbly counterpane of the bed I am lying in, and the cool ocean breeze is being provided by the blessed air conditioner. It is ninety-three degrees outside — a terrible day in New York City. So much for my daydream of sand and sea and roses. The daydream was, after all, only a mild attack of homesickness. The reason it was a mild attack instead of a fierce one is that there are a number of places I am homesick for. East Hampton is only one of them. –From the Preface of Maeve Brennan’s The Rose Garden
I want to go. Now. My landlord asks me if I can send him my utility bill for a rebate. In response, I turn off my phone and bury it under a blanket. At home, where I’m lulled into an odd delusion of serenity, horns blare for five hours straight. Amidst all of this anger, all of this come on, now. All of this I have to be somewhere and why can’t the ant that is your car inch forward? Just drive. Why can’t you move your fucking–? Heel of the hand pumps hard. I’ll show them. I’ll beep this horn longer than they think I can. A woman shouts out her window, you’re a real big shot. You know that? And I don’t know if she’s talking about the dozens of ants in their cars honking or if she’s making small talk. There’s another woman who sometimes paces my block and she talks about how her face is peeling off. Her only salvation is Jesus Christ, so it’d be real good if you people could accept the Lord as your goddamn savior so my face can get back to what it was. I live in a neighborhood forever in repair. I live in a place where people move the curtains to one side, curious. Is her face really off? The woman bellows, can you hear me?
Oh, I can hear you. I think the only thing that can take off your skin is you smoking in the heat. Snakes like the desert; they prefer the heat.
Silence is a tree, I say once. In a forest, my pop says. Where no one’s there to hear it, I complete. I don’t buy that, my pop says. There’s always someone in the forest. A bird, an insect, a body covered in cool leaves–there’s always signs of life, my pop tells me. You can’t erase life out of a forest. One can’t unsound. And I say it’s not about the life which occupies the inside and perimeter, rather it’s our distance from it. So why a forest? Why not a boat in the ocean? A graveyard, he laughs. Ha ha. And I’m all straight when I say there’s probably more life among the dead than among the living. Look at the obsequious somnambulants–all of them–sleep-waking into their phones!
And so it goes.
Over the weekend I watch a funny movie about suicide. Trust me on this one. After the film, I keep thinking about the main character, Sophia, and how I have ashes of my Sophie on top of a bookcase and would it be cruel to put her away, somewhere quiet (but we’ve determined there is no quiet, no unsound, no fucking forest) because maybe it’s time? But this: I remember the rise and slump of her chest, how I held her–all four pounds of her–in my arms. I still own the sweater from the day when I last held her and I think about burning it. Would I keep those ashes in a tin nearby too? Is silence me in a bedroom crying into a chest where a heart no longer beats while a man with a needle and a woman with a towel wait patiently on the other side? Is silence the door that divides the two? Are we nothing if not the architects of our own forest, the makers of our own doors?
There’s a book on the floor, one I’ve been meaning to read–Half a Life. Tick toc, tick toc, toc.
I never got to be in the driver’s seat of my own life, a woman weeps. What is this, I think. I’ve become the sort of woman who cries over sentimental movies. I never used to be this way. I never used to cry. I used to go through my life not feeling much of anything.
I’m told that neural mirroring is a sign of empathy. Sit in front of a psychopath and yawn. For most, a yawn is contagious–people unconsciously mimic as a sign of compassion. Yet there are those who will sit across from you; they’ll engage in polite conversation and ask if you’re tired, and then you realize you’ve met someone who’s not interested in playing your yawning game. They’ve got their own forest. Their own locked doors. And then you wonder if rationality is standing behind your gossamer curtain, face up in flames. Because you’ve got the itch. Your skin is peeling if only you would just say the words. Give in to Augustine and Montaigne, into a book that foretells a white kingdom where only a privileged few are given trespass.
When I was younger I had a habit of chewing the ends of my hair. I quit it during college because eating one’s hair is the sort of thing that makes you stand out and the irony of college is that the training wheels have come off and being an adult becomes a precious exercise of blending in. Four years later I’m at a party in an apartment where the floor threatens to give way and Cate arrives with a white kingdom in a glassine bag and I’m still Christian. Back then, I still believe in a god but after that first line, after I twirl in a bathroom and maw at my ends, do I wonder if this vast white forest supersedes an old story in the oldest book.
I tell the story of silence like a knock-knock joke. I text my pop, what’s silence. We play this game. We’ve gotten good at it over the years. We rearrange the furniture, dust the curtains and put out a tray of stale cookies. Silence is the sound of holding your breath. Still looking for your forest, he says.
I suppose so. I suppose I will grow homesick for this forest when I make passage to another.
INGREDIENTS: Recipe adapted from A Modern Way to Eat (I’ve altered the recipe quite a bit)
3/4 cup gluten-free flour (I use Cup4Cup)
1/2 cup brown rice flour
1/4 cup coconut flour
1/2 cup coconut sugar
1 cup seeds (1/3 cup hemp seeds, 1/3 cup sesame seeds, 1/3 cup black sesame seeds)
1 tsp baking powder
3 medium bananas, mashed
2 tbsp olive oil
1/4 cup + 1 tbsp coconut milk (full-fat)
2 tsp vanilla extract
2 large organic eggs, lightly beaten
Preheat your oven to 400F. Spray a loaf tin with coconut oil and dust with coconut flour.
Mix all the dry ingredients (flours, sugar, seeds, salt and baking powder) in a stand mixer with a paddle attachment.
In a separate bowl mash the bananas, then stir in the olive oil, coconut milk, vanilla extract and eggs.
Gently mix together the wet and dry ingredients, just until there are no pockets of flour left. Pour the mixture into the loaf pan, then bake a little lower down in the oven for 35-45 minutes or until a skewer inserted into the loaf comes out clean.
When the loaf is cool enough, transfer to a cooling rack. This is pretty yummy still warm, but also good at room temperature or toasted and spread with either butter and a little honey or almond butter. You can also use this as French toast or in bread puddings.