perfect herbed grilled chicken + corn with kale + basil pesto
Posted on May 4, 2013
What I’m about to say will shock you, but after three weeks of devouring copious amounts of fresh, rich cheeses, ribbons of homemade pasta, warm baguettes, and flaky almond croissants, all I wanted was a bowl piled high with greens. Much to my shock, awe and chagrin, I’ve learned that it is possible to tire of pastry and white flour.
It is possible to say: PLEASE, NO MORE CROISSANTS!
As soon as my plane touched down and I made my way through the labyrinth that is JFK, all I craved were kale and protein. Perhaps to punish myself for all the delectable eats I consumed during my three-week European food odyssey, I turned to the BIG GOOPER herself, Gwyneth. We’re going to ignore the People cover story, gloss over her I’m just like you, bit, and leap into the pages of her cookbook, which do indeed hold a fair amount of goodness. SMITE YOU, GWYNNIE!
Three years ago, I was a woman who cooked at home. Walked half a mile to the subway, just because. Eschewed meal delivery. I was fit, healthy and strong, and over the course of three years I somehow managed to turn into someone who downloads Seamless Web, uses it, and becomes addicted to it. Complains about walking anywhere. During my holiday, I walked for eight to twelve hours a day and I fell in love with it all over again. The way one can get lost, hatch plans and strange ideas, and feel alone, but not lonely — this is what walking affords you.
When I came home, my friend was barren, and I immediately stocked it with greens, meats, and fresh herbs. Can I tell you how good it felt to grill a chicken? It’s so minor, a shift imperceptible to anyone BUT ME, but my walking, my cooking, my need for space and quiet, reminds me of a version of myself that I miss.
Here’s to being back. Here’s to seeing where the day takes you. Here’s to eating virtuously.
INGREDIENTS: Adapted from Gwyneth Paltrow’s It’s All Good.
Serves 4
For the chicken
1 tsp very finely chopped fresh sage
1 tsp very finely chopped fresh thyme
1 tsp very finely chopped fresh rosemary
1 tsp very finely chopped fresh basil
1 small garlic clove, finely minced
1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil
zest of 1/2 lemon
2 tbsp freshly squeezed lemon juice
1/2 tsp coarse sea salt
4 boneless, skinless chicken breasts pounded to barely 1/4 inch thick
For the kale + basil pesto corn (I modified Paltrow’s basic pesto recipe to include kale. If you’re not keen on kale, just use one cup of packed basil leaves, instead.)
3 tbsp pine nuts
1 garlic clove, finely minced
1/2 cup packed basil leaves
1/2 cup packed flat kale leaves (not the curly kind)
1/2 tsp coarse sea salt
1/2 tsp cracked black pepper
1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil
DIRECTIONS
For the chicken: Combine the herbs, garlic, olive oil, lemon zest/juice, and salt in a large mixing bowl. Add the chicken breasts to the bowl and rub the herb mixture all over each piece, being sure to get it on both sides. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and let the chicken mariante for at least 1/2 hr (I recommend an hour), or as long as overnight. I marinated my chicken for an hour at room temperature, however, if you’re going for overnight, just make sure that you let your chicken come to room temperature before you grill it.
Heat a grill or grill pan (I used my panini press, true story) over medium heat. Grill the chicken until just cooked through, 2-3 minutes on each side.
For the kale + basil pesto corn: In a medium pot with salted water, add 2 cups frozen corn and cook until tender (6-7 minutes), stirring occasionally. Drain and set aside.
Blitz all of the ingredients in a food processor until the pesto has a rough texture. To be honest, I’ve never tasted a difference when you blitz the nuts + garlic prior to adding the leaves, so I tend to add in the lot in one shot.
Add 1/4-1/2 cup of the pesto to the corn. I tend to like a light coating, so I used a 1/4 cup for 4 servings of corn. This is purely my preference.
a home not my own: lodgings in france + italy reviewed
Posted on May 2, 2013
To say that my holidays are researched would be a grand understatement. My investigations are on the level of a CIA operative. We’re talking Jason Bourne, a Harrison Ford or Richard Gere affair. I review pages of reviews, and then analyze (and over-analyze) the reviews. Often, I read other reviews the reviewers have written for context. I interrogate friends, colleagues and web-friends, and then proceed to fire off dozens of questions, drilling down to water temperatures and fluffiness quotients of pillows. Why the blinking? Is there something you’re not telling me? I feel like you’re withholding critical information, etc, etc.
My research is torturous, maddening, riddled with a constant fear that I’ll make the WRONG DECISION. I’ve been known to cancel reservations on a whim and re-engineer itineraries based on trusted counsel, so believe me when I say that planning an itinerary for a three-week European sojourn took MONTHS.
MONTHS, PEOPLE. Let that sink in.
And then AirBNB happened. Scores of my friends have used the service and have sung its praises. Rhapsodized over the easy check-ins, the well-appointed rooms and terrific locations. You’ll save hundreds, they cried. You can cook! In an actual kitchen! Imagine the money you’ll save! Yet all the while I was thinking that this was some sort of trickery, a ploy to dupe and kidnap deal-seekers. I’ve seen Hostel, Taken and Taken 2 (brief aside: the sequel was terrible) more times than I care to admit. Who just rents out their home to a stranger? More importantly, would I book a room and lose an organ?
I’m happy to confirm that all my organs are intact. Not only do I find the concept of AirBNB genius, I had two very exceptional experiences in Paris + Rome. Registration is a cinch, and the communication (email/text), flawless.
Midway through my holiday, I decided to nix the Bordeaux trip. Since the idea of paying $250+/night (if I was lucky) in Paris gave my heart pause, I made a last-minute booking at this lovely apartment in the Bastille district (photos 1-5) (4th Arrondissement) in Paris. From the rapid response to my urgent plea for a booking confirmation, to the spacious, quiet apartment, I was incredibly pleased with my choice. Although I never met my host (I’m told this is fairly common), her boyfriend was kind enough to greet me, show me around the apartment, and was helpful answering any questions I posed (there were many). From fast WIFI to a washer in the apartment (apparently, having a washer in your apartment is quite normal in Europe, while I’d have to sacrifice a spleen to afford one in NY) to great cable, a functioning shower, and a comfortable bed, I was impressed. My only gripe was that once I booked the apartment, the host’s responses to my questions (How do I turn on the heat? The stove?) lagged, and I did experience some noise at night from drunks spilling out of a nearby nightclub.
Rating: 4/5
I’ve written about my fondness for the quirky Hotel Original (photos 6-7), also located in the Bastille district. My love of Bastille is sentimental, the stuff of greeting cards. Over the past ten years I’ve always stayed in Bastille, and I don’t plan on breaking the trend. It’s a given that hotels in Europe tend to have smaller rooms, but this doesn’t bother me as a hotel functions as a place in which to sleep and edit photos and blog posts. Original is perfect as it’s a block from the Metro, and convenient to Place des Vosges and the Marais (two of my beloved spots in Paris). While the staff is attentive and genuinely warm, on two occasions during my trip I encountered issues with my shower and slow WIFI (constantly having to log-in is annoying). Also, I noticed that all of the cheeky accoutrements were missing from the rooms. Each room is themed — from concept to design and accessories — and I enjoyed learning about the origins of the room and leaving with a small souvenir. Minor, but I noticed a difference from my last visit in September.
Rating: 4/5
On advice from a very discerning Brit and former colleague, I decided to book a boutique hotel off of Tablet: Continentale, Florence (photos 8-9). The description was certainly seductive (as were the photos) — a sleek, Ferragamo-designed hotel within walking distance of the Uffizi and Ponte Vecchio. All of this is true: the location was perfection, the service courteous and expedient, but the accommodations were lackluster. On certain days I’d enter the hotel and there would be this smell, and the only word that comes to mind is mold. The rooms, while lovely and sound-proof, offered a leaking shower (This is just how it is, I was told by a non-plussed attendant), extreme temperature shifts (it was always too hot or cold) and a sleeping/living area that was disproportionally smaller than the bathroom. Odd. The breakfast was delicious, albeit expensive, and I found their list of recommended restaurants to be borderline touristy. Great location, great service, mediocre room.
Rating: 3.5/5
When I arrived in Rome, I had to deal with lost luggage, incompetent Alitalia + Lufthansa representatives, and a heartless United Airlines. I spent a few hundred dollars just to stock up on the essentials + clothes since I all I had were a carry-on and the clothes I’d been wearing during twelve hours of flying. Suffice it to say, my holiday got off to a shaky start. However, that shouldn’t diminish the greatness that is Matteo’s Trevi Fountain/Coliseum (photos 10-12) abode. Matteo was born for AirBNB. He greeted me with a book (WITH DIAGRAMS!) describing the apartment, replete with color photos and detailed instructions. The perfect host, he even left me with fresh fruit, snacks and Italian coffee. I practically burst into tears because he was an AirBNB-fearing, Type-A woman’s dream. Not only was his home historic (the building is over 400 years old), it had all the modern trappings (fast WIFI, washer, terrific shower, cable TV/DVD player with videos). Conveniently located near the Trevi and all the great spots, it was still quiet at night and made for an excellent way to start my holiday (if we forget about the HORROR that is United/Alitalia/Lufthansa).
Rating: 5/5
For those of you who have been following my exploits, Biarritz was nothing short of magical. Typing this in New York, I will remember Biarritz as the place where I composed short stories, read in front of the ocean and finally tiptoed into the dark, wondering where the next few days, months would take me. Biarritz is not the sort of place where you drop your bags and start ticking off landmarks, rather it’s a place where you lay your head down to rest. And Hotel Ocean, Biarritz (photo 13) was the perfect spot for my chrysalis. Located in the city center, Ocean is literally steps from the beach, and if you don’t start quivering over the thought of waking to the ocean, there’s no helping you. The hotel was simple, minimal. It’s not modern by any stretch of the imagination, however, Biarritz is the sort of place that doesn’t have a Starbucks and I was fine with the austerity. The room was comfortable and the staff was incredibly accommodating and kind. Ocean made for a nice respite after a long day of thinking about what I’ve got planned for the rest of my life.
Rating: 4/5
And there you have it. Two countries, many homes not my own, considered. Feel free to drop me any questions about AirBNB or the hotels in the comments!
diversion tactics, averted. this is what I’m afraid of
Posted on May 1, 2013
Believe me when I say I had this whole morning planned. Ignore the jet lag, read the Internet so the rest of the world doesn’t have to, book fitness classes, schedule meetings, send emails {and send some more emails} — basically, a map with an itinerary, and then I read this post, which put my heart on pause. It’s rare that a stranger’s words would knock me off course, disrupt, break through this sometimes impenetrable wall I work so assiduously to build and maintain. I’m a difficult woman, I know this, and sometimes the kind of difficulty I’ve cultivated has a way of shielding me from what’s raw and honest.
I spent three weeks and a lot of money from a fixed income to go through darkness, and I barely made a dent. I got as far as a window, peered in, and then got on a plane and made my way back to this. A home still flashing no vacancy. Closed for renovations. This is reconstruction. There are ordinances. Papers that only live to be lifted by air and circulated from one desk to another, and another, and on it goes.
James Salter offers this: In the end, it [life] finally all seems to have been a dream. Only the things written down have any gravity to them. The other things are ready to disappear. I write because I’m not able to articulate the world, the whole of it, the way I see it, the way I wish it could be seen, when I speak. I need to observe, digest, and give you something which is different than what you see before you. If that sky is blue, I need you to understand why it’s so goddamn black: how I see it that way. how the sky came to be. I write not to lose anything. To catch people in the frame, and keep them there as I remember them. That altered love that broke me in one place can’t been loose change falling out of pockets. That tearful applause can’t be reduced to bills shredded and recycled in plastic bags.
BUT I HAD A POST PLANNED! CUE THE PRETTY FLOWERS, THE PARADE OF PEONIES AND TULIPS FRAYED AT THE EDGES! But I thought I’d be brave, really brave, and commit to paper (?) the things that terrify me. Here goes at attempt:
1. My writing will never be as good as I want it to be. It’ll be pretty, certainty, there will be an arresting phrase here and there, but I’ll never have the skill to write the kind of books that I truly want to write, the ones that consume you, choke you, disturb you, turn the whole of your body inside out.
2. I’ll never let someone in. All the way, in.
3. At some point, I’ll die, and I can’t control this. Sometimes I get real panic attacks over this. It’s gotten better over the years, but still.
4. I’ll never be able to drink again and not have it mean something. For years, it’s been easier to tell people I’m an alcoholic (technically, I’m not one) than to explain the concept of binge-drinking. Years ago, when I closed on a decade of therapy, my then-therapist (aided by my doctor), told me that there may be a day I could drink again, but they’d have to observe if that glass of wine had a three-piece luggage set attached. I’d have to observed like a little mouse. I’d have to deal with friends who would think, FUCK! Is she going to be the person she once was? I’d have to explain it all over again to people who nod, who don’t really understand, who reduce it all to, she relapsed. Then again, part of me wants to say, fuck you, and carry on.
5. My mother, randomly appearing, somewhere. I’ve actually re-enacted this in my head (confronting worst fears and all that), but it never is what you expect it to be. Never.
6. Never look at pictures of myself five years ago and think, you were so much thinner then. Logically, I get it all (it’s about being strong, punching people when you’re 90, etc, etc, etc), and I’m shades past the woman who thought a body was a thing that needed to shrink. But this body is my house, I’ve paid the mortgage, invested in the maintenance, so it’s sometimes hard not to look at pictures and think…
And why is it that we always compliment people when they’ve lost weight, as if it’s their badge of honor? Everyone envied my size 2 frame and tiny waist, but I had a coke problem and subsisted on Lean Cuisine and Starbucks. Where’s the honor in that?
7. I know leaving my job was probably one of the best (and healthiest) decisions I’ve made in my life. But I sometimes legitimately think, what If I end up homeless?
8. I’ll always be somewhat impenetrable.
9. Losing my father. To say that I don’t handle loss well is an understatement. Randomly I’ll burst into tears in PUBLIC PLACES thinking about the moment he’ll pass. Thinking about losing him is more devastating than my own death.
10. There is no god. That it’s all a sham. That we return to darkness, to ether, to air. That all this faith has been for nothing. This quiet devotion will be the ultimate joke played on me.
11. I’ll never see my own greatness. Before I resigned, a mentor said, Do you know how amazing you are? To which I responded, Are you kidding me with this nonsense? I writhed in my seat, attempted to switch topics, but my mentor was relentless. Your biggest obstacle is you, and it will always be you, if you don’t see your own greatness. Naturally, I burst into fucking tears.
12. The past, the weight it has, and its ability to ghost.
13. People will never get me beyond the surface and the pictures. They’ll never make an effort to understand the subtext, the layers. They’ll never actually read between the photographs and lines into the white and then the black and then to the truth.
I’m sure there’s more, but this is what I was thinking about during three weeks of pretty photographs and eclairs.
au revoir, my sweet!
Posted on April 30, 2013
Maison Georges Larnicol (Images 1-5) – Who wouldn’t fawn over self-serve chocolate? I felt very much like a kid in a candy store…oh, wait. | Stohrer (Images 6-9) – a Parisian institution that won my heart during my last visit, so much so that I had to go back for an eclair. | Maison Colette (Image 10) – their pastries are so darling, their meringues so pink and light that you will wait, willingly, on the long lines for a taste.
rose bakery tea room at le bon marché, paris
Posted on April 29, 2013
She was calm and quiet now with knowing what she had always known, what neither her parents nor Aunt Claire nor Frank nor anyone else had ever had to teach her: that if you wanted something to do something absolutely honest, something true, it always turned out to be a thing that had to be done alone. ― Richard Yates, Revolutionary Road
In the end, all cities bleed back to New York. All cities are a great, sweeping metropolis where the motley lot stack horizontal in subway cars and pretend to ignore the downtrodden who’ve taken shelter in makeshift homes constructed of cardboard boxes on the sidewalk. They sleep with pets or in pairs, but mostly alone. We’re told not to give, to report, to move right along, and whether we know it or not, we’ve become expert editors, excising all that is not beautiful out of the frame. The uncomfortable, the unsightly, never stays in the picture.
In the city, we wait on an endless succession of lines. We’re told to complete forms, bring identification, and you’ll notice we’re closed nearly twenty-four hours a day. We wake up, we work, we complain about work (and sometimes explore our options, but never really deviating too far), we work out and get drunk and go to sleep. We travel in packs; rarely do we drift from our spheres of influence unless it’s strategic. We’re card-players without ever having learned the rules of the game. But we play, and we sometimes win (dumb luck) or blame others for a bum hand (what the fuck?). In the city, we ridicule other cities and treat them like they’re quaint and provincial specks on a map should we ever visit. The country is for sleeping and the ocean is for taking pictures of our feet. Our constant struggle is the weather, and how, like the porridge, it’s never just right. We subscribe to dozens of newsletters, follow and befriend the right people, so that we’re constantly informed, always connected. Interesting how we’re vociferous about our left leanings, but keep close to the class that binds us.
There are no accidents. Arbitrary is a word that doesn’t exist in our vocabulary. This is the formula, the regimen to which we’ve subscribed, and the days become photocopies of themselves with minor variation.
But I swore Paris was not like this. It somehow escaped the drone of mobile phone alarm clocks and a rain that chills you to down to bone. PARIS! NOT PARIS!
I’ve spent the greater part of the past decade writing an ode to Paris. From the peonies painted pink to clusters of blush roses, to steamy baguettes wilting paper sacks and pink skies settling on the Seine, from cobalt blue doors and balconies for which arias were written, to manicured gardens and trains that hurtle into the countryside — it’s easy to romanticize Paris. It’s new, all talcum powder on the body and cut grass. We’ve yet to develop our blinders; we haven’t lived in the home that refuses to heat. We haven’t dragged four pieces of luggage through the underground metro system in the middle of rush hour.
Last fall, I gave serious thought to leaving a job that was slowly killing me. In three years I went from a person who created, who thrived off of the relationships I’d cultivated with others, to a person who sent all-cap emails that read, CASH MONEY. To a person who worked all hours, rescheduled, cancelled and spent months ordering take-out. In September, in Paris, I wondered about the woman I had become. Who am I? This realization was terrifying, it implied major alterations had to be made, and it was a reality of which I wasn’t ready to confront. Instead, I created this bombastic love affair with Paris. Much like April in Revolutionary Road — making Paris bigger than it is, so much so that she gets crushed by the enormity of her hope and the inevitability of her heartbreak — this affair was a cringe-worthy hot mess, replete with French lessons and culinary school research.
It took me ten years to realize that the luggage comes along for the ride no matter how beautiful the scenery.
While Paris is remarkable, magical even, it’s still a city that demands one live in it with eyes open. Part of me wishes that I would’ve taken that trip to Bordeaux, kept the romance alive for a little while longer. Stretch out the dream, slip into it, face full of childish sleep and wild hair. But I’m awake, band-aids ripped off and the bright lights flicked on. I leave Paris tomorrow for New York, ready to leave but not quite ready to go home.
Stop asking, stop checking. I don’t know. {emphatically} Start being there. Start accepting the in-betweens. {emphatically} I want to find my way back to myself. I want something sweeping, unsettling and great.
But first, a day of solitude. Of quiet. Of sitting uncomfortably in one’s thoughts. Inspired by infectious energy and beautiful photography on Paris in Four Months, Carin inspired me to take a trip to Rose Bakery, located on the second floor of Le Bon Marché. I spent the morning reading, eating muesli, scones, and banana chocolate loaves in a delightful tea room cloaked in effulgent light. While the tea room is decidedly expensive ($6 for a cappuccino?), it was a gift to myself, a lovely quiet morning before the impending storm.
the sweet life in biarritz + a ‘do not disturb’ sign
Posted on April 28, 2013
Biarritz was only this morning but it feels like decades past. The train back to Paris hurtled so fast through the countryside, you’d think it was on the run, and I couldn’t help but think that the ocean now felt small, like some sort of tableaux in sepia, a blue dream I had in the morning to then wake in a cold metropolis. Truth be told, I’m having a tough time making adjustments, of finding my way back. It occurs to me that I’ve spent much of this time thinking, so much so that it sometimes feels dangerous, as I have a habit of so easily slipping into a life vibrantly lived in my head.
Instead, I share the pretty diversions, the edited for television version of these past three weeks, simply because there are things that should always be kept offline. I don’t want to be figured out or resolved. I want to be the person who sorts out my life, and lately I’ve been recoiling from people who dole out unsolicited advice like sweets, tell me I should be doing this, that or whatever. At times my reactions have been visceral, irrational, abrasive because I can sense in their words and facial expressions that they want a kind of closure, a finishing of sorts. They want me to snap to it, be the Felicia they want to know or think they know. They want a refreshed LinkedIn page that puts an end to all that. They want to say, so, we’re done here, right?
Even if their words imply none of the above, right now I just need to hold up my DO NOT DISTURB sign. I need to surround myself with people who are comfortable with the words, I don’t know. I need to be around people who put down their phone while we’re eating.
Oh dear. I just realized I was supposed to write about pastry, wasn’t I?
The good news is that you can’t really get a terrible sweet experience in Biarritz. While it’s true there are fanciful shops that will make you gasp over the cost of a piece of chocolate (most of which are located along the waterfront), Biarritz offers incredible chocolates, breads and Basque treats that had me shaking from sugar. My favorite was the very simple gateaux basque, a cake-cum-tart with a crumbly, semolina consistency that is filled with cherry compote, cream or chocolate. From the cracked crust to the delicate filling juxtaposed with the dense texture of the cake, you’ll fawn over the texture + flavor plays. It’s so simple, yet, SO PERFECT.
My choice spots are Real Chocolate (bark chocolate that will have you keeling over from the richness), Maison Adam (finally, a macaron I can actually tolerate!), Le Secret des Pain (the best loaves of bread, beignets and cakes you’ll have in Biarritz), Gateaux Basque at the Miremont (with an ocean view that isn’t too shabby) + all the local boulangeries in Les Halles.
Trying so hard to slow that train down…
