When the clock struck midnight on January 1, 2008, I had expected to feel a tidal wave of relief that 2007 was finally behind me. On paper, 2007 seemed to bring nothing but trouble to my life. When the champagne corks popped, shouldn't I have been dancing with glee that it was finally over? Shouldn't I have been crying "good riddance"? I was confused when those feelings never surfaced.
It's taken a few days to process (and catch up on my sleep), but I now realize why that relief never hit me the way I had expected. Believe it or not, I loved 2007. I feel enormous gratitude for all that took place last year — for the lessons I've learned, for the ways I've been forced to grow, for the friends I've made. I will remember '07 as a year that was as rewarding as it was challenging, a year of unparalleled richness and fullness. Every month was more wonderful than the one that preceded it (which explains the lack of blog posts in December, which was positively blissful).
In 2007 I also gained extra appreciation for this little blog. How much more difficult would the year's events have been if I didn't have a small but loyal readership to offer support and encouragement when I needed it most? How much less delicious would my life now be without all the new friendships I've formed since starting IPOS? How much less fun would renaming my restaurant have been if I didn't have all of you to play with me in our virtual sandbox? Finally, could we have ended 2007 on a more positive note than Pim's Menu for Hope, which raised $91,188 for the UN World Food Programme's efforts in Africa?
Everything that took place in 2007 laid the foundation for 2008. It's appropriate, then, to start the new year off with photos of my construction crew pouring the concrete that will form the foundation of my restaurant, Contigo.
Thank you all for helping to make 2007 a great year! Guess what. I suspect 2008 is going to be even more thrilling. I am excited to continue to celebrate Contigo, both on In Praise of Sardines and at my restaurant, which is on track to open in the middle of the year.
When I get an idea stuck in my head, I tend to go overboard.
Maybe it's the company I keep. I have friends who, when they decide to preserve the bounty of summer, can 100 pounds of tomatoes. Another renders his own lard in 5 pound batches so that he will never be without. Yet another spit roasts pigs and lambs in his backyard for parties.
When asked to display my Burning Man photos at today's "Heat the Street Faire" in the Dogpatch neighborhood of San Francisco, I got a little carried away. It started out simple. I figured I'd choose my 20 favorites, print them as 8 x 10's, tape them to a wall at the fair, and be done with it. Then I got an email from the organizers inquiring what the title of my "art installation" was. "Art installation?" I laughed. "That's a mighty highfalutin' term for a few photos stuck to a wall." I decided to play along. I responded that my installation would be called "Phoenix Rising," after my blog post that described my Burning Man experiences.
Over the course of the next few days, the phrase "art installation" churned around and around in my gray matter like a batch of gelato. "I suppose I really ought to make some sort of backdrop to mount the photos on. Cardboard? Nah, too flimsy. Maybe plywood? Ooo, I should paint it black to show off the photos better!" Gradually, as the days progressed, my vision snowballed. The result is what you see pictured above: 3 plywood panels each 8 feet high by 4 feet wide painted black. Spanning the panels are a white silhouette of a phoenix rising out a fire.
My inspiration was street art. I've always loved the freedom of expression found in murals, graffiti, and stencils. Graffiti artists are the bloggers of the art world.
The one graffiti artist I had ever met told me he favored European spray paints because of their vivid range of colors. I did a little research and discovered that one of the top brands was Montana paints made in a town just outside of Barcelona. Barcelona?! You know how much I love my BCN! How could I resist? I quickly ordered a bunch of cans online from an importer based practically in my backyard.
After I received my paints, I transformed my future restaurant space into an art studio. People, if you ever want a good release, grab a few cans of spray paint, crank up the beat box, channel your Inner Vandal, and get down and dirty. Having that much fun should be illegal!
My experiment resulted in two revelations. First, spray paint fumes cause a wicked high. There's a reason graffiti is done outdoors. Second, I gained a renewed respect for the mastery of graffiti artists. While I'm completely thrilled with my first attempt, I am definitely a "toy," the derisive term expert "writers" call us novices. But, hey, it's all about the journey, not the end result, right?
And remember what Martha Graham said. "You do not even have to believe in yourself or your work. You have to keep yourself open and aware to the urges that motivate you. Keep the channel open."
If you live in the Bay Area, come to today's Heat the Street Faire and check out my playful experiment up close and personal. It will be displayed near the Mariposa Street stageat the corner of 20th and Indiana Streets from noon until midnight. There will also be lots of art from the Playa, plenty of DJ's working their magic, and boys and girls donning their finest Playa wear.
First (and only) open house Sunday before last. Two offers that Tuesday. Accepted one offer next day. Yesterday, a week later, the inspection and loan contingencies were removed. Close escrow in 2 weeks on the 17th.
This inspiring quotation by the famous dancer and choreographer Martha Graham arrived in my inbox today.
"There is a vitality, a life-force, an energy, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all of time, this expression is unique. And if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and it will be lost. The world will not have it. It is not your business to determine how good it is nor how valuable nor how it compares with other expressions. It is your business to keep it yours clearly and directly, to keep the channel open. You do not even have to believe in yourself or your work. You have to keep yourself open and aware to the urges that motivate you. Keep the channel open."
Remember when we first met eight years ago? I saw you during an open house. You were living where you live now, but back then it was the house that time forgot. It's a post war house that, at the time of the open house, had last been decorated, I'd guess, 40 years prior, whatever year it was that the color reigning supreme in the collective unconsciousness was brown. Brown wood paneling, brown shag carpeting, brown corduroy sofas. It was the Brady Bunch meets Sanford and Son. That decor scared off all potential buyers, an impressive feat during the height of the Dot Com boom years. Hell, even N and I ran screaming out the door during that open house. Then our visionary realtor splashed some ice water on our faces. "It's only cosmetic." Our cook's and teacher's salaries weren't going to score that remodeled Victorian on Potrero Hill. So we settled on your house, the runt of the litter, but in a great neighborhood. We were the only bidders.
I personally tore off all that paneling and worked with the realtor's husband to smooth the walls. I ripped up all the carpeting by myself, discovering beautiful untouched hardwood floors hiding beneath. Within a year, we replaced the shades of brown with sage, butter, lavender, and rose.
Remember how you looked back then, Kitchen? Tattered linoleum floors, metal cabinets with rusted doors, barely two feet of counter space, a wobbling ceiling fan with blades that threatened to decapitate, a mobile dishwasher with a hose that attached to the sink. Oh that sink! That improbably tiny sink. It could barely fit a pasta pot. How did she do it? How did that Italian mother feed her husband and two sons for 40 years from that space?
Throughout that first year of politely getting to know one another, I plotted like Henry Higgins how I'd transform you. I took your measurements. I drew countless sketches on graph paper of every possible layout. I met with kitchen designers for free consultations. I chatted with friends who had remodeled their kitchens to learn from their successes and mistakes. Whenever the new issue of Saveur arrived, I immediately turned to the photos of that month's featured kitchen. Then finally, after months of planning and construction, my visions magically took form. You became what you are today, a Pacific Heights/Upper East Side debutante. If you were a woman, you'd be beating back Gavin Newsome's advances at the office holiday party.
What I love most about you, Kitchen, is you're not only sexy, you're practical. I designed a place for everything within your cherry cabinets. Vertical slots hold cutting boards and sheet pans, deep drawers hold everything from cast iron pans to rolling pins, and cabinets above hold spices, tea, and my grandmother's china. A shallow pantry where the stove used to be holds my million jars of rices, flours, sugars, dried beans, and homemade jams. There's even a couple of shelves for my most dogeared cookbooks. Our friend poured 12 feet of concrete counters, 6 feet on each side of the fancy new range I bought for you, enough territory to keep several friends busy prepping at once. And your tiny original sink? It became my prep sink next to the fridge. The tall drawer I put beneath that sink holds the compost bin — another favorite feature. For the dishwashing area, I had a restaurant fabricator make you a huge stainless steel sink and place it next to the window, along with a real dishwasher. I have to say your design is one of my proudest accomplishments of that era of my life.
We've had some good times together, haven't we? The dinner parties and the brunches for my friends, and of course the countless breakfasts, lunches, and dinners for just N and me. But the times I loved best were those hours we spent together, just the two of us. How many hours have I whiled away perched on a stool at the butcher block table in the middle of the kitchen reading a cookbook or typing my blog posts on my laptop? How many meals have I eaten there? How many photos have I snapped in the perfect late afternoon light streaming through your window? Every recipe created on this blog was cooked within your walls. Nearly every dish I will prepare in my restaurant was first tested in your space.
How, I ask, would I have ever gotten through the death of my mother five years ago or, more poignantly, these challenging past four months without the sanctuary of your walls? When my heart was broken, you were my hearth. I found solace this summer taming your flames to saute corn and zucchini, stew fresh shell beans, slowly roast salmon, and bake summer pies and gallettes. You, who sprang from my mind and heart, provided me comfort and support when I needed it most. I doubt if I could have faced the prospect of cooking dinners for one without you.
A wise and dear friend of mine assures me I can and will create beautiful new kitchens in the future. And deep down I know she's right. I know that the kitchen in the new flat where I'm moving next month just needs a little love and attention to be functional. Plus, the reality is I'm going to be spending most of my time in the brand spanking new kitchen in that little restaurant I'm opening. So, please, don't feel sorry for me. I guess when it comes down to it I'm just feeling a little sentimental before moving on to the next phase of my life.
Thanks for all the wonderful times, Kitchen. You can't imagine how much I'm gonna miss you. Hope whoever buys the house will treat you well.
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I stripped off my kurta pajama and tossed it into the fire. It had once been my favorite, a knee-length white cotton tunic with wide Bombay style pants. My father-in-law had given it to me the year that N and I spent 2 months traveling around India for our honeymoon. That was 13 years ago. Standing in nothing but my boxers, a pair of dusty sneakers, a blue fur vest, and yellow goggles, I watched it burst into flames on the smoldering ashes of the Temple of Forgiveness. It was 3:00 Monday morning (Labor Day in the U.S.), the last day of Burning Man. I rode my bicycle back to my camp, laughing and singing the whole way. I've never felt more free.
The Tuesday we* arrived in Black Rock City (the temporary city of more than 40,000 residents that springs up annually in the Nevada desert at the end of August) there had been a full lunar eclipse early in the morning. If that wasn't enough to alert me that this would be an epic week, the battery in my watch stopped the minute we drove into the city. I'm not making this up. This bizarre coincidence got me wondering if that old naked guy doing yoga every morning (yes, ew!) in Center Camp was Rod Serling's ghost?
Thursday and Friday, we endured 3-hour long white out dust storms of biblical proportions, the worst ones any Burners could remember. The first one ripped our massive shade structure to shreds after we spent most of the morning building it. We spent a couple more hours rebuilding it the next day, only to watch the second storm destroy it again. Desert Wind Gods 2, Us 0. We unanimously decided "Fuck it. Let's just focus on having fun." After that, there were no more storms. Instead, we were treated that afternoon to a light rain and a brilliant double rainbow over the desert while we drank and danced at the Deep End Saloon. I like to think that nature was teaching us a lesson in relinquishing control and letting go.
Letting go. That was my personal goal for the week. Believe me people, I'm proud to report that I succeeded beyond my wildest expectations on that count. By the end of the week I had blisters on most toes from dancing til dawn every night. The music venues were out of control. My favorite was a set of massive geodesic domes called Root Society where DJs spun ear splitting techno** and acrobats struck poses suspended on ribbons from the ceiling (turn up your speaker volume and click here to taste the madness on YouTube). I was lucky if I slept 3 hours a night, yet I can't recall a time when I've felt more energetic or had more fun. Or maybe I was just high from sleep deprivation, etc.
I spent much of each day at the Temple of Forgiveness making peace with all the changes in my life these past 3 months. The artists that designed the temple, David Best and Tim Dawson, intended that their temple be "a vehicle for remembrances and blessings, promises and forgiveness." I joined others by adding my own words and thoughts, pictures and notes to the beautiful structure's filigreed wooden walls. Admittedly, I might have taken up more than my fair share of real estate on those walls. I had lots to say, a lot to let go of.
In case you haven't guessed yet, N and I have decided to separate and get a divorce. I could go into the reasons, but since this website is my soap box you would get to hear only one side of the story and that wouldn't be fair to N. Let's just say that at this point the decision is mutual and the separation amicable.
On the last night of Burning Man (how can it be possible that that was just 3 days ago?), I watched the Temple burn and felt a huge release. I shared many happy years with N and I don't regret a moment. But I'm ready to move on. No, it's more than that. I'm fucking excited to discover whatever the future holds for me. My phoenix rose from the ashes of that desert temple, and I can't wait to live the rest of my life filled with the inner strength, passion, and joy that I have recently rediscovered.
"To be nobody but yourself in a world which is doing
its best, night and day, to make you everybody else means to fight the
hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting."
— e.e. cummings
________________________________ * I went with Fatemeh and two of her friends.
** Judging by the number of people who kept asking me if I was him, apparently I look kinda like some Canadian DJ named Richie Hawtin (aka Plastikman) who helped start techno in the early 90's in Detroit. Aside from this picture (I recently shaved my head), I don't see it.
"Open" is an important word to me on so many levels right now. For now, let's stick to the most pertinent one in this context, that of my blog. "Open" means I'm going to once again start sharing my thoughts, experiences, words, photos, and perhaps the occasional recipe.
Soon.
I still have one very important thing to take care of that will keep me occupied for the rest of this week. Let's call this a pre-opening.
Sorry to be a tease. I felt the need to post something to let you know I'm still alive and well. Hope you enjoyed the quotes over the past week. They highlight aspects of the road I've been traveling this past summer... remind me next summer to go back to Spain instead!
The main reason I felt the need to write is this: I want to offer y'all my heartfelt gratitude for the support you have shown me over the past 3 months. IPOS readers rock! I have felt your love. And I've missed you.
So here's to the future! Which reminds me, some of my friends have come up with a motto for next year that I'm particularly fond of: CLEAN SLATE IN '08!
The time will come when, with elation you will greet yourself arriving at your own door, in your own mirror and each will smile at the other's welcome,
and say, sit here, Eat. You will love again the stranger who was your self. Give wine, Give bread. Give back you heart to itself, to the stranger who has loved you
all your life, whom you ignored for another, who knows you by heart. Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
the photographs, the desperate notes, peel your own image from the mirror. Sit. Feast on your life.
sar·dine(n) 1. a young herring or similar small fish.
2. a metaphor for the small and often less well-known ingredients, restaurants, farmers, and artisans that San Francisco-based chef Brett Emerson writes about in this website.
