Culinarie Therapie

Ever since Eve bit that apple, food and the how-why-and-where of eating and serving it have been constants in almost every life event: beginnings, endings, rejoicing, rejection, war, love, peace. My name is Jen, and this is an eclectic curation from the food world (and the world-world) about what we eat and the lives we're living while we do. From the mindful, flavorful and beautiful to the tearful and the harharhar, Culinarie Therapie highlights what might one day prove to be the Fifth Noble Truth: food and drink—the good stuff—heals, connects, entertains, and sustains us all from the inside out. Doesn't get bigger than that....So, welcome. And eat.drink.think.BE. For that, is Culinarie Therapie.

[culinarietherapie]

Cav owners don’t realize their shadow doubles the minute they bring home their pup. Even during yoga he’s never far.... Been thinking lately that at 5-and-a-half, Eli seems to be owning his doghood. For all the times I call him “Puppy,” he’s settled into a rhythm that seems to get better with time...which must come from getting older. I’m finding him even more amenable about things like changing surroundings, car rides to meetings and later-than-he-grew-up-with walks after our morning kundalini practice. And I say “our” but his only contribution to my kriyas is kuteness. His reward? A spoon of toasted coconut butter while making a buttered pour-over. (Which is tasty but a far cry from the decadence of a Bee Invincible alá @thejuicestandard. Which I miss on the reg.) #WhereverIGoHeGoes (at Concord, Massachusetts)

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How You’re Read Is How You’re Heard: A Plea From Your Friend, Words.

Dear, Dear World.

I beg you: Please pay closer attention to me.

Did I not give you enough combinations for arranging my 26 cousins into kajillions of more perfect unions?

Did I do something to make you really hate me? 

With the rise of textese in our 140-character world, it feels like you’ve all but forgotten me. Like, really forgotten. And because you’ve gone so sloppy-slop, I’m calling bullshit.

Think that because you’re a social media maven, folks won’t notice you rushed an error-riddled post or text? Think you can razzle-dazzle with your shorthand, your acronyms and yo’ funny spellingz to hide that you care more about how fast you’re heard than how you sound? To a point, sure: I sign hall passes all the time. But when it comes to writing rules, you gotta know ‘em to break 'em.

I’m not even deep, here. I’m talking simple shit like top-level apostrophes, starting with the days of the week. Now I’ve noticed your fancy i-Devices sometimes auto-add them where they don’t belong. First, I say shame on you, Apple. But the truth is, it’s on you, Little Grasshopper, if you don’t self-edit and remove the Fruit’s iOS mistakes.

(Is this the first you’re hearing of this apostrophe mystery? May I?)

• Toss an apostrophe on something and it owns something. (I.e., “Next Thursday’s schedule is a bitch!” Meaning, that bitchy sked belongs to next Thursday.)

• Thursdays (with no apostrophe)? Means “more than one Thursday.” As in, "There are many Thursdays that are gonna kick my ass, but the next one won’t.”

While we’re here…what about those groupings of me that sound the same, are spelled different and mean totally different things? 

"Peek” and “peak?” You peek (look at) a peak (of a mountain). So you peek at a peak. You could even take a sneak peek at a peak but you’d never sneak a peak at a peak. That’s just silliness.

(And don’t get me started on how blatantly wrong possessives are being scripted into dialogue and even newscasts. “There’s a bunch of things about grammar that need addressing” isn’t accurate in any solar system. But I’m learning that “there are a bunch of things about grammar that need addressing,” and I’m gonna have to get used to them as I accept that my place in your world is changing. Soul crushing as that is.)

So to you Facebook warriors and Insta pros who are making the world gorgeous with your worldly perspective and shutterbug eyes (even to you worker bees who prefer text to conduct your biz) remember: Followers who crave your creativity—who might even wanna hire you someday—might.not.care you’re creative if they think you didn’t care enough to marry your gorgeous art with correctly spelled, chosen and punctuated content. They might actually think you’re lazy. And man, that’ll hurt. Because you’re hardly lazy, Love. I know you’re not.  

Mistakes happen. But err because you’re blind-ass beat from replying to praise on your last post and you forgot to self-edit…not because you don’t know basic grammar. Writing is a precise invention. It’s not like whatev to be correct any more than it’s excusable to have worse skills than a middle schooler. And with so many of you shimmying for your place in the world, your lexicon matters and so does how you punctuate it (which this Maine company learned the effing hard way this week when a teensy misplaced comma cost it a shit-ton of money). If you’re negligent with social media and your casual communications, how will you grammar when it matters? How will you make up for it if it hurts someone’s heart, or yours? Inquiring minds.

It's like learning a language: You can't speak a language fluently until you find out who you are in that language, and that has as much to do with your body as it does with vocabulary and grammar. ~Fred Frith, composer/musician

Moral? Pay attention to me. Play with me! Cap my letters mid-word or spell phonetically from time to time (I love being massaged and fondled). Type for cadence. Read yer shit out loud before clicking “send.” Most important? Learn the basics to break the basics and make time to edit thy self. You don’t get points for typing fast. You do earn ‘em from packing up your thoughts, hiking Pride Mountain and sneaking a peek from the peak. Once your feels shower the effort you put into using me right, you may never type any other way.

I’m hear here for you.

Love, Words.

(And for you Loves who love learning, here’s here are some easy-peasy ways to improve your writing in the time it takes to scroll your Insta feed, from our buds at Ted.)

[culinarietherapie]

The Gemini Mind

I’ve been working on three different posts about tastes and travels in and around Boston, but with a laundry list of due deliverables for clients lately I’ve made little time to write. Then today, I awoke on my back (weird for me) feeling like an elephant was pounding to-do’s on a Smith Corona in my chest. 

(#NerdJoke: Elephants don’t need to-do lists, Sillies.)

((#NerdJokeForRealInCaseYouDontKnow: A Smith Corona is an old typewriter.))

My soulsistah Nic taught me a long time ago that it's not shameful to change your mind. And as a solid Gemini (Taurus cusp, really, though I’m not stubborn I don’t think), since I was a little girl I’ve struggled with wanting to do everything. Really struggled. As in, there are days where I’m deeply at odds with the path I’ve worked hard to forge despite the total joy my diverse days bring me. Am I writer, editor, photographer, cook, or hopeful nester with growing feet around me? Do I write/edit for clients, or write/edit for me? Am I an on-the-towner with a penchant for cocktails or a homebody with a penchant for cocktails? 

(Hey.)

Most at-oddsingly: Am I really a food writer when I crave storytelling through more than just food? Sparkle and simplicity; nature and glam; hometime and wanderlust; nothing, and everything. Some days my chest aches. 

There’s an ampersand in Uni’s kitchen hanging over his sink. It’s tin and painted my favorite blue with some scuffed edges revealing gold underneath. And it’s a reminder for an And-Not-Or life. He says it, Nic says it, and I know it's true even though I don’t always embrace it: It can be and. It c-and be. People with mercurial minds can dive into it all. Maybe the trick is simply surrendering to the overwhelm of my crow-like curiosities. To lean in. Make a big pot of What-If Soup with all the disparate ingredients of everything I enjoy as a creative and human being (not a human doing...there’s a difference, I know), set it to simmer, and just be. See what happens. Sounds better than having chest pains. 

(Do you ever feel like this? Awed by so much you wanna chase everything? And do you ever fear that multitasking isn’t your jam? In some ways I don’t know how creatives survive without multitasking yet sometimes it feels impossible to art when so much adulting is needed. #NotJustAGeminiProblemEh?)

I found a beautiful quote to post with pics of Derby Wharf Lighthouse in Salem, Mass., that Uni and I took a few weeks ago during some adventuring. (If you see the post on Insta, the lighthouse is down on the point from the pic I shared above). Here’s the quote:

"Knowing when and how to change course is important to success. Self-doubt is a lighthouse that will keep you from running aground. Don't become shipwrecked on the rocks of time. Be willing to re-think your decisions and change course." (Harley King)

Well, c’mon over here, Self-Doubt, you old lighthouse, you! You’re about to be hugged!

As for the rest of my life’s the week’s deadlines and deliverables, I’m going to try to stop allowing you to hold me hostage. I’m gonna baby-step-lean into the And of Everything. So what if my foodietravel posts aren’t done. This writing’s good for today. And for the future? Maybe some gentle acceptance that stories need photos and words. Food needs describing and making. Experiences must be sought and self-created. Brand building brings enjoyment and bumps as we unearth how we’re meant to contribute. Sparkle’s necessary, Bitches! Ethereality needs nurturing. So do little hearts and minds.

And, not or.

And since bills need to be paid, too…discipline needs honing. Like, now.

Here's to leaning in and embracing a changed course...whatever that means to each of us today.

[culinarietherapie]

Dining In Boston: Best Anti-Valentine’s Day List (That’s Not So Anti)

My friend Elena is a Northeastern student who’s working hard in the ways of internships and co-ops so she can brighten the world with her perspectives on everything from politics and journalism to transcendental meditation. We have awesome talks about life and the assignments she tackles for some of the pubs I manage, and over cocktails we nerd out over her food policy research papers and her favorite philosophers I’d swoon over, too, if I was at Wheaton again.

Elena asked me to weigh in when her BF wanted the perfect spot for their first Valentine’s Day in Boston. But only 2 years an East-coaster again after learning Las Vegas enough to cover it for a few years, I was actually a little nervous to be wrong!

Silly, right? I get like that. But thankfully, plenty of newcomers and some old standbys are still home-running it since my grad school and early food-writing years in New England. Yet whenever I’m asked where to eat on these High-Dining Holidays (V-Day, I’m lookin at you), I’m compelled to share what comes off as a Debbie Downer disclaimer:

Don’t do it. Seriously, Sweeties. Stay in. And not forever. Just for another week.

See, whether I’m out with my Unicorn valentine or a bestie galentine, restaurant food has to be at least as bomb as what I’d make at home. Because I’m not intrinsically good at much, but I’m a really good home cook and cocktalian and I require wowing. So whether it’s a Bon Me food truck, Anna’s Taqueria or supping at Giulia, I crave a memorable ingestible experience. And to me, on High-Dining Holidays, too much goes on in too small a space with too little time for me to chance a sub-par dinner on a precious night out with loved ones. Because none of us gets as many of those as we want.

So to my deep-thinking Ms. Elena and the lovahs of the world?—make the best dinner you can this week that’ll make your love’s heart sing OR get some take-away and use your valuable together time for more valuable valentiney things. Then next week, when you crave a night out and your love’s willing to make you smile because you’re just.that.awesome, hit one of these five places.

Best First Stop (Or Your Only Stop): Bar at Yvonne’s

2 Winter Place, Boston, MA 02116  617.267.0047  

Why? Cocktails. Say More: Yvonne’s drips with bygone sex appeal and the cocktails are like glassesful of poems...each more tangled with in-house ingredient descriptions than the next. I can only vouch for a few bar bites (the baked oysters are rich and flavorful but you’ll wish you had more), and some of my cheffy friends prefer drinking there and dining elsewhere. But if you must start a night with swank, nowhere does it better…and if you end up there, you’ll have plenty to imbibe. Plus, tenders chat you up kindly when you show genuine interest in their craft. Insider Intel: Into foodie porn? Follow @yvonnesboston on Insta. (#DistractingSorryNotSorry)

Best Chance for a Lady and the Tramp Moment:
 Grotto

37 Bowdoin St., Boston, MA 617-227-3434

Why? Authentic, artful, no-fuss Italian. Say More: For 25 years, Grotto has recreated the dinner scene from the cult foodie movie Big Night replete with timpano but sadly minus Stanley Tucci. Grotto’s big night is often in the spring (see what I mean about feigning 2/14 reservations?), and if that’s not reason enough to check out out Grotto, this Beacon Hill garden-level icon leans on its dark-and-cozy factor…along with Italian plates that might be more memorable than everyone’s fave noodle moment in cinema. (I mentioned Beacon Hill, right? Cozeeeee....) Insider Intel: I’ve always thought Boston’s a hard city to find a solid lunch spot that doesn’t feel like it’s only for suits, but you can lunch at Grotto Monday-Friday, 11:30 a.m.-3 p.m. It also serves a $40 per person prix fixe, off-the-menu dinner each weeknight.

Best Place That’s Worth The Noise: 
Eastern Standard

528 Commonwealth Ave., Boston, MA 02215  617.532.9100

Why? Vibe, mon petit chou! Say More: If festive is your jam over quiet kissy corners, this sparkly, dark-walled-and-marbled bar/dining room is great for feeling abroad in your own city. Adjacent to Hotel Commonwealth, go for the Manhattans (good Lord) and the hottt minute you’ll feel like you’re in Paris. Insider Intel: To all beloved plant-based peeps…it’s a little light on the plants. But the pastas and other meatless treats are worth the nominal choice. #AndThenThereAreManhattans. Extra? Lunch here, too!

Non-Romantical AF But’ll Always Make The List: Myers+Chang

1145 Washington St., Boston, MA 02118

Why? Chinese not-so-small plates that taste nothing like your childhood take-out. Say More: Joanne Chang and hubs Chris Myers opened this years ago to serve Bostonians the kind of Chinese that Chang grew up with (though you’ll see Vietnamese, Thai and Taiwanese flavors mixed in). It’s not a classically romantical spot, but the vibe is rich and red in an almost Asian streetparty way. And if you and your luv get off on Asian street parties, the food and excitement might prime you two for awesome AF post-dinner play. Just don’t eat too much. (Bonus? Food’s served extra hot here—as in temp, not spice—which lately seems like a bygone art.) (#ObservationsOfAFoodNerd) Insider Intel: Behind the register, look up on the wall to the cookie jars on the shelves. They’re made at Chang’s iconic Flour bakery and cafe, and the recipe’s in Chang’s first book. If that cornmeal sandwich cookie with lime-zested filling is there, get two and don’t share. Extra? Lunch! Go. Now. (But not if you’re reading 2/14. Go tomorrow.)

Best Lounge For A Swoony-Croony Feel:
 Les Zygomates

129 South St., Boston, MA 02118  617.542.5108  

Why? Oozes sex (and who doesn’t want that?). Say More: Les Zygomates thrills on three levels: food, drink and ambience. It’s great for special occasions and those random nights when you just want to belly up to the bar in jeans like the local you are (you’ll probably wanna look nice here but it’s hardly a requirement). Not to miss are Beverage Manager Ashley Kompass’s creatively crafted drinks (and most recently, her house-roasted, corn-infused bourbon). Kompass just added three new drinks to her menu; the kitchen’s frittes are frittetastic—ask for double aioli—and on top of winning at why we go out to eat, anyway…it’s a jazz bar. A swell one. Insider Intel: Management, tenders and servers are truly invested in your comfort. Annnnnd...happens that Les Zygomates is running a V-day special all this week with a special wine dinner on 2/15 featuring Orin Swift wines (click here for the menu). So when you choose to stay in on 2/14, you can still hit up this place in style later.

Worth Your Outer-City Trek:
 Wood Hill Table

24 Commonwealth Ave., Concord, MA 01742 978.369.6300  

Why? True farm-to-table culinary. Say More: On a snowy January Saturday after a year of “we should really go,” Uni and I got a pre-10 p.m. reservation where we enjoyed a soup-to-nuts meal filled with farm-to-table goodness. (Wood Hill Table can even source the Bolognese’s meat because many ingredients come from co-owner Kristin Canty’s farm in NH…Wood Hill Farm. Coincidence? Mmmno.) The more rustic than luxe dining room feels like a glammy cabin. It’s the perfect place to enjoy oysters, craft cocktails and servers serious about their service. All the better with val/galentine who likes that stuff like you do. Insider Intel: While it’s a decidedly non-vegetarian restaurant, Wood Hill has plenty of appies and sides for the discerning plant-based palate.

[culinarietherapie]

Kane’s Donuts’ Pop-Up Lets Mass. Pike-Way Diners Get ‘Em While They’re Hot

I can't help but shout out to my wholehearted Paul Delios and the donut empire that he, his sis Maria and the rest of the Delios family have built that is Kane’s Donuts. 

Kane’s Saugus location on Lincoln Avenue.

As if the Saugus and FiDi locations weren’t enough, for a snippet in time there’s a pop-up Kane’s on the outskirts of Boston from 24 February-26 March at The Street in Chestnut Hill.  (Never been? Think Bostonian, Italian-esque piazza that replaces gelaterias and Vesper dealerships with Jonathan Adler and Southie fave Ku De Ta.) Don’t quote me, but I’m pretty sure Kane’s cult-like flaves will spread faster than hot icing could on Tom Brady’s tongue if he allowed himself a little sugar. 

Just a little.

Variety. It’s the spice of life.

The pop up is part of The Street’s “Pop-Up Project” honoring Boston’s local, “best-in-brand businesses” (read more about it here). With all the Kane’s donut love tossed toward inner and outer Boston, Pike-direction peeps can if but for one shining moment enjoy Kane’s vast variety…though those in the know will tell you the Honey-Dipped Donut is where it’s at.

Honey Dipped=Where it’s at.

So is the Nut Crunch.

Also where it’s at.

And lest not forget Kane’s kickass pizza, best enjoyed by this little pizza eater at room temp, out of hand and at any every hour.

If you’re a New Englander and haven’t enjoyed this 60 plus-year tradition, do. Donuts are made with locally procured ingredients and are baked fresh daily, in the wee hours of the morn—by hand, mind you—so you never, ever, ever (shh: ever) have to.

[culinarietherapie]

If you want love, happiness, health, or wealth, create it first in your mind. Imagine, as vividly as you possibly can, your life as you’ve already received whatever you want. Visualize sights, sounds, sensations, and most importantly, the emotions you expect to feel…. “Here’s a fun end result to imagine: the stunned and happy reactions of others. Or, imagine helping people who want to achieve as you have. It’s not important that you first imagine why others are reacting happily or exactly what kind of help you will be giving. By not insisting on those details, you let the Universe figure them out for you, in the fastest, most harmonious way possible.

That’s a passage from Mike Dooley’s book “Infinite Possibilities,” and I love it. If you don’t know diddly about Dooley, this father of “spiritual accountability,” check out his “Totally Unique Thoughts” and sign up for his daily inbox missives so that you, too, can learn to control what ebbs and flows from your life. Or at least try to learn. Or think about trying to learn. Because to quote my beautiful, wise and well-spoken Ohioan friend (and she knows who she is): “Adulting is hard.” Pah.

I used to be a nanny. My charge was the loveliest of the lovelies, and while many college friends went out into the world to start becoming who they were meant to be, as I took a more time to figure out my next steps, they’d visit my babe and me for play dates and walks and, Oh, just wonderful afternoons with a 5-month-old princess! She was a joyful distraction from the ails of the Real World, and filled me with the knowingness that my capacity for love extended deeply to children who aren’t mine. At 22 it was good knowledge to have. Years later, it still is.

Around that time, I started collecting mental snippets of outside-the-box ways to connect with kids, and one of the things I remember hearing my littleton’s mum advise when the babe was a lot older, was to “use her patience” as if it were a tool in her coping toolbox during a time that needed it (think waiting in line at the grocery store or something equally boring for a child). It’s probably been 18 years since I heard that, and I think about it all the time: “Use your patience.” It *is* a tool…but now that I’m older, I’m realizing how applicable it is to grownup life, manifesting good things for ourselves and others, and being happy. Because manifesting—paying attention to the signs around us and taking action to make shit happen—means we have to both believe AND act. It takes thinking AND doing. Thinking and doing.

Adults get so bogged down with how things are going to turn out, and how long the turning-out will take. But let’s go old school and “use our patience.”  Reverting to the simple stuff is sometimes the easiest way to get what we want, whether it’s love, happiness, health, or wealth, like Dooley says; or, checking out of a boring grocery store and heading for some swings.

[culinarietherapie]

In 2003, I had the pleasure of briefly meeting NYT then-food editor Sam Sifton in Boston at the Association of Food Journalists' annual conference. I petitioned to attend as a grad student and was allowed since I agreed to pay full price. (Thanks for the break, AFJ. Not.) But my brief interaction with Sifton was worth it. Nigella was writing for the paper at the time and I was all curious about her since her cable show was new and her breezy, approachable cooking style intrigued me beyond the beyonds. Sifton kindly fielded starry-eyed questions about her as well as his own work. Pretty sure if I dig out my Special Box of Special Things I'll find his then-email address, scribbled in his hand on a torn corner of a conference program. 

I met Kim Severson that weekend, too. She was still working for the San Francisco Chronicle, and I'd learned to appreciate her "look-Ma-no-hands" storytelling in a moving piece about the relationship between American Southern Chef Scott Peacock and renown Southern chef Edna Lewis. And there she was at the conference. We even ate near each other once. 

 Neither would ever remember me, but I've spent 10+ years drawn to their voices. When something they've written speaks to me--and it's always about food, like this quote from an inbox email by Sifton today--I feel so grateful that they took time to talk shop with a budding writer. During weeks when my head spins from writing (like this one) I'm so thankful that I chose their path, and that people find my work likable enough to pay me to do what I love. Because like cooking, there's rarely anything truly innovative in writing. 

As with ingredients, with words, it's all about how you arrange them.... To @SamSifton and @KimSeverson (and to Chef Peacock, and to Ms. Lewis on high), thank you.

[culinarietherapie]

Art As Oops

Art can be filled with oops, no? 

 Take a look at this:

This past week I wrote more original words, and logged more hours sweating blood to come up with original words, than I have since grad school. When I took a break one day, I mixed the last 3-ounce smidge of quite possibly the BEST nutmilk ever – lemon and lavender in a sweetened cashew base, alá The Juice Standard – and mixed it with the best matcha ever, alá Matcha Source from California. I was drained. Needed oomph. And it was SUBlime. 

Psyched with my sippage, I wanted to remember it and practice with my new camera. I even thought I could maybe use a halfway-decent photo in a blog post for work… until I dimly realized my bottle of gorge, creamy-white milk was in my belly. And who wants to see an empty? 

(#Amateur!)

So…I filled the bottle with water (reduce-recycle-reuse-refund is The Juice Standard’s high-intentions standard, after all) and called it a day. Hardly perfect but not a full-on fail: I used my new camera for 45 minutes on a day that needed not only the energy from matcha but the creative break to help me keep writing. The irony? The nutmilk is called “Bee I’m Possible!” And it made me feel just that. ✨ 

There is SO much to learn every day about how creativity takes real problem solving and pragmatism. Inspiration= everything! Sometimes I get caught up in the dramatic, hand-on-forehead “oh, HOW will I write today? I’m so uninspired!” But when art is your work, even creative projects need planning…whether the medium is paint or food or words or music or clay or marble or a choreographed dance routine or an (empty) bottle of nutmilk. And this morning on The Insta I shared this post with many people I know (and don’t know) who inspire me. I’m so thankful for the beauty in the world and for the people who chose to share it. (And to KK: I’m thankful that there are beautiful people in the world like you who are inspired to share your thoughts about other people’s inspiration. People like YOU make the world go ‘round because you draw OUT disappearing people like me. YOU…are love.)

[culinarietherapie]

TheFeedFeed is calling out this for the hung over. Though I’m not, this recipe (all the eggy ones, really) makes me wish that on this easylikeSundaymorning, someone would make it for me and I wouldn’t have to be hung over to enjoy it. And, it would be cal-free.

Capers + Eggs With Parsley, Check out the rest here: http://feedfeed.info/hangover-cure

[culinarietherapie]

Heidi Chase making crust. Xoxo

[culinarietherapie]

Project Thank You Note (PTYN) #3: Heidi Chase On Mother’s Day

Before she was Erin’s mother or mine--before she ever had to feed her own mother and husband--she was Heidi Ange Morris. Ange wasn’t for Angela, just Ange with an a like in hand. Heidi was because Nanny loved the book. The Morris was from a man whose liquid demons thwarted love he could’ve long enjoyed from his wife and kids but couldn't. And Chase was from the man who gave her children. 

Motherhood hasn’t been my mother's easiest-won gift, but I think she'd say it’s her life’s greatest; and fortunately, because she shares herself freely beyond blood, her life's gift is also her gift to others. An elementary school teaching assistant, I’ve watched her foster relationships with younger colleagues who have invited her into their worlds as an adviser and confidante. Some of my longtime girlfriends have turned to her during times of painful personal growth, or if they needed care for their own babes when their own families weren’t all that supportive. Some former loves have stayed connected to her. She's been that mom. And growing up, despite a few naturally occurring blue periods in the lore of estrogen-heavy households, I always knew I was lucky she was mine. 

I wrote most of that recalling our relationship from my youth through college years. But if you’re lucky to have been raised by certain parents, under certain circumstances, a paradigm shift can happen in your 30s if the proverbial shit hits your fan and you start grasping for their experience-based guidance. Maybe we hope sheer genetics will save us, but it’s around then that you realize your parents are actually adults with real-life chapters. One lived Westward before realizing like Dorothy that there's no place like home. One was married when they met the other. One had a crisis and lived in a hotel for a week. One lost a business and mojo. They readjusted to life with a special needs baby yet raised that child, and a typical one, with grace. And ironically, neither ventured far from their own mother. Least not for long. 

As the mom of a special needs adult, Mum has devoted her life to making Erin's comfortable. And as mine, she has been real and honest, and at times so right I feared her perspective because I didn’t want to face my own truths. But most important, balancing motherhood and personhood--and isn't it amazing that as kids we don't really get it that our parents are people?--she raised me with love. Boundless. She is my friend, my comfort, my confidante, my funny. She doesn’t like what I eat but loves what I cook. She rarely finds what I find funny but finds me funny, which is all kinds of awesome since hers is a laugh I seek. I choose her company and she chooses mine. But I'll be honest: As a disbeliever in storing all your emotional eggs in any one person's basket, I fear life without her because through her long hugs and whispers of hope or pride or aspirations or affirmations, I believe her more than anyone. But if I've learned anything from her—"I learned it by watching you!"—it's strength. Strength by example. I don't have what she has but I'm glad it's in my marrow. Somewhere.    

I have beautiful photos of Mum: Nanny kissing her in her blush wedding gown; her belly laughing with Erin; snuggling kitties; and even a quiet trio of her rolling mincemeat turnover crust. But the one above was from before she was anyone's mother. It’s a candid from a shoot where she was asked to model hairdos. She was in 20s-ish, maybe. And I love her look. Shy and sophisticated. Soft. Eye makeup just so (always and still). Artful eyebrows. She wasn’t thinking about doling out seizure meds or worrying if I'd smile after some life tumult. It was just her, back when it could be. And beyond being my favorite picture of her, it drives me to be a daughter that gives her moments of her past life in this one, where she can think only of herself. So on Mother’s Day and every day, like kajillions of adult kids like you or others who have been raised by amazing people—blood variety or not—I'm beyond grateful to be her child, to have her as my friend, and to be allowed to be hers. Because that stuff is never a given, but a blessing to be earned on both sides.

[culinarietherapie]

‘And, Scene’: To knowingness, honesty, and enough.

Last year, Dad’s birthday was a lot harder than the actual day he passed. Mum had hoped he’d reach 70, and he died fewer than 48 hours shy of it. So waking on the 27th, there was the heaviness of knowing he wasn’t in his room, ringing that damn bell I sometimes still think I hear, coupled with knowing he'd missed the milestone. Barely.

He’s celebrating with his parents instead of us I said out loud, optimistically, and quite possibly mistakenly to my mother, who couldn’t have been ready for that. I honestly believed it. But maybe it was total crap. It sounded nice, I thought. Teeter-totter, now I’m not sure. But I hope so. 

In Chase family lore, every drive was a chance to celebrate. With ice cream.

That inability to judge emotion made me question how I was going to feel yesterday. Because in the last year, like the pick of wool on bare skin I’ve worried about my mother’s finances, and about how, with no Nanny or Dad, only I was left to love her the way she’s lived to love her daughters. There’s been Erin, whose ability to “get" death ranges from A to B. And then there’s been me. My work. Everyone around me. What’s been my purpose? What am I for? The year left me feeling broken, awkward and shameful for feeling feelings I've only recently learned to call my “knowingness,” or that unsung “thing" that tells you stories you’re not sure you want to believe, but you’re pretty sure if you don’t, something wicked this way will come.

“Wicked,” like impy Erin’s “Little Devil” face.

But yesterday was actually different. Sad, yes; but a little peaceful. And as I went to sleep, I feel this a sort of moonjuicy, cosmic awareness that had percolated for a while: that the death of a parent is never ever just about the death of a parent. And in hindsight, if we were able to start off not even pretending it is, we'd let ourselves break open enough to receive what might be our gone-parent’s parting gift to us: Freedom to be who we were meant to be…even when we didn’t know we needed freeing.

“Freeing,” like our badass dance moves.  “I learned it from watching you” takes on whole new meaning here.

My theory: If you were closer to one than another, whether or not they were biological—if you were estranged, or a  Mamma’s Boy/Daddy’s Girl—both confusion and clarity come from navigating life sans a parent. Forgive that I’ve said this before, but it’s part questioning, “I’ve gotta figure this out on my own?” and, “What do you mean there’s no pizza-tour road trip? I bought that book so you’d plan us some trips. What the fuck."

Who wouldn’t want advice from Acushnet’s “American Gothic?”

But that’s just crass, curmudgeony, foul-mouth confusion talking. Clarity’s what paves the path to freedom if you let her. And only yesterday it hit me that by accepting our knowingness—not yoga-ing or juicing or walking or meditating or blogging or therapizing or tippling ourselves to the reality we think we should live—do we allow grave things to breed great freedom. And in his most gallant act of fatherly chivalry, of which there were many, my dad’s parting gift was the gift of eyes wide open; courage to change behavior that a therapist in Rhode Island might describe to a client whose name sounds like Schmen as a chronic need to please; freedom to follow an authentic dream without apology, even when the dream is unpopular and may hurt ones loved most.

“Animal Whisperer At Westport Rivers.” Lesser-known title: “Why I Rarely Eat Meat.”

My behavior in the last year was inelegant. And there aren’t enough Sorries in the world to bandage some hurt I’ve caused. Yet with the finish line to 40 in sight—and with soft recall of words like “self” and “identity” and “crisis” dancing in my head all the way from The Ocean State—I’m trying to allow knowingness to steer me toward the self I might be meant to be. I’m committing to be truth, not because I think gentle words and action may be what someone needs from me but because it’s what I really believe. Maybe, because that’s what I want. And while I couldn’t have seen it coming, I’m admitting that not only did Dad push me to ring my own little freedom bell, there will be joy in embracing how to clang it with flair if I allow it.  

I can’t possibly be the first person to experience something like this (Schmen says confidently) but I’ll miss the lesson if I don’t honor what I’m learning...that the untimely death of a parent’s physical bod was, for me, more than just the death of a parent. For me, it catalyzed rebirth. And given my father's unconditional love for me and all my joie de vivre for time spent with my mother, sister, family and friends, I have to think that as a parent, this turn makes him happy. I’m not sure. But I hope so.

This concludes the end to whatever this past month was, for I’ve reached “enough." And because I’m an editorial department of one with a penchant for closure, I’m parting with my favorite “enough” clip in modern, C-at-best cinema (agreed, ALH?). 

[culinarietherapie]

I’m on deadline for work, plus I’m out of town in an inspiring place where I’m taking crazy pics of food for a post later this weekend, and all I wanna do is, ahem, “self write.” And so...a picture. ‘Cause they’re worth 1000 of these, dontchaknow.

[culinarietherapie]

Dishing | Paul Delios Is My Do-Wich Hero. Plus, PTYN #2.

I was sharing some news on Facebook about one of my favorite men in food (news that, boo-on-me, is already 48 hours old...but I had that dinner last night, and all those squats to do while I brushed, so I’m, you know, behind). And while I typed, I was filled with such pride for this wonderful man that today,  Project Thank You Note (PTYN) forges on as I shine on someone who shines his love through food (and on me, too).

PTYN #2.

Dear Paul Delios, you happy looking man.

Photo by Matt Stone, as it appeared in all its adorableness in the 8 April edition of The Boston Herald.

The year was early 2003. The place? Meze, a Greek restaurant in Charlestown, Mass. Outcome? Your face making mine smile ever since. Connected by someone who knows us well, oh, what a connection it’s been: I chose Meze to celebrate my grad school graduation; you chose my smarts to get recipes out of your head and in a computer; and together we chose working the occasional cooking demo, my lending hands when yours needed extras. Our time has always been natural, funny and flowing. Sometimes pretty filling, too.

An all-time favorite of you and Jean at the Naples Food Festival, circa 2000-something. I’ve loved knowing how much she supports your work.

I’ve never hidden my (what I think is TOTALLY healthy and NOT AT ALL OCD) idolatry of your cooking, but I haven’t adequately thanked your heart and humor for all they’ve given me. 

Throughout our chapters, your present has been your presence...always there, hug at the ready...or an ear, a story, an f-bomb, some tears, a sip, or a bite. Sometimes all of it. And in 2011, you asked me to help up the ante of our story. Literally. It turned into this:

(...which, coughshamelessplug, anyone reading can buy by clicking this.)

Immortalizing your memories and meals was a gift for which I’m grateful. But the thankfulness is for more....

My two favorite Pauls (and a hidden Cindy Jones!), while you were taping an ep of Ciao Italia in 2007. 

It’s for welcoming my friends into your restaurants and serving them like they were yours. For giving my sick dad a quick peek behind Kane’s proverbial kitchen curtain, just to make him smile. For caring about my family. For how you’ve loved your dogs. For how proudly and respectfully you speak of your wife. For the son that you are. For not thinking my woo-woo shit is shit at all. For teaching me the hottest spot in an oven for baking perfect pizza at home. For making me crave your BLTs and bolognese when I don’t really eat meat. For weaving “fuck” into phrases I never thought possible. For your in-the-moment vulnerability when you’re touched or blessed. I appreciate it all. And I remain thankful for the chilly night in 2003 when you welcomed a random grad student into your restaurant and fed her deeply, seconds and thirds, in more ways than one, and without stopping.

[culinarietherapie]

Dishing | Bodega Ontañón At Jaleo And Tips For The Fit Food Writer.

So tonight I’m filling in for my editor at this wine dinner at Jaleo over at The Cosmopolitan of Las Vegas (which is arguably my favoritely designed all-inclusive property on the Strip AND, I think, has the best collection of restaurants under one roof). And I’m feeling blessed for a few reasons:

The Cosmo is a sub-10-minute walk from my high rise, so I don’t even have to drive.

I hearted Jaleo in D.C. and heart it here, too.

I know nothing about Rioja wine, nor Bodega Ontañón, so I’ll be learning something new. 

What’s not working for me? I didn’t work out today. And call me thick—because I’ve read the books about why some gain weight and others don’t, and genetics and blahblahblah—but I have a friggin hard time breaking my calories in/calories out mentality. So though I know I won’t suddenly turn into a gorgeapotamus tonight (she says confidently?) and know when to say when (mostly), I had to laugh when I was rifling through some scrap notes and found my cheat sheet for maximizing my teeth-brushing time to the best of my disdain-for-the-gym ability:

(I staged it a little. Well, entirely. #Nerdo.)

In theory, do that routine during the two minutes you brush and you, too, will have [insert body part] of steel.

(I said “in theory.”)

My dearhearted friends know that because I sit on my arse most of the day I’ve developed a pretty intricate exercise circuit for when I get up to do certain things. Like, when I grind my morning coffee for my Chemex pour-over, I do 60 leg lifts on each leg. Fill my water glass a kajillion times a day? Calf raises until my glass nearly runneth over. Tinkle? Squats (when I’m done, natch). And sometimes I just do standing ab exercises just so I don’t have to lie down to do them. So wish I could take total credit for the concept but I learned it from one AEP, who deftly uses commercials to work her arms, abs or legs, and keeps her bod looking way below its years. 

So. There you have it. After courses of wine tonight paired with God-knows-what, you can bet your sweet bippy I’ll be hitting my cheat sheet during tonight’s brush time. If anything looks particularly tasty I’ll post again soon. Meantime, it’s time to get ready. Thighs are up first.

[culinarietherapie]

Bad Baby Baking, Elizabeth Gilbert, And Finding Your Creative Home. Plus, Project Thank You Note #1: To SM.

What’s your best tool for release…the thing you do to just get it all out, no matter what “it all” is? Do you run?  Scream-sing in a closed car? Drink? (I no judge. I no judge.)

I like to cook. And I really like to bake. 

(That’s for you, Mum.)

I’ve thought about starting a pop-up biz called “Bad Baby Baking” after the best movie ever about using a talent to talent your way out of your own personal hell. But yesterday I got an email from an enlightened friend with a link to this awesome Elizabeth Gilbert TED clip about “going home” to find your creativity; and as my wussy-assed, tear-streamed face listened to EG wax poetic about the path to restoring your creative heart, it hit me that the truest, most constant thing that’s driven my creativity are words. They're my namaste, my nourish, my drink, my gut. They tickle me, crush me, inspire me, and set me straight like nothing else, and I consciously say like “nothing" and not "no one” because I don’t even have to know who wrote something that moves me. Words stand alone.

In my personal life I've used words for everything from outlining my master’s project to major breakups. I wrote a message to every person at my wedding (the first one) on their table assignment cards so they’d have convo-starting knowledge about folks they were sitting with. I’ve slipped “miss you/love you” notes into suitcases; I’ve written in cookbooks to remember if something I made was good or craptastic; and I voluntarily use my noggin to write for other people when they feel they can’t. I also keep what’s written to me. Inside the dresser I bought for my first apartment—a 12-drawer wooden prescription cabinet from a pharmacy, Dad said—are the “You Can Do It!” notes my mother hid when they helped move me in, each taped inside the drawers so I’d see them every day. In my wallet is a scrap-paper note my sister Erin wrote me when she was little. I saved a choice collection from the hundreds of middle school brown paper lunch bags my mother sketched with funny scenes of my girlfriends and me. Sometimes they had dialogue. They were funny.

This word-nerdness is probably why I write and even more probably why I edit…because choosing the right words? So important. So is spelling them. And punctuating them. It should surprise no one that it slays me how texting and e-media have decimated most people’s ability to write a good looking sentence with some nuance, humor and flow. (And if that sounds judgy, apologies: I respect everyone who doesn’t write reverently in their personal lives. But to you, Restaurants Of The World: “Ceasars Salad? Really, Amy Poehler? For the love of spellcheck.)

After taking in Gilbert’s seven-minute TED talk, wiping my eyes in the nick of time as my pup and his dad came back from a long walk, I decided that when I resurrected this blog last week I had chosen to do what Gilbert advised her  viewers in search of their own metaphorical life preserver: I “went home" to what sparks my creativity. Now, if you listen to her talk it’ll obvs mean something different to everyone. But to me, in my quest to increase my vibration and connection in the world—raise my possibility of “what if” and tap into the bravery, honestly, beauty, and spirit in my life—I need to both act as if and as is. Because acting like a writer isn’t enough. I need to be one, whether I post here or there or if pages stay in a closed notebook. Because for all the times I’ve answered the “what do you do” question, this may be the first time I’m coming clean that this is who I am, not what I do. I’m choosing to go home. 

Have you been feeling like there’s a choice to be made? Do you feel like your life cycles through itchy spots? What will you choose?

If you don’t have the seven minutes to watch Gilbert, I posted the part where I lost it the most poignant part on Facebook today. Check it out. And if it speaks to you, go home, will you? Just make sure you go for yourself. Otherwise, you’re just baking Bad Baby Pie for someone else with nary a slice for yourself. And what’s the fun in that.   

Project Thank You Note #1

Dear SZM.

(That’s my favorite photo of you. For all time.)

It’s like you blew in to Dartmouth High like ether from another planet, all legs and long fingers and a brain so balanced I watched you breeze through track, sight read my unlearned music on the piano and master math like I never would. I never felt jealous. Only awe as you imperceptibly wove into my family.

Then we graduated. You studied opera, and Dad drove Mum and me to your recital. We were all so happy for you. You’d send me pics from your different shows. I’ve saved so many...like this one below where you looked wicked happy:

We graduated again, and you moved and performed and I moved and wrote. You kept connected. I drifted. It was never your fault. I always retreated when life made me itchy. But if you needed a bed after auditioning in my city du jour, I never thought twice and was always so thankful you asked. You’ve always accepted my cracks, all while checking in with my mother, bringing Nanny seafood and sharing your baby with them when they needed to hold her as much as you wanted someone to want to.

An old pic, but she only gets more adorable.

When my dad died, it had been a long time. But you squeezed in a visit on an off day from your shifts, bringing Miss A and telling stories so we’d forget why you’d come. We laughed! You seemed more your true, authentic self than I’d ever seen you, and you admitted as much. And I thought if you could juggle the life you were living, surely I could suck it up and just be a present friend. When you left I was teary. 

“Well: That felt like she was just here yesterday,” said Mum. It was a tribute to you.

So is this.

Thank you so much for enhancing my life. I’m inspired by your mothering and your bond with Miss A, and I’m thankful you’ve allowed me time with her. I’m inspired by how you juggle two disparate professions with seeming ease, even on days when I know it’s far from it. I’m inspired by your humor, your ethic and grit. I’m inspired by your boundlessly fierce loyalty. Would’ve been easy to give up on me. But you didn’t. I’m grateful for the genuine “youness" you’ve selflessly shared with our family…and I wholeheartedly appreciate your blowing into our lives and being willing to stay. Especially in mine.

[culinarietherapie]

Everything I Needed To Know I Learned From Sesame Street...And Then, Applied To Facebook. Plus, Project Thank You Note (PTYN).

Abierto. Cerrado. Abierto. Cerrado.

If you’re of a certain age, do you remember how Sesame Street introduced us to Spanish by repeating two opposites overandoverandover? Around age 5 is when I had a girl crush on Maria because she spoke two languages, and when I wanted to move to Puerto Rico because that’s where she was born. My folks never left Massachusetts, but I loved learning Spanish in school and often consider Rosetta Stoning myself until I remember everything I’ve forgotten. Which is mucho.

Yet abierto and cerrado stuck. Abierto (open), cerrado (closed). Open, closed. I’ve been thinking a lot about open-closed. Last week, someone gently but pretty assertively told me that I need to try to be more open and “out there.” And I realized it’s been a long time since I was. About 8 years ago I felt like I was flailing: an unwoven marriage; unwoven moves; unwoven work; unwoven romance. An unwoven me. An extrovert with a gaggle of dear-hearted friends, I abruptly felt too fractured to connect or admit my life’s realities, and I had neither the energy or creativity to make shit up. It was easier to hide.

Since then, I’ve neglected friends. Good ones. Kindred spirits. I know there’s a time-reason-season for relationships. But I lost friendships by my own hand. And it’s no exaggeration that I’ve thought about my inability to connect almost daily since my slow but eventual shut-down…which is a long fucking time.

So the other day, I did two things:

1) I resurrected the blog format I’d let lie dormant for years, and;

2) After tech issues with a Facebook profile I created 6 months ago in a half-assed attempt to re-emerge, I put up a brand new profile. 

Before bed the night of New Profile Day, an amazing thing happened: I got two friend requests.

Now I know it’s not 2004 (it was “Thefacebook” back then, anyway). I know Facebook is how the free world (and even the not-so-free one) connects. But as you might imagine, the idea of social media gave me agita. I was assured I could be a voyeur…all read and no post. And I did that for a while but eventually felt too crappy about not participating. What I did use Facebook for was to create my own sort of “therapy feed” filled with writers, thinkers, companies and causes I believed in. I thought it would raise me up after my dad died last April, and from the tailspin I feel like I’ve been in for more months than not.

But something happened between the time I yanked the first profile and put up the new one. I felt better about my transparency. And in the days since, I’ve slowly begun rebuilding what (laughably few) friends I had. I’ve even posted. Twice. Made them public (…I think: I have a lot to learn). And, I’ve linked to my blog. Because it occurred to me that broken-open writers like Elizabeth Lesser and Elizabeth Gilbert never made no stinkin’ growth by sharing with the people they knew. Growth came for them in their unknown clan. A clan they grew.

I shared some of this with NOB the other day, who likened my lifting the cover from my cloistered self to ripping off a Band Aid. “What’s the worst that could happen?” she said. “You’d bleed a little. And sometimes you need to bleed to get all the shit out.” Word, Gurl. Word.

Within an hour of re-upping my Face of the Book, I got my first two requests: Jawaho and SKAD. Different, yet deeply, deeply meaningful. Two people I adore yet Godknowswhat has prevented me from connecting more. And I wondered: How could I use my profile to reflect my true inner Jen Chase? Back in the day I used to love sharing the same things people use Facebook for now: the clever, funny, beautiful, meaningful, thought-provoking and escapist of things. Wouldn’t I love to be that person again…while maybe using my profile as a healing agent. Not necessarily to mend fences. But to mindfully share.

A few weeks ago I read a feature about ways to enhance a gratitude-filled life. I can’t find the link, but the suggestion was to do these three things:

1) In a quiet moment, think about someone who impacted your life and the specific way that they did. 

2)  Write that person a short letter—300ish words, maybe?—explaining why you’re thanking them and how they made you feel.

3) Contact the person, and make a plan to visit (keeping deets scarce as not to reveal your secret) so you can drop off the letter in person.

Hello, Boldness! Meet my sweaty palms. (Ah. “Schweddy.”) 

Since I can’t conceive the miles I’d rack up on a plan like that, here’s my counter:

• I’m going to type short posts about people who have touched me. Think Jimmy Fallon Thank You Notes…probably less funny.

• I’m not typing names, but I’ll neither confirm nor deny that initials and phonetic implications may be employed. If your deductive reasoning is higher than the average bear’s, you’ll be a step ahead.

• Project Thank You Posts won’t be all I write, and they won’t be daily. (I write about food and feelings and nesting and shit, Damnit. I need space to shout out my new zucchini chips recipe and my epic riff off a Blood and Sand I made last week). 

• I won’t tell people when I’ve written these missives…partly because I want to be accountable but not that accountable. So like spaghetti against a wall I’ll just float these puppies into the Internets’ ether in hopes of finding wanting eyes. 

culinarie therapie is about food (good food heals from inside out, blahblahblah), but it’s also about a well-lived life healing from the outside, in. And this will be my exercise in trying to heal myself by shining bright-white-light thought toward people who have touched my life. Never know when our number’s up, so why not write now.

I might even know where to start:

"Dear Thefacebook…."