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[mybittenpath]

🏺April 21st 753BCE - 476CE🏺

[mybittenpath]

Shoutout to all the grapes in the bottoms of countless fridges and creatives terrified of never reaching their full potential

[mybittenpath]

My name isn't baby and no you can't talk to me for a minute.

[mybittenpath]

Positive vibes for 2018 🌱 There's much to be done.

[mybittenpath]

Read my lips when I say olive juice. I love you most when you're not listening so closely 🍸

[mybittenpath]

Popcorn

Lightly salted fireworks Steam peels husks back and onto themselves to expose the soft, crisp, white flesh.

Beg for butter. Demand to be savored. Let the heat coax out your softer self. Explode

into fluff and anchor yourself to the nub of your kernel your center and starting point.

Get trapped between his teeth. Make him thirst for bitter IPAs. Along his gums, leave thin bits of yourself that his tongue will grow tired of searching for.

[mybittenpath]

Tap Water

Granola bars Crisp and sweet turned to paste in my mouth and pressure washed down with tap water.

Jerk chicken roti Rice and beans and shaved cabbage and pickles not quite puckery and softer than I'd eat alone. Fork speared and flopped on top of the aforementioned smeared with avocado and jerk sauce shoveled into my full mouth. cheeked so my one dimple disappears and I can run iced tap water over my tongue Quelling what little heat my meal is generating.

Still chewing and reading, I always wait until late for lunch. I do well to avoid the rush and stagger my meals so that dinner somehow feels optional.

I wait until 10pm and tell myself it's too late at night to cook. I hate my kitchen. It's got NY tenants with antennas stealing away with crumbs, cat food residue, and my appetite.

My excitement to chop and chef it up swapped out for revulsion and defeat why are they in the sink? I don't use cups, I fill my aluminum bottle with tap water. bamboo top sealed tight and tossed into my purse. So at the very least I'll never go thirsty.

[mybittenpath]

Sheared

Don't call me sweet. I'm not a lamb koftas stewed with figs Syrup tear drops Fleshy and soft with crisp seeds Outer fibers clinging to each other In solidarity or non-sentient hive Symmetrical and harboring sugar water -logged wool. I shrunk that sweater 3 sizes when I dried it and tried to stretch it out. Clumsy and pruning hands Realizing just how rough wool is and forgetting the once welcoming texture As the strands try to etch new wrinkles into my palms leaving them pinkish and

itching

to get out of this stage of my life. Over the notion of worrying about my finances. Under the impression that this discomfort is temporary Through with being responsible for my own unhappiness, but not really.

[mybittenpath]

Rise

Seasoned by cast iron and shea softened, her hands crack; drawing gas bubbles between her knuckles, she creates space.

Feigning a mind cluttered, she erects buffers with hmms and yes honeys as you interrupt her sourdough meditation.

She rose this morning leavening and slapping and folding onto the floured counter. She waved to greet a sun seeking her radiance.

The dough, fermenting and tacky, reminisce with her fingers as she works around the bowl stretching it to fold over itself, teasing out memories every ninety degrees.

She stows the bowl away to rest and slices the boule whose baked scent guided you into her kitchen this morning.

You accept her offer of butter smoothed along the many craters in her bread, pushed wide by gas bubbles she drew with her patient hands, she created this space.

[mybittenpath]

Destination Wedding

We were eating cake by the ocean. Sea salt caramel icing stallactenticing off of the edge of this chocolate cake The extra crunch was a light dusting of sand. Earthy aint it? Tongue slicking and silty buttercream film smeared across our teeth. Grains individually ringing in discomfort tuning for the natural frequency of my teeth to turn bone to sand or shatter them like glass only to be weathered into sand then struck by summer lightning to be turned to glass and placed in your bedroom as a statement piece key bowl, ash tray,  or ring holder.

[mybittenpath]

Hibiscus Before the sun sets coral and orange,  peel away your bitterness born from insecurity. Shake your rose hips to the songs you're too shy to sing and hum them to the ardent bees trafficking your pollen name and unpolished trade Let your passion fruit and pluck it with trembling hands. Grant yourself permission to grow.

[mybittenpath]

Blossom In Bronze

A tiny man inscribed on the good luck charm begins to get up from his lotus pad and put on his shoes. *

— *from Molly Peacock’s Good Fortune

Made of soft bronze and too small to clink clink with each step, he carries a knapsack heavy with the hopes of the owner of the braceleted wrist. Whistling a charming cadence, he slips away unnoticed.

His thumbs, tucked between shoulder straps and body grow sore from trying to displace the weight on his shoulders. With the safety of golden oval links further and further behind him, he makes his way down the table’s S-shaped leg.

A misstep sends him sliding down a deep groove, shooting just past the clubbed foot near the edge of the porch. He pinwheels his arms and legs to keep from falling.

Steady, he shuffles toward the stalk of a dandelion hovering above his head, and climbs up its stalk and onto the smooth, brilliantly yellow petals. As they cradle his freshly worked frame, he takes in the scene below.

The garden is writhing.

Aphids sip from tender leaves. Crickets retire one by one from symphony. Earthworms meander along dark, saturated soil.

A ladybug, spots black and red-shellacked, pins an aphid between its legs and mouth. The tiny man turns his head but his eyes remain steadfast.

Beneath the scene, White orbs catch his sight. Along leaf underside lay future somethings.

and it’s like this, he sits long enough to gather morning’s mist. Resting the knapsack beside him, he gathers the dew from his metal body, rolls it all into one droplet and places it inside.

As he secures the buckles and straps he hears the clanking of teacup and saucer. Morning tea is ending.

As swift as one his size can move, he lowers himself off the dandelion and onto the porch. He dashes for the table almost climbing onto its s-shaped leg, palms slipping off its clubbed foot.

He takes several steps back for a running start.     For running starts         A running – stop

The grate of metal chair against the concrete porch amplifies the shaking in his limbs. He sprints to reach the swaying hem of the bathrobe before the owner of the braceleted wrist rises.

With one leap, hands scrambling for terry cloth fibers, he begins his ascent.

Weary, he returns home some time later.

The tiny man inscribed on the good luck charm pulls the dew droplet of wonder out of the knapsack. He sits on his lotus pad, slips off his shoes, and splits the wonder, pouring half into each.

Barefoot, he’ll no longer venture but spend his days tending his new lotus bloom.

[mybittenpath]

Fireworks

“You hate the sound of my mouth?” Milo said through chewed up burger. He noisily inhaled in the way people do when their mouths are full and they’ve fully submitted to gluttony. 

Laide watched him lean back in the wooden kitchen chair to rest one of his long legs on the only other chair in their apartment.

NOTE: Laide is pronounced Lī-dā or

LIE-day, a celebration of fallacies or

LYE-day, a celebration of soap.

see example below

“Laide (LYE-day) immediately gagged 

but she couldn’t tell if it was for comedic effect

“One. Take your shoes off," she said from their couch. "Leave the slush and dog poop outside please,”  

Milo nodded in agreement and put his burger down to undo his shoe laces.

“Two. I hate mouth sounds. Like, everyone’s mouth sounds,” she continued.

Milo drew out an “Mhmmmmm” as he stood up to put his snow boots by the door.

She grabbed a pillow and instead of throwing it at Milo’s back, opted to put it between her back and the couch's worn arm .

“Three. You’re not special.” she said when he returned.

Milo resumed his original position, black socks polishing the wooden seat. He lowered the yellow paper wrapper to prepare for his next bite and made sure he held eye contact as he filled his mouth with bun, meat, and fixins.

Laide squinted at him and said, “It’s like you hate me.”

“You’re not special,” he mocked and pretended to flip his hair.

“ How do you make food sound so wet? Why? Why can I hear everything going on in your mouth?” Laide immediately gagged but she couldn’t tell if it was for comedic effect or a very real physical reaction.

Milo stuffed his final bite into his mouth, and the crinkling of the wrapper as he balled it up, drowned out his smacking. Relieved, Laide sighed and shifted her body weight over to pull a pack of blue raspberry pop rocks out of her back pocket. They had just returned from a Sunday walk to get some air and soak up the pre-blizzard warmth before they’d be snowed-in again.

Laide shook the packet to get the contents to shift to the bottom before she tore it open. She dumped some of the teal crystals onto her palm and licked them off before Milo could see. Her ears filled with crackling, popping and a baseline fizz.

32oz cup of soda in hand, he returned from the trash can and plopped down on top of Laide’s feet. As usual, he lamented at how cold they were and she simply smiled and shrugged her shoulders.

“You know what I hate?” he asked.

Laide shook her head.

“Fireworks.”

Laide had finally discretely dissolved the candy in here mouth and was now able to resume banter.

“The beacon of joy and celebration? How-“ she began as she put her index finger to her cheek, “appropriate”

Milo lifted his hands like he was balancing scales, tilting his head left and right as he spoke

“I shouldn’t say I hate them. I just don’t get the appeal. Like they’re crazy loud, pretty- I guess, but you blink and you can miss a whole word in the sky.”

“Mhhhmmmm,” Laide replied. She had snuck a smaller handful of pop rocks when he was reliving blinking and missing fireworks.

He continued, “Also, firework shows are either way too short or drag on literally forever. Then we’re all kind of over the whole thing and our necks hurt from looking up for 10 years at some sparkly stuff.”

“Naturally this has nothing to do with your mom making you watch the store on your 17th  birthday instead of letting you hang out with your little ne’er do well friends.”

“Naturally,” he said through the ice he was dumping into his mouth from the giant plastic cup. He cheeked an ice chip, “Besides, someone needed to be there to sell fifty sparklers and one- singular firework fountain a week before the new year.”

“Wanna hear something funny?” Laide didn’t wait for a reply. “I flew up here with Jumping Jacks in my bag and-”

“That’s definitely illegal,” he interrupted.

“Technically, but it was an accident so it’s basically not,” she said as pulled her feet from under Milo and planted them on the ground. She slid in her striped fuzzy socks down the hall to her room.

“No that’s not how it works” he yelled after her.

“Plausible deniability!” She shouted as she grabbed the purse she hadn’t used in seven months. Inside, a crumpled boarding pass and old gum sat atop two cellophane wrapped minor explosives. She stuffed both into the pockets of her pilled sweatpants and searched for a lighter. After running her fingers over the loose jewelry and post it notes that littered her nightstand she yanked each wooden drawer open until she found it.

Laide cackled down the hall and alternated lighting and extinguishing the flame above Milo's head. He gave her a concerned look and shifted his body to face her from the couch.

“Awwww,” she responded. “Don’t you trust me?”

He smiled, feigning sweetness and shook his head vehemently.

Laide pulled a pack of Jumping Jacks out of her pocket and waved them in front of his face.

“Let’s go be ne’er do wells! They’re safe, super colorful, not crazy loud for you know, explosives. What are you doing?”

Milo was still sitting on the couch. He shrugged his shoulders and gave a thumbs up with both hands.

She inched closer to him and said quietly, “Open your mouth Milo.”

Through gritted teeth, he said, “C’mon let’s go light stuff on fire,” and hopped off the couch.

“Is that a blue raspberry cacophony of crystalline sugar nostalgia I hear you THIEF?!” she said, trying to snag Milo’s sweatshirt as he quickly shuffled past her.

He spun to dodge her hand and said “Rather be a thief than a hypocrite! This is the mother of mouth sounds and you have nerve to sit there and shame me.”

His mouth open, Milo waved his head back and forth so she could hear the fizzing, popping, and crackling.

“You are incredibly dramatic. Did you finish them? Yes or No.”

He stopped moving and raised his eyebrows. “Hmm?"  he replied.

“You didn’t.” she said in disbelief.

“I didn’t!” he said as he pulled the folded packet from his pocket and handed it to Laide.

“You might as well have,” she complained.  “Whatever, you’re buying some more. Two for me two for you and I’ll grab a six pack of cokes. Let’s see if our heads really explode.” Laide leaned in and shouted, “Are you ready!?” She knocked back the remainder of her pop rocks and bit into a big chunk, yielding a loud POP.

Milo laughed and tried to match her level of intensity. He said, “Let’s go!”

She paused and replied “We’ll work on that. I’ll make you a believer out of you Milo before the night is over or someone calls the cops; whichever comes first.”

[mybittenpath]

Hands Worn

I lost the Molskine I stole Skin stained by ink, carries doodles and poems’ seeds.

Dried out and forgotten by way of a morning shower My washcloth exfoliates the memory away with green tea suds.

The crease-lettes along the inside of my forearm embrace the potential but leach loftiness as my tendons wriggle and fingers click tap to the tune of financial security.

A peculiar cadence One that twangs with doubt in my office competence Hesitation between notes so I 1 tri-p-le it 3 4 to get through some measures.

It’s unclear if I’m stuttering, improvising, or not heeding the conductor.

Baton purposefully swinging, maybe seconds away from being tossed at my head.

Maybe I’m in time and should keep my head down and stay focused. Maybe it’s good? Perhaps foreshadowing greatness.

Or not at all what I should be doing.

[mybittenpath]

Trouble with Brussels

I look at the radish.

The radish looks at me.

I adjust the empty tote bag on my shoulder. The soil clinging to the root falls in a way that says, “You don’t know what to do with this.”  I try not to break eye contact, but it doesn’t have eyes so I’m simply standing in the Union Square farmer’s market, glaring at a radish and I’m probably in someone’s way. 

People mill around inspecting piles of yellow pumpkins, and bright orange squash - lumpy and splashed with verdant green. After dismissing the radish, I spy a green vegetable that closely resembles an aggressive  coat rack and notice that the interspersed nodes are Brussels sprouts.

           Leaning against a plastic tub full of sprouts, it reminds me that the Brassica family is a mysterious neighbor with an abundance of stories that make me wish I traveled more. Reliable broccoli, underdog cauliflower, rebranded Brussels, enigmatic rutabaga, classic cabbage, trusty turnips, rude (judgmental) radishes, cast iron collard greens, mustard seed, and mustard greens all carry the Brassica name with pride.

BRASSICA REPPIN

Tiny cabbages are cute, but every so often, Brussels serve as pungent reminders of their horseradish-laced heritage. As someone who isn’t the biggest fan of strong mustard flavors, I was suffering through each bite of a batch I’d just pulled off the stove.  After a furious search, the Internet told me to blanch them, so the next day, I learned how to blanch: boil then shock the veggies with cold water before cooking. A friend recommended that I use garlic or onions to round out the flavors, so I got my pan going and filled my kitchen with the aromas of something good to come (garlic and onions). The trick is to cook them at a high enough heat for them to caramelize and quick enough to keep the spicy mustard flavor in the background. I tossed in some tortellini and leftover chicken to make a meal so good I forgot to Instagram it. It could have been an Amaro filtered memory but now you’ll just have to take my word for it.

Brussels are more than miniature cabbages. They have different flavors that are highlighted by preparation style and pairing. You can commit to the savory route with garlic and onion or liven things up with fruit. Their layers can swim in the sweetness of roasted red grapes. Tartness from lemons accents their bitter undertones. You can even combine sweet and citrus flavors by introducing oranges to your sprouts.

ANOTHER BREAKTHROUGH!

After a bit more exploration of the myriad ways to enjoy Brussels sprouts, my fail-safe has become garlic, chili flakes, and a little sugar. I halve the sprouts and let them caramelize in the pan. They end up being crisp along the edges but tender inside. I’ve never been dissaponted and usually can’t bring myself to save some for the next day.

As fall brings cooler weather, it unearths hearty vegetables and ample opportunities to warm your house from the kitchen out. Every vegetable has its own distinct flavors that deserve to be showcased and appreciated. This fall, I’m concentrating on learning what my vegetables really taste like and finding ways to highlight what makes them so delicious. At times, I find the farmer’s market intimidating in part because I worry that I may be the only one with a contentious relationship with radishes. Seasonal eating and vegetable forward thinking can feel like a big undertaking. And truth be told, there is so much to learn, that it could be.

But I’m taking it one meal at a time.

[mybittenpath]

Table for 1

Brown butter and sage.

Gurgling, sighing away water content leaf edges curling out of melted butter and crisping.

I’d torn them up for the strength I suppose; as strong as fresh sage is wont to be when it’s praised for subtlety.

In a restaurant, these browning milk solids may have coated ravioli or encrusted the ridges of gnocchi but here, fresh linguine was $2.76.

My nonstick pans have oxidized bottoms, build up from spilt oil, and wonky handles that make pouring sauces fire hazards.

Trying to peak through the pale yellow foam, I swirl the small sturdy pot - the one I trust the most. I want to say that I saw my future

like people do with tea leaves or that I could hear future apprentice me yelling “Yes Chef!” amid metal clatter or that this moment changed me forever.

It did not. Tonight I had dinner and was full.

[mybittenpath]

Duck Love

I love duck. Duck pappardelle, duck bacon, duck burgers, duck burgers with duck bacon, pepper jack, habanero mayo, pickled jalapeno, red onion, spinach, and tomato on brioche- one of the most ubiquitous and agreeable soft breads out there- is worth writing about.  

Sometimes, I just reallyyyy want duck and have to trust that it's for a reason and of course satisfy my craving within the week. I'm not sure what the appeal is entirely. I could go on about how duck made me believe in non-beef burgers, or reminds us all that poultry- read: turkey -burgers don't have to be sawdust vehicles for condiments and toppings (just add breadcrumbs. PLEASE) but ultimately I'm just following the universe on this one. The universe just so happened to place a Bareburger right around the corner from my friend’s apartment and I only learned this on my way to her place. Naturally I had to stop by- for research purposes of course. I needed fresher memories before getting started.

Bareburger is one of my favorite fast casual chain restaurants. It appeals to people who love the planet but includes those of us who still want to be able to enjoy meat. You can’t un-watch the documentaries, you just can’t. I try not to eat meat unless it’s humanely or sustainably sourced (Antibiotic Free, Free range, Organic, Went To Prom etc) so Bareburger is a God send. If you’ve been, you know that their menu has a lot going on and it's a bit overwhelming at first. 10 patties to choose from including sweet potato & wild rice, bison, and elk, 4 breads, a bunch of cheeses, mad veggies, and approximately lots of sauces and spreads.

I still haven't built my own burger seeing as how if it isn't amazing I'll probably never forgive myself and I'm not ready for that level of self-reflection right now. I stick to the curated ones, my favorite of which is the Fire Quacker. It’s sweet and spicy which is basically fire and ice so by default it’s too dynamic not to love. I hate red onions and don’t care for raw tomatoes but when they’re in this ensemble I completely forget my ill will toward them. Every bite is slightly different and for me, there’s excitement in that. The spinach, while its freshness makes me feel better about the cheesy meaty goodness I’m involved in, is not why I’m there. Sweetness of the duck and habanero mayo is punctuated by the firm kick from the pickled jalapenos. Salty duck bacon sneaks in here and there reminding of why I paid extra for it. Cheese technically only enhances so it’s a constant that shines most in the final bite.

FINAL BITE

The final bite is really important to me. I didn’t realize that I did it with every meal until I asked a couple friends who unlike me, reserve that effort for meals they love. I’m pretty indiscriminate with what foods warrant the careful construction of the final bite but I take it seriously. Jalapenos were absent from my final bite of the Fire Quacker, which I got more emotional about than I expected. Pepper Jack gathered in that corner for a super cheesy and satisfying end to my meal. All in all, it was a solid final bite that I enjoyed slowly, so that I could appreciate what I’d just spent $16 on. It didn’t have to be that way but when duck bacon calls, you answer.

TL;DR

Duck burgers and duck bacon are bomb. Sweet and spicy is a winning combo. Bareburger knows how to treat me (and the environment) right.