2011 can begin, but not my year

Wow. 2010. End of the year already.

This year was a bit of a transition point for me. I knew I was officially going to say goodbye to Hawaii. I knew that I would be leaving the island in search for a new home. I knew I would be prepared to go forward and seek and struggle for a bit. I prepared myself and others around me for this, squirreling away money and slowly lessening responsibilities at my various jobs.

What I didn't know was how any of it would turn out. I still don't.

So my goals for 2011 are not quite New Year's Resolutions, because for me, my new year starts on April 28, a Year's Mark from when I started all this.

If you love something, let it go. As cheesy as this saying can be, I find it to be true. Because this year, I left a restaurant, a farm, an underground movement, and a man that loved me. I know this because they all let me go. I left at peace with my decision, and with no regrets. Anyone that has experienced hesitation at leaving will understand the power of this. When the people around you who are supposed to support you make you feel as if you're making a faulty decision, you question yourself and your decision becomes conflicted as well. Not everyone knows how to let go.

I've affectionately been called nomad, crazy, priviledged, inspirational, a great housewife, out of my mind, and risky, amongst other things. I met a guy who told me that even if we were never to speak again, he would've been lucky to have met me. I've had the opportunity to meet an extraordinary array of people and experience the love of old friends. I've said hello to a bunch of new children. Abby calls me the "baby whisperer" for the way I have with kids. I've travelled to different cities and countries, been frustrated many times, and brazenly attempted new things. I even thought I might've fallen in love. As hard as it is for me to express in words what it is I'm looking for, I've never been called stupid. That is what I consider true support of a journey.

As a traveller, you learn to open up faster and trust more freely. The limited amount of time you have to create an impact forces you to become a more complete person expressed in a shorter duration of interaction. All of these people still made me feel loved. All of these people still let me go.

My cooking friends have also been up to a lot this year. Some left their jobs. Some got fired. Some got married. Some had children. Some started new businesses: a pop-up ramen stand, custom wedding cakes, and a grilled cheese truck, to name a few. One is getting divorced. It's hard to be married to a chef if you're not one yourself. The hours never seem to be as long to us as they are to them. I was just talking to a friend today who said that everyone wants to be us, everyone wants to be like us, otherwise culinary schools wouldn't be filled to capacity. Without ever knowing or realizing the full impact of what all of the unspoken compromises really mean. Few ever really make it to become what we know as a "cook", but the dream of cooking lives on because it's "fun" and "so cool", and everyone wants to be one.

Including me. It's still fun, and cool, and so my dream lives on. Here's to 2011.

Back in SF, December 2010

I’ve thought about hapa ramen a lot since the day I left them and all the while I was travelling. I talked to the friends I was visiting in other states about them. I told people who were about to visit San Francisco to try them. I kept in touch with both the owner and his sous chef. I followed their events online. Even friends of friends started to follow them.

And so three months later, after having cruised the east coast and parts of Central America…I find myself back in San Francisco. With all the searching I’ve done in other places, I thought that maybe something that occupied so much of my thought should be given a chance.

So I came back to give it a chance.

Well, I’ve barely been back in San Francisco for a week and already I’ve been media-spotted with them in the Mission http://www.7x7.com/eat-drink/saturday-night-hapa-ramens-new-stand

Looks like we’re off to a good start :)

My $50 Tax-Deductible PSA for the Year

My good deed of the day...and just in time for the holidays!

ERSLA is doing their Water Filter Campaign for Safe Drinking Water, with a goal of 500 filters by Christmas…or at least the New Year. At the time of this posting, they were only at 105. Come on now. My cheap ass could only buy them one, so feel free to join my club, but by all means, also feel free to be as generous as you like. 'Tis the season.

Your donation of $50 pays for the filter, cleaning supplies, training, transportation, delivery, education, and follow-up visits on how to use them. ERSLA will make sure to send a note and photo to the gift donor as well.

Go to http://www.ersla.org/ and click the “Donate Now” button to send through PayPal or send a check to their sister organization at:

BFF/ERSLA c/o Bend Fire Department
Condega Project
1212 SW Simpson
Bend, OR 97702

For more information email info@ersla.org or call 478-787-4889.

Panama City, November 2010

Disclaimer: This post is strictly based on my experience in Panama City. I’ve been told that the rest of the country is much different, more agreeable, cheaper, relaxing, beautiful. And I’ve said it before, I’m not a city girl, but I’ve come to believe the city is where the heart beats. The soul you can find elsewhere, but if it doesn’t work in the city, how’s it supposed to work elsewhere?

I didn’t think I was being cocky, but maybe I was. To think I could just pick up and leave and land and live happily ever after without a plan in the world. I came to Panama so “it” would come find me. I came to Panama to fall in love. Do I love it here? Sometimes. Would I come back? Without a doubt. Could I live here? Still in deliberation.

I did not come prepared. I did not come to work with a particular restaurant in mind. I did not understand the distances I would need to cover on the primitive bus system I would come to rely on. I did not come with friends made, or contacts lined up. I did not know I was coming to live in a house full of older, white American men. I didn’t know I was going to hate what the general ex-patriate community has become. I didn’t know they would barely speak the language and defend what they do with “Well, that’s just Panama for ya”.

I don’t want to be that person.

Part of this is no doubt my fault. What I’ve always hated most about the general American is their sense of self-entitlement. That they deserve to be treated better, that they believe everyone should speak English, that they expect and demand courtesy and respect everywhere they go. And almost every older, white American man in Latin America? Living off their retirement and here for the young, beautiful, sassy yet subservient Latina woman, trained from birth to take care of their man and recognize white money. Most of them don’t speak English. I recognize I am painting a very general sort of picture.

I also recognize that it’s my fault that I ended up in a house full of this type of American. And so I recognize that all of the above is true. A lot of my experience here was undoubtedly affected by this.

Panama lacks a culinary culture. There’s no real roots anywhere. They love fast food or street food, and then for those who can afford it, really expensive food. Fine-dining level. I never went to those places. No one ever recommended them. Which means regular people don’t eat there. I am a regular person.

I don’t see an awareness of food, or farm, or land. If I had to survey a favorite vegetable, it might be the plantain. The city is developing at such an extraordinary rate, perhaps pure economics haven’t allowed for extracurricular thought. Much like the music program getting cut from schools, culinary thought is on the back burner. We’re surrounded on all sides by ocean, and even the seafood culture doesn’t seem to go beyond corvina (kind of their national fish) and a small Mercado de Mariscos.

"A donde el corazón se inclina, el pie camina."
A literal translation of this popular saying would go something like “Where the heart goes, the feet follow”. I like this interpretation because for me, it means that I’m allowed to settle in one place when I feel the time is right. But that I’m allowed to pick up and leave when it’s not. Very appropriate, as I think I’m approaching a moment which may count as one of those right times.

Although I spent a lot of time alone, I did meet quite a few people here, and the one thing I notice about all of them is that they’re very well versed in their country’s history. Like, a LOT. They can walk by any statue, park, or street and explain why it’s called this, when it was put there, or for what reason it happened. It’s something I’ve consistently noticed throughout all of Central America. Apparently every Latin American child took their national history class seriously, and to this day, can spit out volumes of information I couldn’t ever dream of doing about the US of A. I even took the AP course.

But then again, I don’t think I’ve ever said that I'm from the States. I tell them I’m from Hawaii. And then, I realize, that I too can drone on for days about the island I call my home, with our unique culture and distinct history. I’ve always been proud to be from Hawaii, to the point where I’ve been made fun of because I get mad when they call me gringa. Oh, helllllll no, I’m no gringa, I’m a hawaiiana. See this black hair and dark skin? Yeah. Hawaiiana.
A pretty famous chef I used to work for once (gulp, twice actually) told me that I needed to focus on forming an end goal, in order to give my life and career a direction. That even though I was a fast learner, got along with people, could adapt quickly and lead a team…if I wasn’t taking the right steps to get toward that goal, then I was just wasting time becoming the Jack of All Trades, but the King of None.

Back then, I wanted to be the Jack of All Trades. I thought it would make me a more valuable employee. But now...I think I finally understand.

"Caminante no hay camino, se hace camino al andar." see Panama slideshow here

A month won't be long enough to know

A friend recently told me I could do anything, because I was a "strong, independent woman". Now, while I know a lot of you are nodding in agreement with that statement, I'll be honest and tell you that I responded to that notion with the idea that it's usually interpreted to mean "doesn't need anyone". Are you still nodding?

My original plan was to be in Panama for the entire month of November, with the idea that after a month, I'll know whether this place feels right. To know that this is where I might belong. The plan to stay all month still stands, but I've changed my mind as to whether that amount of time will be enough for me to make a definitive decision. It's hard to have to start from nothing and make that kind of decision.

I had to disappear for a moment there. These first two weeks have been a bit of a struggle, not knowing what to do or where to go, but I think, mainly, that I had no one to turn to. Having no friends is lonely.

And so each day crawled by a little slower. I stayed up late watching Spanish episodes of Law and Order. I woke up late because I went to bed late. I wondered what I’d do today. Again. There were days I never left the house, as much as I tried to talk myself into at least walking around the block to get outside. But sometimes your inner depression forces its mighty chokehold upon your will, and so more tv it was. I haven’t had cable tv in over ten years.

I find myself having to cook for...myself. When I used to work in restaurants, I would often come home late, throw on a pot of water and a bag of Korean saimin, slices of Spam or frozen sausage, some kim chee, and an egg at the very end. When my case of saimin ran out, I would usually have to steal part of my mom’s stash because the stores were always closed before I got to work and were still closed by the time I got off.

And not to make excuses, but I never made myself anything that took longer than 10 minutes. I'm too tired and too lazy to care about cooking for myself properly. I don't get hungry while working, and tend not to eat at the restaurant either. So despite popular belief that everyone who works in restaurants must eat really well at home, it’s just not true. We don't cook like we do there. We don’t have time.

Except that now, I have lots of time. So I’m cutting my own fish, and butchering whole chickens, and buying fresh fruits and making my own juices from them. Things I used to do for the restaurant and never for myself. It’s a little weird. I’m sure it tastes fine, but it’s probably not as good as it could be, because I have no one to share my food with. There’s no one to cook for. This goes against every reason why I cook. This is not how I was meant to cook.

Please don't misunderstand me, though. Things are not terrible. I have begun to make friends. I am right between the end of rainy season and summer, which means the weather (for me) is perfect. I am beginning to feel like I live here. And any man who tells me I’m “the most beautiful thing he’s seen all day” is going to get the smile that a man who’s hissing at me will not. But most importantly, I am learning about maybe who I really am, or what it is I want, or need. Moral of the story? I really can do anything.

Reflections on Nicaragua...and finally, Panama

Sitting on Jason’s balcony overlooking the Pacific shoreline is every ex-pat’s dream – warm, gentle waves rolling onto miles of beachfront and lush greenness everywhere. This is the life, I want to think. This is paradise.

Except that for me, I’m not looking for paradise. I come from an island that IS considered paradise. If that’s all I needed, I wouldn’t have left. I’ve barely been here a week, and already I feel like I’ve been here a month. Everything about Nicaragua feels the same to me, because nothing really changes. It feels like home, and my nomadic heart doesn’t want to be at home.

I visited my Mechapa host family. Whoa. Things here have changed. My host brothers, who were 11 (Erick), 14 (Helmin), and 16 (Jasser) at the time, are all now 8 years older, which means they’re all grown up now. It’s kind of weird to see boys I used to watch in school parades and run to waterfalls and play dominoes with…as men.

After some initial awkwardness – and a plate of rice, beans, and fried chicken that I ate by myself at the table while everyone else watched – we got over it. They showed me new additions to the house. They told me about their job, or college classes, or lack of a girlfriend, how their dad was getting fat, how their mom was about to qualify for a green card. And how I look taller and skinnier than before. Maybe even prettier. And younger.

Yep. Although I mercilessly teased them about showing game with those last few comments, I was actually kinda proud. My brothers have learned how to woo a woman.

Still, nothing really changes. Taxis still take the long way, buses are still full,we still haggle over a few cents just to get the upper hand. We cram onto the sidewalk to share the corner of shade, and we all walk on the streets because the sidewalks are full.

But maybe I’ve changed. I’m more confident walking the streets these days. I still get the same stares, the same catcalls, and the same “Oye, chinita, chinita!” that once frustrated me so. But I’m not as bothered by it as before. Perhaps I came better equipped mentally, or had already created expectations of it happening. I still fume on the inside, but can now shake my head and laugh it off.

Or maybe I’m finally growing up.

Crossed the border into Costa Rica. Was forced to stay in San Jose overnight. They advertised having cable. This is the cable I watched the Giants win the World Series on. Got repeatedly either locked out of my room, or locked in the hotel-house thing. Meh. Costa Rica gets the big X. Never really ever considered it anyway.

20 bus hours later, I've finally arrived. I’m staying in a town called Las Cumbres, about 20 minutes outside of Panama City. I don’t know anyone down here. I have no jobs or fairs or festivals lined up. I don’t really know the culture, or food, or history. Hell, I've only seen the Canal once. I’m a little nervous, to be honest, starting absolutely from scratch in a foreign place in a city I don’t know with almost nothing in my possession – all based on a happy, comforting, being-alive sensation I had 6 years ago when I visited after having finished Peace Corps.

I guess I’ve come back to see if what I felt was right. Maybe I'm home?

see more pictures of Nicaragua/Costa Rica/my room in Panama

Maryland/DC/back to Nicaragua: the Nica Ag “Dirty 30” reunion tour

This was the name of our Peace Corps group, signifying the 30th volunteer group in Nicaragua, assigned to the agricultural sector. I just missed Mateo by a day when I was in Boston – he flew out to Oregon the night before but New baby+Medical Residency=Forgiven. I’ll try to catch him again later.

Pedro and I were in the same training town of Mechapa during our introductory 2002 year. For three months, we learned and laughed and struggled together, attempting to teach at the elementary school, being frustrated, and ultimately, getting in trouble together. Or several times, if you include the rest of our volunteer service. That’s why we’re still friends.

Eight years later, he still lives and works in Nicaragua, except that right now he’s in DC visiting his mom with Gabi (fiancée) and Ella (daughter), and decides that since PA is “only” 3.5 hours away, he’d make the beautiful autumnal drive out to come see me. Research indicates that the flight out of DC to Managua is hundreds of dollars cheaper than flying out of State College, so I join him for the road trip back and spend the weekend in Bowie, Maryland, where his mom lives.

Weather is BEAUTIFUL right now, warm and breezy, the best autumn I could’ve hoped for in my attempts to avoid winter. And I finally got to meet Ella. Pedro’s been sending us pictures since she was born, but kids are always way cooler in person, and 3 ½ yr old Ella loves her princess dress, the color purple, is energetic, sassy, and loved taking pictures with my camera . “She’s pretty cute. I think we’ll keep her,” Pedro says.

Gabi wanted to go apple picking, so we went to Rock Hill Orchard in Mount Airy, where we decided the Stayman variety was our favorite. A tractor-pulled hay ride later and we were picking pumpkins. The next day we were on the red brick roads of historic Annapolis, a blend of quaint community and Naval Academy. At night, we went to Irish Times bar, where we drank pitchers of Yuengling beer, watched the Giants beat the Phillies to get to the World Series, and then turned my head to the other tv to watch the UH football team kill Utah St on ESPN. Sometimes life is real good to me.

see more DC/MD pictures here

In the northern Nicaraguan city of Esteli, I stayed with Rodney and his

Emergency Response Services for Latin America (ERSLA), the non-profit developmental agency he founded in conjunction with the firefighters of Bend, Oregon. It’s funny, listening to him explain the difficulties of securing enough funds, writing grants, pitching projects, and the struggles of developmental work. As selfish as it is for me to say, I realized awhile back that I’m not meant to be non-profit. And as much as I believe in the good of development work, I can’t deal with the frustrations involved and personally would need a social venture with more accountability. But that doesn’t mean I don’t believe in the work of others, and if you want to get involved, check it out and contact him at rodney.mc@ersla.org.

Nola was an environmental volunteer from 2001, and she just never left. She still lives in the same community, working with the same schools, and has the same live wire energy as always. She continues to work with deaf kids and Spanish sign language, which may soon be filmed for a documentary.

Jason was my nearest site mate, and probably most famous for ranting in a widely distributed email to an anonymous tattletale to “suck his left nut”. For reasons we’ll leave untold, but again, trouble. That’s why we’re all still friends. He lives in San Juan del Sur, and is always quick to spot hot business potential. Over the years he’s offered me generous opportunities to get involved…but I’m yet to be convinced that Nicaragua is where I want to be. His son Jabu is the only kid of all my friends that I’ve met before, and so he stars in the show-and-tell video of reggaeton dance.

Also, those of you who know us will be thrilled to learn that Trueno is still alive, as are my three cats. Pictures later (and you know I took many!) More on being back in Nicaragua in the next post. I'm starting my way down to Panama now...

Central Pennsylvania, Sep-Oct 2010

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I guess I'm a "Global Foodie" now...

...which is better than being "Oh, so you're doing an eat, pray, love?"

Back in August, when I was still in San Francisco, I was helping out a non-profit kitchen incubator program called La Cocina with their second annual Street Food Festival. As you can imagine, there were cameramen, newspapers, and journalists galore. This is also how I met Hapa Ramen, and managed to get mentioned in an article featuring the various businesses that La Cocina houses: http://missionlocal.org/2010/10/la-cocina-a-neighborhood-food-laboratory/

You can also read The New York Times article about what kitchen incubators are and how La Cocina is one of the nation's leading examples.

In the meanwhile, Ginger’s still threatening to lock me up in her basement as she feigns patience and support of this journey, anxiously glaring at my attempts to plan the next few steps, much of which involves running around the east coast a bit before heading back down to Central America. And then, inevitably, all roads right now seem to be leading back to San Francisco for the end of the year. Both of my sisters will be in town for the holidays, and the ramen boys have offered me a holiday stint, along with the potential of my parents coming up if the rest of us are there as well. So I guess that’s where I’ll be if you’re looking for me in these coming months. But, as you are fond of hearing me say by now, plans can always change…

Boston and other reunions

I visited Melissa and her 2 1/2 year old son Jimmy in Boston just for a weekend when I realized that I was kind of doing a little high school reunion tour during my travels. I didn't go to any of the formally planned ones (what is it, 5 yrs? 10?) but that doesn't mean I'm not interested in what's going on. Of course, because I'm not on Facebook (I know, I know) I was meeting boyfriends and husbands and babies and children for the first time.

Jimmy's one of the older kids in the group, and I measure that by the number of words he has in his vocabulary, which are 3 million. This is one talkative boy. I've included a clip of us waiting at the train station, where he's keeping us updated on the status of the train. The other pictures are from Aug-Sep, where I met up with Sonja, Misty, Kelly and Melyssa somewhere in California.

I also realize that I'm very fortunate to have so many friends who openly trust me with their kids, as I usually shower them with a very no-nonsense sort of unabashed aunty love.

Best thing I've heard so far? From Melyssa T's son Marley: "I love you all day."

see more impromptu reunion pics here

New York, pt.2 September 2010

I find myself to be a confident woman in New York. I am assertive, throw flirty glances, and find myself striding assuredly with a smile for everyone.

I came to New York City determined to look and act like a city girl. I packed only 3 pairs of shoes: cute heels, leather boots, and non-skid work shoes. No slippers, and you know I love my slippers. But honestly, I don’t know how these city girls do it. A full day in heels and I’m ready to cut my feet off. Did I mention that I have flat, wide feet? These heels don't allow for swelling. And then the next full day in boots. Ugh. The skin is being polished off of my scrunched up pinky toe, exposing raw flesh and causing shoe chafing, making me walk slower in hopes that the rubbing will be less painful. Guys, whenever you think some chick in heels is walking by "seductively", it’s probably because her feet hurt. A lot. I swear it.

I came to work the International Chefs Congress, a solid lineup of famous people demonstrating famous things and sharing some of their famous philosophies. I was the lead kitchen volunteer, which basically means I had to coordinate all the ingredients, supplies, and equipment that the various chefs and presenters would need to do their segment. It’s nice to be recognized for working hard and doing your job well, and I got a lot of personal thank yous which gives me such internal satisfaction. I had fun, most definitely, but you know I love running the kitchen. My defining moment, of course, was hearing Suzanne Goin (God, I love her) talk about the balance between chef and mother and wife and boss, and how you’re always going to let someone down. Those are her exact words. She said you’re always going to miss a soccer practice, or not be able to cook at a friend’s wedding, or something, and that’s just part of the deal you accepted.

Is this industry still for me? Hell yes.

All this she was explaining as she was doing a cooking demo of pork confit, chorizo cornbread stuffing, and cavolo nero. I love her style, I love her philosophy, I love the way she carries herself and her carefree, sassy yet confident demeanor. My kitchen partner asked why I don’t try working for her if I love her so much, which made me stop and think. Why don’t I? It’s never even crossed my mind. But I think I’ve already put her on too high a pedestal bordering on semi-idolatry. I would create an equally idealistic view of what working for her would be like. What if it doesn’t measure up to my expectations? I don’t want to lustily crave what might not exist because I’m starstruck; it would be a crushing blow to all of the illusions I’ve created for myself. So in this particular case, I think I’m better off with my dreams intact.

After I got my cookbook autographed, that is. After all, I still love her.

The last time I was in New York was ten years ago as a sophomore in college, when Manhattan was the biggest city I’d ever been in. I remember being frustrated by the crowds, blinded by big lights, and simply overstimulated by all of the attitude and energy that is the big city. After 2 weeks, I was done. New York City was not for me.

Now that I look back on it, I think it’s more accurate to say that Manhattan is not for me. I’m staying in the outer borough of Sunnyside in Queens, which is what I would call a legit neighborhood. I have easy access into the city by bus, train, or subway, and feel normal walking around, eating out, and doing laundry like a regular person. I’ve been treated fairly well by everyone, and generally have only encountered nice, helpful people. As long as I don’t have to live in the city city, I heart New York. I think I heart it a lot.

People of note: Shauna is doing her medical residency out here, and I was lucky enough to be in town at that same time as her sister Christa and boyfriend Ben, both in from Paris, their dad Paul from Hawaii, and the now-husband Matey (who was just the boyfriend when I first met him). Valentina (one of Soaf’s classmates from Stanford) squeezed me into Brooklyn, and gotta love Mark (my ICC partner-in-crime and drinking buddy). I couldn’t be a happier girl with life right now. Things seem to be going so right.

see more New York City/ICC pictures here

New York pt.1, September 2010

There is nothing like the sight of Manhattan’s skyline greeting you as you approach the city from the top of a double decker bus. It is truly glorious, even if you’re not a big city kind of girl. I exhale and smile, sitting up straighter in my seat, knowing that I am getting close.

Through the tunnel and then the big city is upon me, our huge bus squeezing itself between delivery trucks tucked curbside in alley ways, cars honking, people speedwalking, and cigarette smoke billowing around us.

But the pictures are telling a different story. The story about new city love is the not the story you will be reading about today.

I am one of the youngest in my generation of cousins, and I’m about to meet Yeounkyung near the subway station, who’s in the upper strata of cousins. I don’t know anything about her. She says she remembers meeting me when I was about 10, which I feel like should be old enough for me to remember something. But no, when I see her, I don’t recognize her face. I know nothing.

Unbeknownst to us, we would have lots of time to get to know each other.

Briefly stopping in Queens to drop off my luggage, we boarded a train to Chinatown for street food and produce shopping. It looked a bit overcast but we didn’t really give it much thought. We quickly got into asking questions about family, who’s aunty’s sister or brother’s daughter we were, what we did (me Cook, her Architect), why we were doing it (we like it), what we’re doing here (me=looking, her=came and never left) and then we noticed droplets on the windows and very soon after, a heavy rain. Looking out, angry trees were violently being silhouetted by lightning, thunder was drumming and my fellow passengers were joking about how no one had brought umbrellas.

From the inside of the 7 train, it was quite a little storm show. Our train stopped and we were told to move towards the front to evacuate because of debris on the tracks. A large piece of metal siding had been torn off the roof. All train operations in either direction were halted because of fallen tree branches and other big, blown-away objects.

We decided to walk the rest of the 10 blocks into Flushing and was greeted by traffic, flooding, fallen lightposts and flagstaffs, more large trees cracked broken, and jam-packed buses trying to get orphaned train riders nowhere anytime soon. What a mess. With no public transport options and cabs rendered useless by resigned drivers, we surrendered ourselves to walking home…a far, far walk away. Over a freeway kind of far. Only here would they have a pedestrian walkway by the freeway.

This is my first day in New York City.

see more pictures of the storm damage here

read New York Times article of what happened here

Musings...

I was offered a last minute "observer" position for Slow Food's Terra Madre conference in Torino, Italy. I had applied for a delegate position in May (all in-country expenses paid), was turned down in June, applied for the observer position (pay my own way completely), was denied in July, wait-listed in August, and then just this week was told I had 4 days to claim a last minute spot. The conference takes place in October.

I turned them down. I hope I'm not making a mistake.

30 years alive!

I'm fortunate to have friends who love seeing me make it another year in life. Apparently this year is supposed to be the "big 3-0" for me, but I don't feel that way. I don't feel old. I don't feel rushed, and I don't feel like I'm wasting time doing nothing. There's nothing I can't do now that I haven't legally been able to do since I turned 21, unless we're talking about renting a car, in that case, 25. In fact, I don't think my next big birthday should be until I turn 50. But again, my friends love me. Below are some slideshow pictures of two birthday dinners (at Gary Danko and Cafe Claude) that I was priviledged enough to be a part of before I left San Francisco:

Here in central Pennsylvania, Ginger has been promising me fried chicken for my birthday since a month ago. Seeing how I've apparently made my sentiments about birthdays clear, this is what I found waiting for me when I woke up:

So Ginger says that since I'm turning 50, we're allowed to celebrate the birthday tonight. Yay party! To the left, that would be John Deere gummies, a whoopie pie, and a 6-pack of birch beer, my new favorite soda. I'm a simple girl.

Back story on Ginger -- we met during her Kenyon College days late 1998, and I say it like that because she left the school after a freshman semester to take some time off. She came back to try it out again sophomore year and decided she still hated it and left again. Somewhere in between all of that we became friends and stayed friends although neither of us remember when or how it all started. We do have some funny stories though, and I often call her the funniest person I know. She's the only one who came to visit me in Nicaragua, and one of the few people who took me up on the offer to visit Hawaii...twice. I'm finally repaying her the visit, and the family treats me to this homemade birthday dinner:

Chicken liver pate with pickled green tomatoes, twice brined fried buttermilk chicken, double macaroni and cheese, sweet amish corn, fresh shelled peas, sour cherry pie with pecan streusal, and peach custard made with goat's milk and coconut cream. Crazy, I know, but the best part about that chicken is that it's fried in bacon fat, butter, AND lard. Just so you know that we're serious here. It was goooood fried chicken.

Am I Leaving My Heart in San Francisco?

My time here has come to a close. I've worked a bunch of food festivals, cleaned up some beaches, volunteered at events, and read a lot of books. Soaf and I went to lots of dinner parties, watched So You Think You Can Dance with Senait and Ilya, harassed other people's dogs, and discovered the city during all of its festival season splendor. I've participated in some interesting, um, "things", and have met some rather interesting situations. I began cooking for my friends again, and towards the end, I was even hanging out with some boys who make ramen (haparamensf.com). Cooking is still fun.




The verdict? I can't decide yet. I've made no promises or committments to anyone. I've had a good time, honestly, and the entire Bay Area has been really good to me. But enough to call me back? I think it might be too cold, too cluttered, too concrete. But I can't say that without having left and seeing something that's not. Maybe the opposite will be too little for me. So know this. If you made me smile, thank you. If you made me laugh, I probably know your name. In the past four months I've been affected in a positive way, and I feel like I'm leaving this city as a happier person. Positive energy is infectious.

Vallejo Jun-Aug 2010

Brad and Abby were agricultural Peace Corps volunteers in 2003, a year after my group started. An epic 2 weeks of either being in my desert village or their rainforest community solidified our insta-friends status. Fast foward to now, and they've added one more to our clan, little Sophie, who just turned one in July. In the short time I've known her, she went from crawling to walking to sprinting around, along with developing teeth and going from mushed up food to candied ginger (that discovery was my fault and more of an accident...and we're really happy she didn't choke on that one...oops...). We're already super buddies and she can't even say my name yet. But I'll wait.

And no promises have been made yet, but really, as soon as she's allowed to fly on her own, I get to have her for 2 weeks out of the year, wherever I am.

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Portland/Seattle July 2010

Sophia and I agreed on a quick little roadtrip and decided to stop off at both Portland and Seattle, where either one or both of us had friends we could stay with and people we wanted to see. Our first stop in Portland was Mike, a guy I've known since my college days out in Ohio. He was such a perfect host, packing in a whirlwind of eating, drinking, and sightseeing of roses and waterfalls within a day and halfs worth of time. We then got transferred over to Naomi, a high school classmate, who hooked us up with our room in her brand new townhouse. Ditching them a day later to head north to Seattle, we met up with Soaf's UW med school classmates, and also just happened to catch the Bite of Seattle festival while we were there.

It was such a short, fun, happy, radio pop filled time. We got to meet everyone else's best friends, boyfriends, husbands, babies, fiances, and roomates, and remembered why we're still friends in the first place.

Then we drove back down. All that in less than a week. Oh, and a stupid speeding ticket in Corning, California. The cop didn't believe that we were just "following the flow of traffic". Whatever.

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Los Angeles June 2010

I met Jonathan in 2003 as a Peace Corps volunteer in Nicaragua. Although we both worked in the agricultural sector, we never really got the chance to work together as his service ended a year before mine. Fast forward to now, and Jonathan is now a licensed vetinarian in the state of California. Seeing how I was volunteering for the LA Wine Fest anyway, I called to arrange a visit and see what's up.

Even though enough time had passed between us to create that weird, semi-tense rift (you know, those fake "Hi! How are you!" moments), I'm so glad I came. With the exception of a brief moment of awkwardness, I walked away with no doubt in my mind that Jonathan and I have a complete and comfortable friendship. Vetinarians, by the way, don't keep normal pets. Jonathan himself has 2 chinchillas and a bearded dragon, which I never got myself to pick up on my own the entire time I was there. Other vet friends had dogs, a corn snake, and turtle.

Nam Soon, my favorite cousin, lives and works in downtown and looks great. I'm not sure why everyone hates on LA so much, because I'm having a great time here with this great weather. I also had the chance to meet and eat with Dan and Alex, getting to experience Animal, Pizzeria Mozza, awesome dive bars, and both Lucques and A.O.C, where I got to meet and have my picture taken with Suzanne Goin! There was Secret Service everywhere because Michelle Obama and the kids were having dinner there too, but I was more excited to know the chef was there! I'm such a nerd.

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