Sweetbitter September 11

On the morning of September 11, 2001, I was at a restaurant.

On the morning of September 11, 2007, I was in a hospital room.

Both days are milestones for me, one tragic and one joyful, and as we near the tenth anniversary of the terrorist attacks and the fourth anniversary of my first day as a mother, I am struck by how much life does, indeed, go on.

In 2001, I was waiting tables to make a little extra money. Full-time, I was a copy editor at a newspaper; it was my first job out of college. One of my customers told me that they had heard about a plane hitting the World Trade Center in New York, and wasn't that a horrible accident? Twenty minutes later, another customer told me that a second plane had hit the other tower, and with a terrifying swooping feeling in my stomach that I associate with close calls while driving or other near-misses, I understood that this was no accident.

My editor called me at the restaurant and told me to come in right away. In restaurant uniform, I spent the rest of the day, until the wee hours, watching CNN and editing page after page of attack special editions. It was exhausting, mournful, and, if you will forgive me, energizing. As journalists, we are trained to seek out news, act quickly, and cover stories with responsibility and accuracy. An event of such magnitude pushed us all to the limits of our training as we scrambled to keep up and report judiciously on the waterfall of news. And as I cried watching the replay of that plane hitting the tower, I felt like I was somehow doing my part to make sense of this mess.

Six years later, as America was marking the time the planes had hit the towers, the Pentagon and a field in Pennsylvania, I sat in a hospital bed holding my newborn daughter. I had, only the day before, remarked that I hoped I did not have a 9-11 baby. But the force of nature pushed me past midnight on September 10 to a birth date of the commemoration day of great national tragedy.

Now that date is a bittersweet anniversary, or perhaps a sweetbitter anniversary. Before, when someone mentioned September 11, my first thought, of course, was of the attacks. But now, my first thought is of the beautiful, sweet, spunky little girl whose first act of defiance was to be born on a day that her mother did not want.

Her birth reminded me that life continues. This sentiment is perhaps of little comfort to those who lost loved ones on 9-11, or in the subsequent wars, but as humans, as Americans, that is what we do. We mourn, we remember, we pick up, we keep moving. As she gets older, I hope that my daughter will not see her birthday as an unfortunate intersection with those tragic events but rather as a reminder that our days are precious.

As we eat our cake and ice cream tomorrow, and as I reflect on the long days of vending-machine food in the 2001 newsroom, we will honor the memory of the victims and celebrate the life of a girl who started her life with an exclamation point: "I am here! I am born on a day of sadness, and will make the world a better place!"

You May Say I'm a Dreamer, But I'm Not the Only One

When I first met Chef Matt, we had a philosophical disagreement on what it is that makes the world go 'round. I said love, and he said dreams. In seven years, neither of us has changed our position, but we are starting to understand the other's point of view.

For me, dreams are a nice diversion, something to think about while hoping you have a winning lottery ticket, but not essential to survival. Love, as we learned from Lord Voldemort's shortcomings, is the most powerful force on earth.

But my husband is a dreamer. It is a part of his fabric. And while some of his grand ideas teeter on the ridiculous (building a pirate ship and sailing around the world dressed in a cravat and large hat), his dreams related to the world of food are maddeningly possible ... if only we had an endless supply of disposable income.

First and foremost, he wants his own restaurant. I think the world of celebrity chefs make this dream all the more enticing, because it seems like every chef on earth has his own place. But in reality, very few do, and of those, few survive more than a couple years. For Matt, as it must be for every hopeful small-business owner, the allure lies in freedom -- to be his own boss, to be the artist in his own cozy, warm, 25-table restaurant.

Second, he wants to write a cookbook. This dream is already in production, and has been for several years, but the demands of the full-time job and family relegate all cookbook-production to the few minutes of wind-down time before bed.

I think what makes these dreams so wonderful is that Matt has absorbed these visions into his character and finds time, just about every day, to ponder the possibilities. Dreams, as any certified dreamer will tell you, are sometimes what make life bearable, for they allow you to choose an ultimate happiness and wander there every day, at least in your head.

As a dreamer's wife, I am concurrently impressed and saddened by his dreams. I love that he is so invested in these ideas and knows them outside and in, as if they already existed. I am saddened that it is something as unyielding as money and time that keeps his dreams locked in his mind. But I am the practical one: I do not dream as he does, so I have neither the frustration nor the joy.

Our dreams reveal so much of who we are; pirate ships and scratch-kitchen restaurants reveal someone with an adventurous and creative spirit. And every once in a while, dreams leave that little place they occupy in the backs of our minds, and come down to earth.

While I still maintain that it is love that makes the world go 'round, I have to say that dreams, and the dreamers behind them, make the world go forward. Successful dreamers build new opportunities, create something out of nothing, achieve after years of work or failure, and give the rest of us hope that perhaps, our time is coming.

Buy Me Some Peanuts and Crackerjack ... and Definitely a Hot Dog

Last night, with a light breeze lifting the warm summer air and the smell of dust and leather in the air, Chef Matt and I sat behind home plate at the new Target Field, taking in one of the greatest pleasures of summer: an outdoor baseball game.

I love baseball, partly for its history, partly for its beautiful simplicity, partly for the utter glee that sweeps across a stadium when a home team ball sails over the centerfield fence.

Mostly, I love how baseball appeals to all of our senses. If you're a baseball fan, the wonder of the experience lies in the crack of the bat, the smell of the grass, the feel of a glove that has been broken in just right, the sight of a deep outfield diving catch, and of course, the taste of baseball fare that has been a part of the sport since the great Babe Ruth became a legend.

Whether sitting on coarse wooden bleachers or almost-cushy stadium chairs, I never feel quite settled in to the game until I have a hot dog in hand, a stripe of ketchup on one side and mustard on the other.

There is something particularly wonderful about baseball hot dogs; when I bite into a fat juicy dog, I feel transported back to a time when all stadiums were open-air and Hank Aaron was home-running into history. I will always choose a hot dog over any of the dozens of new options at ballparks; a Cuban sandwich just does not exude "baseball" in the same way.

The other thing I cannot leave the ballpark without is a chocolate malt, served with the flat wooden spoon that threatens tiny slivers with every bite. The first game I can remember attending was the summer of 1984, Cubs vs. Expos at the incomparable Wrigley Field. The Cubs won, and I ate a chocolate malt. It was a fine moment for a little girl, to stare in awe at the wall of ivy and hand-operated scoreboard while digging in her own personal malt, that perplexing but perfect combination of chocolate and malt -- not quite ice cream, but better.

The delightful thing about traditional baseball food is that the basics have remained largely unchanged for decades, much as the game itself is remarkably the same as it was in the era of heroes. True, there are now bright lights for night games, and beer is eight dollars a glass, but if I want peanuts and crackerjack, those foods immortalized in "Take Me Out to the Ballgame," I can get them.

The Twins lost last night, but I left the ballpark as giddy as always, excited by the bats, the grass, the gloves, the impossible plays made to look effortless, and by the stadium fare that gives me a thrill now as much as it did as a five-year-old girl. And that is the magic of baseball.

When Life Gives You Lemons, Make Mayonnaise

Yesterday, parenthood and I were not on good terms. A screaming baby amplifies any stressful situation, but when you add in two older kids flapping at each other in the back of a shopping cart, and walking in circles looking for help in an otherwise silent store while people stare at you, shaking their heads in irritation, it is enough to push a mommy to the edge.

The moment that pushed me over the edge, however, was when I was struggling to just get the hell out of the store. A kindly old lady asked me about my howling baby, and I smiled faintly and explained that he had just had some shots, and she said, with very sweet condescension, "Well, you should have just gone straight home, then."

Piling my hot, sticky, hungry, cranky kids in the car, while the old lady's scolding rolled around in my head, I could feel that parental hysteria starting to take over. For me, the only cure for such hysteria is a distraction. Since Chef Matt was at work, running around the block or reading a book in silence were out.

Instead, I made mayonnaise.

I did not set out to make mayonnaise, actually. I passed a little farmer's market after the store debacle and bought a bag of fresh peaches for a pie. The idea of rolling and pounding dough sounded like a perfect release, as did tossing my post-partum diet out the window ... again.

At home, I consulted Mastering the Art of French Cooking, to see if Julia Child had any other delicious uses for peaches, and I came across a recipe for a rice and beet salad. Conveniently enough, I had beets that needed roasting and rice on the docket for dinner, so I put the pie momentarily on hold. The salad recipe called for one and a half cups of mayonnaise, but somehow I think that Julia Child did not intend for me to use Miracle Whip. So I flipped to the beginning of the book, and made some mayonnaise.

If you have ever made mayonnaise, you will know that it is a race against time and the stamina of your whisking hand. A failure to continually whip tiny trickles of oil into egg yolks results in a broken, sad little sauce. A successful mixing of said ingredients, achieved by five minutes of uninterrupted whisking, results in a creamy, slightly lemony sauce that might even be too fine for a potato salad.

So I whisked for five minutes, while my toddler relieved our dining room cabinet of its contents and our preschooler pleaded, with increasing volume, to watch Dora the Explorer and our baby drifted in and out of fussy sleep. And when my mayonnaise was just like Julia said it should be, I felt instantly better.

The rest of the night, I whipped around the kitchen like the whisk itself. I finished the rice and beet salad, which sounded rather unappetizing the whole time I was assembling it, and in the end was delightful; I should always trust Julia. Then I made a peach pie with a lattice-top crust and a French silk pie with Oreo crumbles.

Everyone has their own form of "do" therapy, whether it is gardening or exercising or socializing, and honestly, cooking is not always my first choice. But I find that the wonderful formula of measure+mix+cook=tangible, edible product is sometimes the best way to be distracted and rediscover my center. I can think hard and fast about the task at hand, focus my attention, and emerge from the kitchen with balance reinstated and patience unearthed.

Not to mention that we also end up with pies and fantastic mayonnaise in the house, which would probably impress that old lady quite a bit more than my parenting skills.

And in Far Second Place, the "Other Woman"

I was discussing potential topics for future blogs with Chef Matt, and he, always ready with helpful ideas, suggested that I blog about how handsome he is. While I was grateful for the advice, I thought perhaps an entire entry gushing about the extraordinary good looks of my husband might make people want to gag just a little bit.

I felt a little bad about laughing at his suggestion, although it was, by far, not the most ridiculous idea he's ever had. So I thought it was only fair that I concede and share, not my syrupy admiration for his fine looks, but my admiration for his ability to be a good husband, despite the "other woman" in our life: the kitchen.

Restaurant life is, actually, much like an illicit affair, but one that is conducted quite out in the open. Matt is gone for long hours, sometimes home later than expected. He reads about food at every chance, texts and calls his co-workers about dishes and schedules and frustrations, checks restaurant menus online, and talks restaurant life all day long.

And he is not alone. This business is notorious for swallowing up its devotees, and very often, they love it. So many chefs are sadists who live for the thrill of the beat-down of a Saturday night rush, the challenge of unexpected disasters, and the conquering of irate eaters. When the smoke clears and the chaos is over, they lean against their flattops and pause for a breath, euphoric and slightly drugged from adrenaline. It is a high, for certain.

This can make for very difficult relationships. Chefs often top the list for highest divorce rate, and truthfully, I can see why. Waiting at home can be a lonely life. But the ones who have the business in their blood are attached like sinews to bone, allowing elusive perfection of their craft to stand between them and their loved ones.

Except for my chef. Even though he does see his line cooks more than he sees me, I know that the "other woman" doesn't stand a chance. Matt makes time out of no time and never leaves any doubt as to what is really the driving force of his days. His heart, though it beats just a bit faster when in the same room as some sumptuous cut of meat, is always at home with me.

Other wives might roll their eyes a bit if their husband ever declared, as mine does: "I love you more than osso bucco." But for me, knowing how much my chef loves osso bucco and all the other quirks and wonders of the business, that compliment is proof, beyond doubt, that he loves me quite a lot and that the "other woman" will continue to sit, tapping her feet, waiting for him to call.

In a World Where Art Class is Cooking Class

No matter how much I might like to be, I am not an arts-and-crafts sort of person. Elbow macaroni is meant to be eaten, not glued to paper plates or strung in a necklace, and I do not think I am even capable of summoning the patience needed to make a placemat out of construction paper strips. The extent of our art projects does not generally go beyond a box of crayons and the occasional sticker.

At our house, we work in a different medium, one that I think is just as interesting as paints and glitter and slightly more functional. When I want to engage my preschooler in a creative activity that does not involve the possibility of marker drawings on my walls, we make a mess, and usually something edible, in the kitchen.

Our daughter is at the age where she loves to help but is not much help. She drags a dining room chair over to our center island and demands to pour and mix while I measure and chop. The majority of the flour does end up in the bowl when I pass over the measuring cup, but as we progress, the mechanics of making food always become less interesting to her than inserting a licked finger into the sugar and pressing little indentations into the butter.

The end results are sometimes better than others, but the journey there is always a success. Perhaps baking and cooking are not traditional "art forms," and perhaps when she gets to kindergarten she will be a bit perplexed by Elmer's glue. She will, however, have an early understanding of the lovely precision of baking -- instilled by a exacting mother -- and the way that a proper order and careful attention to measuring can result in a baked good with excellent texture. She will also understand the artistry of cooking -- demonstrated by an inventive father -- and how the blending of experimentation and knowledge can produce profound meals.

I never want my daughter, or my sons, to have memory of a time when they were not allowed to help in the kitchen. Even our toddler, who is currently one percent helpful and 99 percent destructive, stands at the island and munches on Cheerios while we work. They will be trained as artists from the beginning, but their tools will be spatulas and wooden spoons, and someday, paring knives and zesters.

My daughter will never present me with an elbow-macaroni necklace, and she will probably never see a watercolor paint until she gets to school. Instead, she will, with flour smudged on her pretty face and batter glommed in her hair, eat a chocolate chip cookie that was the product of her mildly dextrous mixing, baked while she traced designs in a pile of sugar spilled on the counter. To me, that is the best kind of artistry: the kind you cannot hang on the fridge.

Sometimes We Pretend to Be Fancy Eaters

The other night, Chef Matt and I uncorked a bottle of wine from our trip to Napa Valley, one that we had been eyeing ever since I was able to imbibe again: a tempranillo from a family owned Sonoma winery, Robledo. It was gorgeous -- robust, full of dark fruit, with aromas reminiscent of some ancient Spanish vineyard where the grape was born.

It would have been fitting to pair such a fine wine with an equally fine appetizer as we made dinner, maybe roasted poquillo peppers stuffed with goat cheese, or a dense foccacia dipped in 10-year balsamic vinegar. At our house, however, it has become the norm to pair elegance with inelegance, so we saw nothing strange about sipping a beautiful red wine while munching on plain ruffled potato chips.

Like the person who buys a 900-square-foot plain Jane house and installs a professional gourmet kitchen, we inject bits and pieces of excellent into our menu of otherwise ordinary in an attempt to pretend that most of our meals don't originate in the Campbell's Soup Cookbook.

Our sad, tiny pieces of generic sandwich bread do not taste quite so dull when transformed by fancy homemade jams or gourmet slabs of cheese. Our elbow macaroni and marinara bakes taste a little less like a college meal when mixed with bits of steak and topped with Panko bread crumbs.

Even when we create elaborate meals with high-end ingredients, there is always an element of our Poor Man's Pantry that I want to casually eliminate when I am describing the dish, or at least mumble it quietly out the corner of my mouth: slow-cooked, pulled-pork stroganoff with sauteed kale and sweet cippolini onions and ... shhhh ... cream of mushroom soup. Or, smoked salmon and scrambled egg fajitas with fresh dill sour cream and ... don't tell anyone ... Imitation American Cheese Food.

Such motley cooking habits remind me vividly of a scene in the movie "Sideways," when the main character sits in a fast-food restaurant, eating onion rings and drinking the rare, perfect bottle of wine that he has been saving for the absolute right special occasion.

I think the lesson is that every occasion is the right one for luxurious foods, no matter what you see fit to pair it with. Drinking a rich tempranillo with potato chips may not be classy or a practice endorsed by celebrity chefs, but the reality is that most of us do not have the available funds or particular palates to support singularly ostentatious eating all the time. Saving a bottle of champagne or an expensive prime rib for just the right moment is a lovely idea, but sometimes it is more enjoyable and memorable to create that moment out of thin air, even if it means you have to add a little Imitation Cheese Food to make it happen.