The Adventure Pt.4 - Aufhebung

It's a little ironic that after my post about accountability, I decided to take a week hiatus and post on Tuesday instead of Monday. The transition from languidly driving around the country to becoming part of the opening team of a restaurant is admittedly pretty challenging. I'm learning that renovating and opening a restaurant is several short sprints in a long marathon. We have days that we can't accomplish anything and other days where it doesn't seem like the hands of the clock will slow down.

In my first post, I discussed the three principles that I learned in my travels.

1. Fear and pride are the criminals of failed success.

2. We're responsible for our own accountability.

3. Aufhebung - a German word for wa/onderers.

The meaning of aufhebung came into my thoughts dozens of times during my long days of driving. It's a word that has many contradictory meanings. To simply explain it's translation and my interpretation of it's meaning:

Something is preserved, Something is negated,

Something is transcended.

German philosopher, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel, often used this term to discuss thesis and antithesis that interact. To further explain, an idea or a concept can be preserved as well as changed for further advancement. Being and Nothing can both exist as Becoming. Other philosophers argue that it means to literally "pick up" and therefore has no philosophical presence.

To further increase the complexity and various meanings of aufhebung, a British Marxist journal was published in 1992 under the name Aufheben with the aim to overthrow the capitalist society after the fall of the Eastern Bloc. Essentially, communists were using a word once meant to question existence and non-existence as the title for their magazine to call the proletarians to action. They still publish an annual magazine and they're still working on figuring out how to make the whole communism thing work out.

What blows me away is that a single word constructed from nine letters can carry such vastly different weights to individuals. It provides me with comfort. It is comforting that a single word can have so much complexity and be the basis of publications of philosophy questioning consciousness and the meaning of nothing.

Dawn's Wedding Feast

This concept first came to when reading "The Sculpture of Louise Nevelson: Constructing a Legend". She famously sculpted with found objects that had been spray painted the same color. For a long time, she worked in white. When she was ready, she switched her palette to black. Her intention was to take ordinary objects and force them to operate on a new level. Her sculptures would fill entire rooms and create a feeling of everything and also nothing. I would check out her book from the library over and over again to preen over the pictures. There was something powerful and energetic about her sculptures. I was tasked with creating a self-portrait sculpture for one of my art classes in college and immediately knew I would mimic Nevelson's work. I pieced together found objects exactly the same height as myself. Objects that meant something incredible to me and also objects that meant nothing to me. Affixed in the center was a box with a clasp. When you opened it, deep gold greeted you against an entirely black sculpture. This was my heart and it was alive. I'll never forget the day my sculpture gave out after being shuffled around from the classroom to a gallery to my apartment over the course of months. It finally collapsed just like the the division of Europe only months after Nevelson's death. As she slipped away and the Berlin Wall fell, I was being rocked in my mother's arms conceived while the Cold War still carried on. Something is preserved, something is negated, something is transcended.

I'm not a feminist.

I'm an artist who happens to be a woman.

Nevelson made me feel courageous. She made me feel powerful. She gave me the strength to be myself and she forced me to think about what nothing is and what everything is and how can we possibly transcend that in our minds? Her dark eyes were captivating and I was often drawn to the comforts of the nothing that were her sculptures.

But what does this have to do with my adventure?

I was in Utah. It was hot, not like the Mojave dessert but dry, dusty and red. My plans for the day were to visit Golden Spike National Historic Site and then make the hour drive out of cell service to what is known as the Spiral Jetty. I first saw a picture of the land art created by Robert Smithson in 1970 at the Dia:Beacon museum in New York. It was moving. It was so moving that simply googling it just now to fact check my words for you brought hot, fiery tears to my eyes. What unfolded that day was powerful, beautiful and life-changing. What happened that day helped me understand what these complex thesis meant to me.

The road from nowhere to nothing.

Visitors of Spiral Jetty are aware of the slim chance that they may even get to see the piece. As mentioned, Robert Smithson produced the 7,000 ton land art made of basalt rock jutting from Rozel Point into the Great Salt Lake in 1970. When Smithson finished the project, it was soon submerged under the 27% salinity water. He knew it would and he wanted it to slip away from the human eye. In 1973, Smithson died in a helicopter crash, the spiral still submerged under the red-hued water. Massive salt crystals formed and left a striking silhouette of the jetty in the water. Soon it submerged further and any evidence of it's existence became invisible to the human eye. The 1,500 foot long counter-clockwise spiral was given to the Dia Art Foundation in 1999 by Nancy Holt, Smithson's wife, while it was still submerged. In 2005, thirty five years after Smithson produced Spiral Jetty, it reemerged for more than just a brief appearance for the first time since it's creation.

My adventure that day started at Golden Spike National Historic Site as many wanderers also do on their way out to the jetty. This is the very place where East met West in America as the Central Pacific and Union Pacific Railroad companies connected a country-wide track. Chinese and Irish immigrants worked endlessly from either side of the country to create the first ever transcontinental railroad. Not one mile of parallel railroad was laid. Somehow, in 1869, these brilliant engineers masterminded how to perfectly connect two railroads spanning our country. The energy of this place is incredible. As a human, it makes you feel unstoppable. It gives you an appreciation for human ingenuity. I especially felt moved by the site after having had spent a week at the SkillsUSA conference surrounded by thousands of brilliant tradespeople that make, move, build and create our world. Now I was standing at a site where men slaved to complete a task that had never before been completed. I filled my water jugs and checked my tires. I knew what was ahead of me and I knew that my cell phone would become useless. I was buzzing with emotion, excitement and thrill.

But just like everyone who visits Spiral Jetty, you have no idea if you'll make it there. The roads are dangerous and graded. If there is rainfall in the least, areas of the road can be completely wiped out. Google Maps tells you 30 minutes but it's the better part of an hour scaling through white gravel roads encrusted with salt. I was blasting down the roads on the straightaways with the windows open watching the salty dust kick up behind my car. I licked my lips and could taste the lake. I stopped for a few photos but was excited to get out onto the impossibly odd body of water. I had waited for this moment for years since first seeing that framed photo in New York.

Even if the roads are perfect in condition, you may get out there to find that the heavy snowfall has risen the water level and submerged the jetty. But you keep believing. You keep telling yourself to accept the jetty you'll see. I came around the last corner and saw the small dirt parking lot. A hillside went almost straight up from the lot and I whipped my car into a spot and jumped out of the car. I looked over the bluff into the Great Salt Lake.

There it was. Marooned. The vast spiral of black basalt rocks completely emerged from the lake. Flats of salt and perfectly cured pelicans. The jetty was there and the water was not. I felt tears some to my eyes. The saltiest tears I had ever felt. I returned to my car and packed a backpack with water, a beer, and my journal. I changed into dirty shorts and a free tee shirt; I shoved sneakers on my feet. I marched up the hillside and planted myself on a rock. I blamed Mother Earth, I blamed change, I blamed the climate, I blamed the timing, I blamed myself, I blamed pollution. And then I realized what I had told myself during my manic drive out to the site. I had to accept the jetty for what I found it as. I stopped blaming and I looked at it again.

Note the cars in the lot for size.

It was so beautiful.

I felt inspired. I felt like it was preserved in the salt. I felt like it was nothing made from earth. I felt transcended in my thought. I had advanced past blame and moved to accepting and loving what I saw. I felt aufhebung for the first time in my life. A concept I had read about and tried to understand but never truly felt. I felt it here. I learned in that moment that life isn't perfect. We can't have exactly what we want. But we can live with the satisfaction of the moments, the people, and the places we're given. Something is preserved, something is negated, something is transcended.

Something is literally preserved.

I drank my beer and I reflected on how powerful the energy of this art felt to me. Eventually, I wandered down to the jetty and walked the 1,500 foot counter-clockwise spiral all the way to the tip. I picked up the salt and I tasted it. I walked back exactly the way I came though the crusted flats surrounding it would have easily let me take a shortcut. With each step I reflected on my journey thus far and how easily I could have left this place disappointed, disgruntled and angry. When I reached my car, I took out my familiar camp chair and wrote a few postcards. As the sun began to sink in the sky over the red Great Salt Lake, I got back into my vehicle and drove away on the bumpy and unpredictable roads. You can drive across country and back a thousand times but it will never change your life unless your willing to let it be changed.

From the right angle... it's nothing at all.

The Adventure Pt.3 - Accountability

The beginning of my adventure was well-spent at the SkillsUSA National Leadership and Skills Conference in Louisville, Kentucky. It's a conference that I've attended the last four years consecutively. As many of you know, this year I was elected as the Alumni Executive Board Representative for Region 1. I've been involved in SkillsUSA since I was in high school in many facets - Chapter President, National Medalist, Professional Partner, Volunteer, and now this prestigious position overseeing the alumni involvement from Maryland to Maine.

This year, one of our speakers referenced a Muhammad Ali quote that I hold very dear to my heart. It nails how I feel about life, success, career and education.

“The fight is won or lost far away from witnesses - behind the lines, in the gym and out there on the road, long before I dance under those lights. ”

— Muhammad Ali

It seems like we're becoming a less accountable society by the minute. We can slay, roast, grill and fry people on social media with no repercussion. We can swipe left and right on a dating app that guarantees a fast dinner with a side of hanky-panky. We can binge watch Netflix for six hours and go to work and brag about it. We can scarf down an entire pizza that we order on our phones and chase it down with too much wine. I personally lose sight of my personal success. I get distracted by things that are unrelated to my growth and create false constructs that I deserve my laziness. Sometimes we really do deserve (and need) some down time, but we have to constantly ask ourselves if we're under-utilizing our energy on a day to day basis to accomplish goals. How often our we questioning our personal balance between moments of sloth and gluttony with our moments of productivity?  

Are we selling ourselves short by overindulging on relaxation? Is watching six hours of TV really relaxation? Could we live with greater ease if we held ourselves at a higher standard of accountability?

I could till this stuff over in my mind for years but it wouldn't change a thing from the past. When I fully process and accept the outcome, I can move on and grow as an individual.

Monterey. More please.

Sometimes accountability is laughable, slightly dangerous and kind of fun to recount. Sometimes it's choosing to sleep in and drive across the Mojave Desert in the middle of the day. Do you know that the Mojave was exceptionally hot this summer? On this specific day, it was a scorching 116 degrees. You have air conditioning in your car and you can keep as cool as possible, but that heat will penetrate into the deepest coils of your brain and make you crazy. You're this tiny metal engine crossing a vast desert and the sun is simply beating onto the roof. I had been recording myself speaking about my adventure while I drove and I can say without a doubt: you can hear the insanity in my voice.

I spoke to my Dad a few days prior and he reminded me to wake up early and cross the desert. He emphasized that it would be hard on the car and hard on me if I was coasting across the fiery desert in the middle of the day. He warned against breaking down and inevitably being stranded on a two-way highway. I drove pretty late the day before and didn't realize how close I was to the barren land.

I had spent the afternoon enjoying Monterey Bay. I pulled into a Trader Joe's and stocked up on snacks before venturing out to Fisherman's Wharf and Cannery Row. The metallic carnival noises were accented by children laughing and seagulls trying to steal funnel cakes. I ended my stay with a stop into Nacho Business for the most epicurean nachos I've ever encountered. They were exactly what you wanted but everything was fresh, made from scratch and the crew was super friendly. I sat on a bench and crushed nachos while the day turned into evening. Eventually, I jumped back into my familiar car and kept heading south on the Pacific Coast Highway before turning east towards Bakersfield. Eventually, I couldn't take it anymore and I caved into my exhaustion. California, being the chill state it is, happens to be totally cool with people sleeping over at rest stops. I stopped on the Southbound side of 101 at Camp Roberts Rest Stop. There was a sign to beware of rattlesnakes and I obviously hurried on tiptoes into the bathroom with my head on a swivel. Yeah, yeah... I know... snakes don't really hang out at night. Don't judge me.

I settled into the backseat of my car in my sleeping bag and dozed off. I woke up early and again scurried into the snake pit rest area to get myself cleaned up. When I returned to my car I made the most idiotic decision without even looking at the map ahead, I went back to sleep. When I finally got up around 9 am, I started off east not knowing that by about noon, I would be driving straight through a damn desert. I had plenty of water in the car but one recording of me suggests I had become very concerned that the heat would make my tires explode. Again, laughable now... at the time, I was genuinely terrified and frustrated with my decisions.

Eventually I made it through and I started seeing signs for the Grand Canyon. I cut up Route 64 in Arizona and found camp about and hour from the south rim of the canyon. The next morning, I held myself accountable. I woke up around 4:00 am and drove the stretch to the Grand Canyon and made it a point to watch the sun rise over the orange and red rocks carved by the Colorado River. It was so satisfying. It was even more satisfying than sleeping in the back seat of my car for a few extra hours.

That day I pushed myself all the way from the Grand Canyon to Crested Butte, Colorado by way of the Million Dollar Highway. I felt motivated and inspired by the mountains. For many, Highway 550 is simply the most dangerous road in America. To me, it's one of the most memorable. I adore the drive from Durango through Silverton to Ouray and finally into Crested Butte. I love the hairpin turns, the gigantic mountains and the old mine shafts. I love the lack of cell service and the hundreds of feet between the edge of the road and the bottom of the gaping crevasses. Every moment of it was exhilarating and reminiscent of my time in Colorado. It was the first highway I ever experienced as a passenger in Colorado and it was a huge reason for wanting to get out west and live that life. If you're an accountable person that makes safe and conscious decisions, Million Dollar Highway should be pleasurable. If you're not sure of yourself as a driver, it can be the most devastatingly painful ride of your life.

Thank goodness.

So good to be back.

Hairpin Turns

One after the other after the other with old miner's houses and shafts as scenery.

Silverton, CO

The weirdest little town I've ever loved.

Ouray, CO

Normal highway going over a normal waterfall down a normal hundreds of feet just before entering the hot spring town of Ouray. 

Blue Mesa

The last big stretch just past Black Canyon. Technically Highway 50 past Montrose but it's included as my favorite drive of all time.

This concept stretches so far into our lives. It's a principle that can be translated into many different variations. It can dictate how we handle challenges at work. If I'm a confident chef that understands where I can be fallible, I can be stronger and more successful. I'm not going to go down in flames on a busy Saturday night because I considered this long before the ticket machine started spitting out orders. I made sure I had everything I needed and buckled down for a bumpy ride. Before I entered the ring, I practiced, studied, and readied myself. I prepared for the worst so that I could perform at my best. When I find weakness in myself, I address it, hone it and move forward. I don't stew on my inabilities; I turn them into my finest traits.

And sure enough, when I do fail (and I know that I will sometimes), I hold myself accountable. I ask myself where I could have made a different decision. I let myself feel ignorant and guilty. I relish the emotion. Then, as only the strong can do, I move on. I let go but I don't forget. I grow and improve and one day, I'll be the very best version of myself. You better bet your money that when I get under those lights, it'll be a KO.

Five Fast Fixes : Mental Health

I am not a medical professional. If you are experiencing a mental health crisis, I would first and foremost encourage you to consider seeking counseling as well as employ the use of the a hotline to discuss your immediate needs with a person who is trained in assisting you. The National Suicide Prevention Hotline is 1-800-273-8255. Though you may not have thoughts of self-harm, if you find yourself distraught this is a great hotline to process your thoughts with someone who is there specifically for that purpose. If you're like me and deal with slight yet chronic mental health issues, I hope these Five Fast Fixes will help you. On to our scheduled program...

Our mental health fluctuates as our life evolves. Everyday, we're facing advancement in technology, growth in our careers, new opportunities, lost chances and goodness knows what else. We're plugged into the political nonsense, the growing homicide rate of our city, the fluctuation in affordability of lifestyle... seriously guys, we all have a lot on our plates.

For me personally, I've made a lot of effort to recognize when I'm not feeling my best. I track signs that my mental health is deteriorating by keeping a bullet journal (#13 is pretty much all I do). Recently, I made the decision to resist relationships as I started realizing that my mental health was so easily brought down by catering to others. I also signed a contract as the Executive Sous Chef of a new restaurant opening in Baltimore after abruptly quitting my very comfortable corporate job. After six months of unfortunate events, I had realized that my place of employment was a catalyst in my growing instability. These are some pretty life-altering changes. Today, I want to talk about five things that are small enough to do in one day to possibly improve your mental health like it has for mine. If we're not taking care of our most fabulous grey matter, we're selling ourselves short.

1. Yoga. I say this to people and I'm pretty sure they don't understand how much this can change their lives. I'm not talking about balancing in King Dancer on a rock next to an ocean. I'm talking about passively stretching for 15 minutes or less. I have two routines that I prefer. One is great for waking up in the morning; the other puts me right to sleep. I cherish these 15 minutes. It's my time to quiet my brain, get my blood moving through my limbs and focus on my body. Gaiam has a great app that offers guided yoga.

2. Water. If you're not drinking water and you feel like crap... I mean c'mon people this is a no-brainer. Your brain, body and spirit needs hydration. Don't like water? Add herbs, tumeric/ginger root, citrus... etc. Keep a pitcher in your fridge.

3. Go for a walk. If you're having that day that it seems impossible for you to even leave your bed (and trust me, I have these all the time), force yourself out of that mindset and go walk for ten minutes. You'll probably end up walking further. Explore your surroundings and take it all in. People watch, check out free outdoor art, take some pictures. If you feel especially crappy, this is going to seem impossible. You'll have a huge decision to make... stew in your personal soup of misery or get the heck up and put on some pants.

4. Call an old friend out of the blue. I know, I know. That seems crazy. Not into it? Write someone a letter. Everyone has at least one person that they think "I should really call so-and-so..." fucking call them. They're not going to be mad. Don't be disappointed if they don't pick up, just leave a pleasant voicemail and maybe try someone else. When you get them on the line, focus on listening to what they've been up to. Ask questions. Be engaged. Maybe if you shift your thinking onto how someone you care about is doing, you'll focus less on how shitty of a day you're having.

5. Make someone else feel good. Sometimes when I'm feeling my very worst, I think of something I can do that would cheer up other people. If it's hot outside, make some lemonade and hit the streets. Give it out for free and talk to new people. Write positive messages on rocks and hide them around your town. Leave smiley face post-its around your school or office. I used to put tiny dinosaurs all over my community college. It made me happy thinking about someone finding my treasures.

Being an adult is hard. Being in your twenties and trying to navigate the societal differences between generations while questioning your life decisions is way harder. Taking on new challenges is terrifying. You're not alone in this. We all have poor mental health days. We all struggle sometimes with our own mortality. You're irreplaceable though. There's simply no one quite like you. You deserve to feel your best everyday. Be well and take care of that beautiful brain.

The Adventure Pt.2 - Pride

Oddly enough, the hardest part of being fearless is keeping your pride in balance. When we start becoming more and more fearless, we also have the human tendency to become arrogant. We enter into battle with the things that scare us and after conquering them it's only fair to want to flaunt our newfound skill. The real paradigm lies within the equation that as our fear decreases, our pride increases. Should our pride increase too quickly, we find ourselves back into the same fears creating a catch twenty-two. How many times can you get knocked down a hill before you stop trying to climb back up?

My awesome friend, Marcus out in Lincoln. Scooping up simply the dopest ice cream!

When we learn to harness our pride, we can become unstoppable. My second night of camping was off Happy Jack Road in Laramie, Wyoming. The name was so spot on. I had spent the day visiting an old friend in Lincoln, Nebraska trying out some of his bad-ass ice cream flavors at Ivanna Cone. He showed off the shop's three frankenstein-esque machines used to slow churn the ice cream bases. These things were the most incredible beasts. I made much more concise plans for camping in the evening and after a pretty positive day, I was in a good place to build camp and get some rest.

I read about the campsite at McDonald's while I crushed a Big Mac. I am on a road trip, people. Feeling satisfied with food and with ample daylight, I ran into a grocery store and bought a few items to make a cast iron dinner. Not that I had ever done this before and not that this wasn't my second night ever camping by myself.

The road to the campsite was off the same exit as a memorial to Abraham Lincoln; I had been driving I-80 for a part of the day and he historically created this highway to enable cross-country travel. As I pulled up, a towering Abraham Lincoln greeted me carved from stone. I used the rest stop to freshen up and get rid of my trash. This had become another of my cherished daily routines. After wandering down Happy Jack Road, I turned on to Forest Road 703 BA. The dust billowed from behind my car and I rolled up onto a scene straight out of a western. The campsite was on a cliff that overlooked a vast horizon of deep reds and oranges marred with scraggly brush. Two RV's were set-up with generators and much friendlier looking glowing windows.

What up, Link?

I confidently and proudly pitched a tent, unfolded my camp chair and tossed my personal effects into my new home. Without hesitation, I started gathering rocks and forming a fire circle. I had really entered survival mode at this point. I piled in kindling, dry grass and leaves. I stacked wood around the brush and created a sad teepee. I sparked a lighter and set my tiny, organic fire starter ablaze. Moving briskly, I hurried the ember into the dry brush in my brand new fire circle and watched as the leaves and hay crumpled and turned back into the carbon they once were. The wood slowly caught and I had built a fire. I had built a fucking fire.

(To sidebar pretty quickly, into a subtle PSA, I have tried on many occasions to start fires and to manage grills. Men... please stop pushing us aside. We're very good at making fires.)

I felt fluid. I felt as if my actions were slowly less about practical thought and more about doing what felt right next. I had put no thought in preparation about how this would come together. I started piecing together my dinner for the night without fear and with confidence and healthy pride. I roasted a jalapeno on the rocks as I watched the husk around the corn char in the orange flames. I placed a flat rock in the ring and added a small cast iron skillet. After it preheated, I dropped in shallot, carrot, garlic and whole cherry tomatoes with some olive oil and salt. After getting some caramel-color on my veggies, I deglazed with chicken broth. I had invested in a few juice box size containers of broth for the trip (this was wise). Once the corn was roasted, I carved off the sweet kernels and diced up the smoky jalapeno. In a plastic, washable cup, I mixed up chickpea flour with chicken broth until it formed a pancake batter consistency. One last toss of my veggies in oil and I poured the batter over everything and immediately covered it in foil. After a few minutes, I peeled back the foil to find the cake was fully cooked and pulling away from the pan. I flipped it out of its cast iron onto a plate and sat by the fire eating an insanely delicious, savory pancake.

Words make all of that seem so beautiful. It wasn't. It was a grown woman crouched around a fire tending to vegetables as they bite her with tiny molecules of hot fat. A slightly dirty, cut-off jean wearing hippie chopping on a tiny cutting board with a paring knife while I slumped back into my camp chair. Nothing about this was sexy. It was insanely barbaric and natural. I felt powered by the fire. Inspired by its flames. I felt strong. Confident. Proud.

When I woke up in the morning, I discovered I had been camping this whole time on top of a US Airmail Beacon. Pilots had used these to guide the mail service across the country previous to GPS technology. Being the nerd that I am, this was extremely exciting to me. Can you imagine being responsible for guiding a still very newly-invented craft across a massive country using only arrows on the ground below? It seemed fitting for this specific night of camping to happen on my journey. Somehow, everything about the previous 20-24 hours had gone surprisingly smooth. As I returned to the Lincoln Memorial and struck a few yoga poses on the floor of the empty visitor's center, I reflected on how careless and enjoyable the time had been. I felt re-energized. My pride was at an all time high as a camper and traveler. Little did I know, the next time that I cooked in the wild I would fall right back down the hill.

Over the next couple of days, I visited the Spiral Jetty (don't worry we'll come back to it) and the Golden Spike National Historic Site. I camped next to the highway for a quick sleep before tackling the northern side of Nevada and pulling into a good friend's driveway in California. He expressed interest in venturing out to Yosemite. Obviously feeling pretty comfortable in my outdoor abilities, I quickly accepted. We had an incredible time. When we first got to the park we stocked up on some goods and drove up to Glacier Point in time to catch the last rays of sunshine disappearing beneath the mountainous horizon. As the darkness crept in, we watched in awe from hundreds of feet above the valley floor as each campsite came alive. Below us, a sea of campfires reflected the stars of the night sky. Everything we saw was magical and picturesque. I created memories at Yosemite that I will cherish forever. I also talked a huge game about how awesome I was at cooking with fire and bragged on the meal I would make when we settled in for the night.

Driving through rocks & stuff. Normal Yosemite magic.

You've been waiting so patiently and now for the moment you've all been waiting for...

It turns out that when you decide to combine a copious amount of California's widely-appreciated delicacies with trying to camp and cook, you may entirely fail. Especially if you idiotically decide to not follow dosage instructions. If you combine this with waiting until the sky is completely dark to figure out where to camp, you may have a bad time. What ensued was a breakdown of better judgment both clouded by pride and the vaguely brave yet, certainly silly choice to incorrectly consume edibles. I had successfully camped in my own tent and not my car for one night. This was enough for me to feel very competent in my abilities as a camper. Oh boy.

Somehow, we got camp set up. Somehow we did it with the most beautiful view possible. Somehow I managed to use a propane burner to cook the worst meal I had the entire trip. Cous cous with sambal and mire a poix is not dinner. The saving grace was the killer steak dinner I made the night before at my friend's home. He knew I could cook, but bless his heart for choking this mess down. As the domino chips began to fall, the previously ingested cookie got the best of me and became human-stomach-rejected-bear-bait. In layman's terms, I tossed my cookies. In Yosemite. Next to the most beautiful scene I had ever slept next to with 6 trillion stars staring down on me. My poor friend destroyed the evidence with some water and got me to sleep.

It was so good... both times.

That's not what friend's are supposed to be for. But they are for waking your butt up before dawn to watch the sunrise so that's what we did. As the sun began dousing the world with light and color, we quickly sought out a quiet picnic spot to take extremely rewarding naps. After the sun was fully up and I was finally awake, it was time for redemption. He had cast no judgement on my faux-pas of the night before, but I knew I had to make up for my immature decisions. Luckily, we had brought some of the leftover, local hanger steak and picked up eggs and sweet potatoes from the store. Cautiously, without being an arrogant shithead, I cranked out a perfect campfire (well, wood-fire picnic BBQ) steak and eggs breakfast. I once again feared the concept of not making a good meal by fire. I would not always perfectly execute a fantastic meal without a care in the world. I had to accept my imperfections and accept that my arrogance had gotten the best of me. I felt stronger because of it and returned to having the time of my life. I was able to return to simply enjoying the vast stretches of pine trees and reaching peaks that surrounded us in this majestic national park.

Maybe this wasn't the anecdote you expected to explain pride. "Girl eats too much of a magical cookie and makes her dear friend eat horrible food before yakking". Not exactly the headline I wanted either. Regardless, the point is I cooked one great meal by fire and believed I was the new goddess of flame. As if everything I placed on the embers would immediately turn into some ridiculous magazine-worthy meal. Dream on, girl.

Had I just focused on enjoying my time with an old friend, I might have overcome new fears. I might have enjoyed the stars more. I might have felt more satisfied than eating an incredible meal. Maybe I should have taken his advice and made one of those horrible freeze-dried meals for the night. I was simply too proud and too ignorant.

Fear and pride are the criminals of failed success.

Your fears and your ego are not meant to battle. They're meant to balance. We have fear and we have pride because together they make us the intelligible people that we can be. When one overpowers the other, we're out of balance and we can easily fall down again. Once we learn how to appreciate and respect both harmoniously, we become stronger than ever before. In the words of Kendrick Lamar,

"Be humble, sit down."

Ready for more adventure anecdotes?

More stories are coming soon... The Adventure posts will go live on Mondays.

The Adventure Pt. 1 - Fear

To cover that entire trip in one blog post would be insane. It would be kind of unfair, really. I can admit, however, I want to write about it. If there's one thing I want to point out above all else is that anyone can do an adventure like this. You have it in you. Find the means, find your courage, and get out there.

Not only was this unbelievably beautiful, but it was also the first time I picked up an actual camera in a while. Be fearless and do what you love.

There were three really important things that I learned along the way.

1. Fear and pride are the criminals of failed success.

2. We're responsible for our own accountability.

3. Aufhebung - a German word for wa/onderers.

Not what you expected? Maybe exactly what you expected? It sure wasn't where I thought my vacation was going. If only I had the wit to turn this into a gimmick off of Eat, Pray, Love. It's not about that though. Sure, there was a fair amount of self-discovery but, no more than would be expected after driving 7,450 miles.

During this trip, I spent more time with myself than I probably ever had. I'm not one for being alone and generally find ways to surround myself with people often enough to not feel lonely. I just like having other blood around. I got to see a number of remarkable things from the driver's seat of my car and reacted to them individually. The weird part was that I started reacting to things as verbally, emotionally, physically or spiritually as I wanted because I was alone. Appropriate-time-to-pick-your-nose alone. In some cases, miles from the last person I had seen. Remarkably enough, the people that I did involve in the trip were all people that I'd known long enough to not gauge my "individuality". I just kept doing what I was doing when I was alone because they made me feel comfortable and let me be myself. How does this relate to the kitchen?

Me just being me. Crazy.

When I'm comfortable with myself, I can be a better leader that gives clear and concise direction.

Being a stronger, more individual leader means spending time with Numero Uno: You. If you're confident and comfortable as an individual, you're going to slowly learn how to maintain your individuality with an audience. Which wraps us around to the first part. Fear and pride are the criminals of failed success.

As humans, I think most of us can admit that the biggest reason we don't do something is 100% fear. We blame laziness, lack of time, inability to fund... etc. but the reality is that we're just scared. If we're not scared, sometimes we take it too far and we're overzealous. We're simply too confident to be successful. Like anything in life, we're at a crossing of thought that requires balance. How do we walk confidently into the fire without overdoing it?

You're not to blame for your fear. That should be mentioned. We live in a world saturated by the stink of fear: identity theft, terrorism, nuclear weaponry, fluoride, warring factions, pirates, hooligans... the list goes on. Lock your doors, kids, this is a pretty scary freak show. We're all rightfully trained to be fearful. Are we taking it too far though? It was concerning to me the amount of people that believed I was in danger because I was traveling alone as a female over a long distance. I will never bring a daughter into this world that lives with the fear that she can't go across the country all by her self. I might make her go. I'll probably pay for it. It felt a little discriminating and definitely belittling. More than anyone, I pitied the women that felt this way. They honestly believed that they themselves were not capable of the feat and the truth is... they are definitely capable.

My plan going into this trip was to camp. I had found a few sources to locate free campsites and I fully intended to locate camp during the afternoon using freecampsites.net and then drive the last few hours to get to it. As the trip went on I was smart to find wireless connections at fast food places to make the search smoother, but the first day I had very little service and even less sunlight. I was really tired enough that anywhere would have been fine; it was my first day and I had driven 600 miles.

Enter Hoot Owl Bend Access.

Described on freecampsites.net as "primitive - bring your own wasp killer".

I pulled off state route 29 in the farthest northwest corner of Missouri into a horizon of corn fields. The pavement abruptly ended and I found myself on a 3 mile one-lane, white gravel road. I'm honestly at this point already feeling the fear and decide cover it up by blasting down the gravel kicking up as much dust as I can to make myself laugh. There was so clearly not one person anywhere at all. I pulled up to the alleged campsite next to a trailer park of a few RV's. Each of the tiny windows glowed as dusk dimmed the world around me and I got my first glance at this old Lewis & Clark riverside lean. The glowing windows should have given me comfort but my mind decided to use them as fuel for the fire of fear.

There once was a parking lot, a latrine, and an informative sign covered in plexiglass about the history of the area. It's not to say they were gone; they were just different. The paved parking lot was cracked into thousands of shattered pieces each crevasse now the home for tall sweeping grasses. The sign was damaged, clearly by ignorant and careless humans, the information inside slowly deteriorating and fading. A soft moss grew inside the wood frame of the sign and slowly threatened to permanently cover the information it once so proudly displayed. The latrine had weeds embedded into the door forever sealing it's rotting fecal contents behind Mother Nature herself. Despite of all this, I was happy to be here. Sure, I wasn't sure who the hell was living in the trailer park and I had to pee in the bushes but, it was sort of exciting.

I schlepped through the grasses up and over a hill to the river and found a fantastic landing overlooking a cove alive with fish. It was sort of awkwardly close to the trail back to the parking lot so I walked against the current to get further away. As I approached another perfect landing for a tent, I heard the crescendo of humming around my feet. The fucking wasps. I stopped and slowly placed one foot behind the other until I found myself back to my first spot. I went the opposite way up the river only to discover the same noise emanating from the ground. The first landing was clearly the most intelligent option though it was placed exactly at the foot of the parking lot path. I didn't really expect company at this point anyway.

I went back to my car and put together an overnight backpack, grabbed my tent and sleeping bag and quickly organized camp. The sun was pretty much gone as I crawled into my tent and sat down. It was in this moment that I realized this was the first time I had camped completely alone in the woods. I checked my service signal as well as the battery life and I quickly googled "Missouri wildlife". My brain had entered panic mode.

Though I may taut my resiliency to fear to you in conversation out at the bar, let me be 100% clear that I have never been so fucking scared in my life. I was convinced that someone was going to either murder me from the trailer park or a rabid animal was going to find me and make me dinner. I prayed. I sang to myself. I smoked about 6 cigarettes and pounded 2 beers for full effect. Eventually, I laid down and I somehow finally managed to drift off.

As if I was not already completely saturated in fear, terror and loneliness which had followed me into the cranial make-up of my dreams, I was awoken by the sound of some thing smashing into my tent followed by incredibly disturbing screeching.

So imagine if you would being alone in a tent, being scared and being in a dreamworld that is equally if not more so terrifying. Thank you, creative mind. You're crawling through the catacombs of your deepest, darkest dreams when you're suddenly startled by the earth-shattering sound of your tent being plowed by god only knows what. You jolt awake like the dad in "Don't Wake, Daddy!" and can physically see your tent quaking after the impact proving that this is definitely not a dream. Your knuckles are stark white gripping your mag-lite ready to strike. You can hear the screams of what you can only imagine as horrible phantom, zombie babies being devoured by satanic wolves. Your heart is beating so fast and hard you feel actual pain. You come to a little more and decide FUCK THIS I'M OUT.

I sat for what seemed like 15 minutes (and was probably less than 5) before grabbing my sleeping bag and flashlight and running full speed back to my car stumbling in the overgrown brush. I slammed the door and pulled my bag up my body using the ever-popular "If I can't see you" tactic. I hear the doors lock and I feel a sense of relief knowing I'm at least protected by my tiny Ford Fiesta. As my comfort raises and my fear diminishes, I feel ready to observe what could have possibly caused so much terror. What creature is out in the night scaring me from my tent? I click on the flashlight. I take a deep, even breath. I slowly raise the light out of my sleeping bag and it reflects off the window back into my pupils. My eyes adjust and I finally get a look at the reason for all of my discomfort, my pain, my fear, my anguish. The reason I'm not sleeping. The reason I might turn around and drive home tomorrow. I see the creatures. I see... many of them. Their eyes are glowing back and I realize... they're deer.

I did not take this photo or any photo while those horrible creatures were busy being jerks.

I've run away from deer. The screeches are sounds of deer scratching their antlers on trees.

I am a coward that succumbed to the fear of the wolf in the night. I let my self get the best of me and now I'm sitting in my car like an idiot after running away from deer. It's funny how that works; how we can trick ourselves into being so alarmed by something so simple.

Is it possible we do this in our lives every day? Do we fear steps in life so much that we avoid them entirely fleeing to our cars and the depths of our sleeping bags? Am I at least brave for trying and what's the consolation? Would I do it again the next night? Camp alone away from anyone except an unidentified trailer park possible filled with a raucous band of murderers and thieves?

Of course it effects us everyday. We walk away from all sorts of opportunities because we fear. The comfort of what we know may always outweigh the feeling obtaining new success. When we let go of comfort and lack of fear we can become our most successfully selves. We step up to the challenge and we open ourselves up to new unfathomable possibilities. The consolation prize for me was being a little less scared the next night and even less the night after. It is worth it to face fear. It is worth it to be scared and alone.

Sometimes our fear feels different. It may not be about what goes bump in the night; it may be about facing situations that are difficult and hard to manage. While I was driving through Wyoming on my westward portion, I stopped at a rest area to use the facilities to freshen up and do some yoga. The pavilions of picnic tables are perfect for morning yoga at most rest stops. Every morning, I checked my tires, checked my oil, and checked my windshield wiper fluid. My front passenger side tired was noticeably worn down from the day before. It was honestly completely bare. I got back on the highway and realized that a pit stop for a tire change was happening on the next exit with a town. I cut off my music and rolled down the windows enough to be able to hear the car engine and tires. Sure enough, with a single road exit quickly approaching, I heard the distinctive pop of a rubber tire lacerating.

Maintaining speed, I cruised off the exit and came to a stop in a gravel lot only to quickly feel the tire deflate to the ground. There was nothing anywhere accept a sign indicating the miles in front of me as open shooting. Wyoming. I got out of my car and walked around the car to find a pile of human feces with dirty toilet paper next to my very deflated tire. I walked back around the car and reached for the door handle. I pulled. And I pulled again. And as a realized that my keys were sitting on the car seat, I also realized that there was no shade aside from the foot and a half next to my car at 10:30 am. That is to say, it was quickly disappearing. Luckily, I had slid my phone into my back pocket and got AAA on the line. I stayed calm the entire time. I reminded myself that worse things could have happened. Once they arrived, I was at a tire place within minutes. The tow driver snarkily joked that as a woman I wouldn't have been able to change the tire myself anyway. Regardless of his sexist demeanor, I was pumped to have someone to talk to for fifteen minutes. By noon, I had brand new tires at a ridiculous-only-in-the-middle-of-Wyoming price. I had survived! In fact, I walked out of the situation incredibly satisfied to have brand new tires. It would be safe to say that that tire exploding was maybe one of the best parts of my trip. Tires last a long time!

The world is not THAT scary. We're still lucky enough to have civility (for now) in our country. Use your brain, plan well, and always have water. Learn to check your tires, oil and fluids. Go to places you've never been before and do it confidently. Be ready to get your hands dirty. Be ready to be scared. Be ready to be lonely and be even more ready to welcome company. And shit, enjoy all of it.

Ready for more adventure anecdotes?

More stories are coming soon... The Adventure posts will go live on Mondays.

Make a Salad

My biggest art regret is not going to the MoMA show "Make a Salad" performed by Alison Knowles in 2014. Knowles was an active leader in Fluxus and first debuted the piece in 1962.

Fluxus is by a vast majority my favorite part of art history. It's kind of a trashy and flagrant favorite, but I love that it's a wild spirit crying for equality in art. MoMA had a corner gallery dedicated to the movement and I never missed the opportunity to see it. I had the manifesto printed and hanging on my wall at one point (I'm sure it's around here somewhere).

I just loved it. I liked that it made me uncomfortable and it made me question. Truth be told, at the time I was asking A LOT of questions about life, government and the pursuit of happiness, but I digress. All of this made me attracted to the performance art world. During one visit in 2010, Marina Abramovic was performing "The Artist is Present". Two chairs were placed in the center of the main atrium. Marina sat in one. A stranger sat in the other. And they could sit there as long as they wanted and stare into her eyes. Many people were moved emotionally. Some were quick to leave. There was a line formed around the lobby to sit with her. She was truly present for every single human that sat in front of her.

(Read more about Marina Abramovic here! She's amazing!)

So what does all of this have to do with making a salad? I mean, we took a hard left but, I think we can make it back. Why is Alison Knowles raking a giant salad?

Great question.

I like to relate it to the process. It's not the ingredients. It's not the rakes and shovels. It's just the process. Being present with it. If you're going to make a salad, fucking make a salad. Be there in it. Respect it. Don't rush it. People say they don't like cooking but maybe it's really they don't like the process. Maybe we're missing the point of the process. What if we started enjoying having to slow down and cook our food? What if nourishing ourselves was heralded as meditative and energizing?

I personally look forward to cooking for myself and for others. I savor it. I like every piece of doing it. I sort of even like doing the dishes. Here's a salad I made. It would be super tasty for the summer seasons. It's light and refreshing so you can go pretty heavy on the dressing. It wouldn't hurt to have some crusty bread near by for sopping. If you're too good to sop, just go away.

Tahini-Yog-Mater Salad

Serves one... or more.

INGREDIENTS

• Some kind of delicious greens
• Yogurt
• Tahini
• Hummus (optional)
• Jalapeno
• Lime
• Red Onion
• Tomatoes (get fancy, girl)
• Leftover Meat (optional)
• Feta
• Olive Oil
• Salt
• Pepper

1. Just a little prep... deseed jalapeno and remove stem. Cut into slices, and then into little cubes. Chop it up like crazy. Take about a quarter of a red onion and similarly chop the crap out of it. Peel off about a thumb-length size amount of lime peel. Also, chop into little tiny pieces. Mix up all three ingredients, pour on about a tablespoon of olive oil and sprinkle some salt. Squeeze a wedge of lime onto the mixture. Chop all that up like whoa. You just made gremolata. Store in your fridge for up to five days.
2. Place greens in bowl. Literally any greens that you like. I used arugula and leftover iceberg. I had it shredded for burgers but I'm not above that crunchy ass lettuce. I would put in the amount that you (or as many friends as you have) want to eat.
3. For each serving, plop in 2 tablespoons yogurt.
4. For each serving, plop in 1 tablespoon tahini.
5. For each serving, just go ahead and add 1 teaspoon-1 tablespoon jalapeno gremolata. This will determine how spicy your salad is.
6. Squeeze some lime in your greens! One wedge per serving.
7. Salt bae. (and pepper, too, I guess)
8. Olive oil to make it slippery.
9. Toss it all together.
10. Grab your hummus (if you want, no pressure) and put a big scoop on the plate. Now just smear that crap. Art.
11. Dump greens into hummus art.
12. Chop tomato into large chunks and add to dirty greens bowl. Add more olive oil and salt. Toss. Plate around greens. Add Leftover Meat. I used a Pan Seared Blackberry Mostardo chicken. Bologna might work.
13. Sprinkle it all with feta. I got fancy and added julienne radish and sliced jalapeno but no pressure.

Go cook for yourself. You deserve it. Enjoy it. Be present for it. Use the time to meditate on what you want and need. You have to eat, don't just fuel. Nourish.

So I quit my job...

I’m sitting in front of my computer with a glass of Gewürztraminer with the knowledge that in two weeks I’ll be jobless. I decided against most people’s better judgement to hang up my career at a well-established corporation with medical benefits, a 401K, and room for growth to be unemployed.

Well, I must be insane.

This decision wasn’t rushed. It came slowly. I started noticing how much of my day was spent with the same frame. Imagine your eyes as cameras. Imagine that camera being on a tripod and focused on a space on a wooden bench table. Sure the subject matter changes but, your world slowly becomes that frame. I found myself waking up in the morning and realizing my dreams were me wandering in the woods. Standing on a massive vista overlooking trees, and world, and life. I could smell the forest; the wafting aroma of moss covered in decaying leaves. I would shake off the feeling and make coffee. As the aroma changed from trees to the smell of a productive morning, I would drift back into reality. Back into frame. The wooden bench table.

Don’t get me wrong. I love that damn table. I could stare at it for an eternity. The thing is… I don’t want to. So instead, I quit my job and I’m going to travel the country.

My first stop is Louisville, Kentucky for my annual attendance at the SkillsUSA National Skills and Leadership Conference for five days. After it’s conclusion I’m going to beeline it to California to catch up with friends. I plan to drive down the coast to San Diego and then cruise up to Colorado to revisit Crested Butte and Denver before heading back to North Carolina for vacation with my family.

When I come back, I guess I’ll have to find a job. Or figure out how to keep traveling. Either way, bon voyage.

Mastering the Twinkie - Not your average copycat.

Every once in a while, I get to do a crazy project like this. Recreate a Twinkie? Hell yes. There's a few key elements to a Twinkie: sponge, marshmallow cream, lack of identifiable ingredients, shape and package. Each of these elements makes the Twinkie special.

Slow motion for me.

Sponge

First to Last from Left to Right.

My first attempt was to steal a copycat recipe that was touted as extremely easy and for beginners. Completely knowing this was going to bomb, I had to set a baseline. This was from a notorious blog and one of the first google finds when I typed in "Homemade Twinkie". The cake was in no way a Twinkie. It was only a lie. It tasted like butter and sugar and to be frank, I was serious when I said lack of identifiable ingredients. It was also sort of dry as it was a pound cake so I soaked it in syrup and baked it longer to get it more golden. Still a flop.

On top of the cake itself being garbage, I learned that my silicon Twinkie-shaped molds would over caramelize the cake where the pan was touching. I would need to bake my molds on a grate for the next trail to have a consistent, beautiful cake.

For the second go, I tweaked a chiffon recipe to produce a lighter, vivacious crumb. It gave to the tooth and melted on the palette. It was so much closer. As soon as it came out of the oven, the little babes started puckering up clearly over-exerted from the medium to stiff meringue I used. My third and final attempt would be perfect.

For this one, I converted all of the goofy cups and spoons to metric units and got to work. I started by making a pate a bombe as thick as humanly possible with one less yolk than before. I measured, mixed and sifted the dry ingredients together. I heated butter, milk, vanilla, and birthday cake extract and emulsified. My meringue was whipped to a flaccid soft peak with cream of tartar and sugar. I made the sacrificial offering of a scoop of meringue into my pate a bombe, worked it in with a spatula, swept the mixture in a fluid motion into the meringue and sprinkled the flour evenly over the entire mass. With the technique and finesse of a surgeon, I folded the mass together and swiftly added the hot butter mixture. Into a readied piping bag, into the chubby, white, silicon molds, into the oven and timer set. Mise en place.

Eleven minutes later a slew of sweet smelling treats emerged from the heat. I quickly flipped over the molds and let the little guys fall out of their respective cradles. Perfection. Onto the cream.

Marshmallow Cream

This would be easy. No rocket science here. I produced an Italian meringue with whites and sugar cooked to 121 degrees Celsius. This was whipped until completely cool. I added soft butter, vanilla, and powdered sugar. Switching to paddle attachment, the cream is beat for 10 minutes to achieve a homogeneous, thick marshmallow cream. Using an eclair tip, I piped each cooled cake in three spots from the bottom.

Lack of Identifiable Ingredients

This is more important than you think. Trust me, in almost everything I eat, I want to taste real food. When it comes to snack cakes... it better taste like snack cakes. Cloyingly sweet, satisfyingly mushy and I'll be damned if it's not perfectly consistent. The third version of the cake has the addition of Birthday Cake Extract sourced from Terra Spice Company. This sort of disrupted your taste buds and added this weird unidentifiable note. Perfect! Oddly enough, the package and the age of the snack cake also helped out this cause. I found that Twinkie day one vs. Twinkie day four were totally different animals.

Package

Perfect Snack Cakes.

It is all about the package, isn't it? Who doesn't want to rip that thing open? It's like a bubble of scent. I'll admit I open them with my teeth just so when that plastic force field is broken the aroma immediately fills my nasal cavities. I achieved my DIY packaging by snipping the sealed side off of a cellophane treat bag and resealing it with a plastic sealer. You can score one on Amazon for around $20 and they're a gift from the goddesses. I carefully slide the greasy little buggers into the sleeve and sealed from the other side. The brand sticker to finish it is the cherry on top. These could so easily be personalized and used as take-aways. I would love to get a package of homemade snack cakes on my way out of a corporate party. Something has to soak up that open bar on my Uber ride home!

Shape

Many sites recommended the NorPro Cream Canoe. With a name like that who wouldn't?

I personally like using the molds I already had. They are great for use in building individual mousse cakes. You can make sweet compound butter gifts with the mold. You can even make individual ice cream cakes. Generally, if I'm buying a pan or mold, I like to make sure it's multi-function. The Silikomart Pillow Mold is perfect for Twinkie making.

Conclusion

Maybe this is obsessive. Maybe that's okay. Either way, I can add the ability to make Twinkies to my resume. Another research and development project complete.

RECIPE COMING SOON, SUCKERS!

I'm making a comeback.

I've been reading the words I've written before and adding a zillion photos to my portfolio. It's odd how critical you can truly be of your own work (or lack there of). Somehow, at some point, I will admit that I hung up my freelancing freedom for the corporate comfort of a regular schedule, a consistent paycheck and a clean uniform. But if I'm being honest, I'm ready to find my next adventure. I'm bored of being comfortable. If you're one of my many colleagues or employees reading this, have no fear. I am not announcing my resignation anytime soon. I love my job. I love my team and the functions of the hotel.

I've just come to realize that I need to take a step back from reality and get back to my hobby-loving self. It's time to find some consultation clients. It's time to work on that cake that's been in my head for months. It's time to book that flight to Paris for a few days and eat myself into a butter-induced coma. I'm actively looking for new things to intrigue and excite me. I even got my camera back! I'm yet to actually put a memory card in it, but I have it and I'm ready to take it out and look at the world the way I used to.

The History of Food Presentation

Raise your hand if you really, really love clock. Like this...

No? Nobody? Oh no, just you, restaurant owner that still wants to be in the 80's. I bet you love doilies, too.

As a person who studied food as well as commercial design, I've always looked at food a little too artistically. My impression of restaurants is not only defined by the food I eat, but the menu's typeface, the choice of wall decor, the way the floor plan works. I like design. I think well-designed things make the harsh world more pleasant. Plate design is often overlooked by chefs. I mean, they follow the trends and they try to keep up to date but the truth is they overlook why the trends exist.

Why is everyone obsessed with swiping sauces on plates with a spoon? Why did we spend a decade making everything a zigzag? Why did minimalism take over in the 60's? Things in life don't just happen. They don't just appear and honestly, nothing is really a miraculous invention. Everything is connected and influential. Food is existentialism at it's finest. Just, ya know, stay with me here.

Take the minimalism movement created apparently by Alice Waters and Charlie Trotter during the 60's. Then take a step back. Bauhaus was established in 1919 in Weimar, Germany and existed in three different cities until 1933 when it very sadly closed due to... well... if you don't know your history just google "1933". Bauhaus loosely meant "school of building" and represented a new beginning in design after the end of World War I. Bauhaus is commonly believed to be the most influential establishment on modern design. When the German monarchy fell apart after their defeat, censorship was lifted and Bauhaus was created to allow radical experimentation in the arts. Bauhaus stood behind craftsmen and believed in objects that provided no distinction between form and function. Though Bauhaus as a collective was responsible for endless concepts and design dreams, it was especially influential on typography. In 1957, Helvetica was created by a Swiss gentleman, Max Miedinger, influenced by a famous 19th century typeface Akzidenz-Grotesk which was influenced by Didot.

Helvetica, though I could go on and on about it, is actually really simple. It just exists. It's the typeface of all typefaces. It's blamed for war. It's painfully boring and yet, it represents form and function. It has it's own documentary available on Netflix. It's clean, legible lines allow the words to speak instead of the typeface. It's no coincidence that as the world began turning their eyes to Helvetica, Alice Waters was rebelling against the culinary world and starting a movement of minimalism in food. This was happening during a time when it was absolute standard that protein sat at 6:00, starch sat at 9:00, vegetable sat at 12:00, and a ridiculous, inedible garnish sat at 3:00. Alice Waters was not only responsible for a culture shock of trend in plating, but in allowing food to speak for itself. She supports local, sustainable, and seasonal products and her dishes at Chez Panisse are not meant to overwhelm you with a grandiose appearance that startles you at first sight. Just like Helvetica, her food gave you the opportunity to quickly and efficiently understand it while being existentially complicated. She took the existence of plating trends, which though had utilitarian form lacked in function, and through it against the wall.

During the same period, molecular gastronomy was making it's very first appearance. elBulli had just opened in Catalonia, Spain thought it didn't quite represent what we know as elBulli today. Ferran Adria was employed by elBulli in 1984 and by 1997, they had gained their third Michelin Star. Meanwhile, here in America, cooks are going nuts realizing they don't have to put food on a plate in accordance with a clock! Waters and Trotter were both trying to push the minimal food movement while some other clowns decided to bring the squeeze bottle onto the expo line and start making EVERYTHING a zig zag, spiral or dots. Some other clowns are carving tomatoes into roses and lemons into crowns. Then, one guy in particular, started shouting BAM and throwing spices on rims of plates and dousing plates in cocoa powder. Somehow we made it through and we spend our free time ogling Alinea plates, reading Modernist Cuisine and maybe even drooling over some Ad Hoc. Here's the thing about the spice throwing, zig zaggin' clowns, they're all part of the story. You can't get to Z from A without all of the shit in between.

Somehow, we make it to where we are today. We have this incredible influence from modernists to do things with form and function, we made it to an age where food is presented all together and used to build each item up, and of course, we became inspired by the molecular gastronomy scientists who turned eating into a sensory experience. Everything in our history is connected to our present. Even more scary, it's already creating what will be our future. So remember, when you next find yourself painstakingly reorganizing and rearranging a new addition to your menu, it's not as simple as defining the next trend; its honoring the trends that have all come before it.

BAM!

Prep Time-Lapse

There's something relaxing about watching heads of broccoli get sliced into submission at high speed. For this party, I made four different proteins. Coriander Braised Pork, Buttermilk Thyme Roasted Chicken, Steak Au Poivre and Mojo Turkey Sausage with Peppers & Onions.

The pork was heavily coated in the fruity spice as well as salt, pepper and cumin. I dry rubbed this bad boy the night before and let him hang out in the fridge. In the morning, I added a heavy hand of chicken stock, orange juice, bay leaves, onions, celery and apple cider vinegar over the pork cut. I like to make sure the juice concoction comes to about an inch below the top of the meat when braising. Luckily, I'll be filming my first cooking show on braising in the next few weeks. Cover the dish of pig-tastic goodness with foil and cook at 350 for four to six hours. I like to pull the whole shoulder or rib or butt... really this can be done with any part of the pork, and let it rest when it's finished. When it's cool enough to pull, shred into tender bites of love. Place all of the braised meat, now shredded, back into the leftover juice and let it soak. Because why not? I watched a kid eat the stock with a spoon once and I've never let it go to waste since.

The Buttermilk Thyme Roasted Chicken is something I've fallen back on about a thousand times in my life. First, don't buy buttermilk. Get the white vinegar out of you pantry, add a tablespoon to regular whole milk, and it will curdle and turn into buttermilk perfectly on it's own. You can replace the white vinegar with apple cider, cream of tartar, lemon juice. Really, any acid you find lying around the kitchen. Most people have quite a bit of acid floating around that they don't even think of. If you don't have regular whole milk in your fridge, shame on you. Stop buying that 2% crap. If you buy skim... well, there's no words for you. Enjoy your goddamn well done steak and your watery milk. I don't blame you, I blame society. So take your chicken, you can even buy the cheap cuts like me and go dark, and season it copiously with salt, pepper, and thyme. Throw it in a gallon bag and top with your buttermilk. This needs to sit overnight, no exceptions. Heat up a cast iron skillet until it's ripping hot and add some grease. Place the chicken skin side down and allow to sear and crisp. Get the skin GBD* and throw the skillet down into the oven on 350 F. Flip the chicken after ten minutes. Give it another 5-10 on the flesh side. Use a thermometer to check the temp, it should be about 160 (it will carry over to 165 to finish). Poke the chicken! Get a feel for what nice, solid, cooked chicken feels like. Before you know it you won't even think to pull out the thermometer.

Steak Au Poivre is sickeningly classic French. I like to marinate the steak the night before. Start with a big, fat cut and season generously with salt, pepper, oil, Worcestershire, bay leaves, oregano and thyme. The day of, get your cast iron pan (once again) quite, quite hot. The easiest way for me to define the heat of this pan is that you should be able to hold your hand very close to it. If you want to be a pansy and not use the hottest pan possible because... well, you're a pansy, fine. But your steak won't have a crispy sear and it'll just be your loss, pansy. As your pan gets hot, dunk the steak in cracked peppercorns. Like, basically bread this sh*t with peppercorns. Use a blend of butter and veg oil to grease your pan. Sear the loving crap out of one side, about 3-4 minutes on a thick bitch like the one in my video. Sear the other side. Throw it down in the oven for 4-6 minutes on 350 to finish it to medium rare. Pull out and immediately remove from the pan onto a cool cutting board to rest. For a big guy like this broil I picked up, I slice thin, bite sized pieces to feed a crowd. When you're eating at a party you don't have two hands free for eating. You're probably drinking with one hand.

The Mojo Sausage might be the most delicious cop out ever. Wegman's makes a Mojo marinade that a client turned me on to. It's smokey, sweet, spicy... it's bottled sex. I literally dumped sweet Italian turkey sausage into a gallon bag and add a bottle of this stuff. I chop up onions and peppers and take them separately. When I get to the house, I unload the plastic bag of peppers and onions into a casserole pan, dump the saucy sausage over top, and bake until finished. 45 minutes? An hour? Nah, more like... about the length of two beers at 350 degrees. This is stupid easy to take car camping. Replace the casserole dish with a dutch oven and your set, son.

We'll get more in depth with veggies as the films start coming out. I can't wait to get these cooking specials underway! Coming soon we'll be braising, grilling, drinking, eating, packing our own knife rolls for any traveling cook and a crazy laundry list of other insanities. Follow me on twitter to keep up @jemarifik

For the Love of Food: Lessons from JC

I'm going to get something off my chest right now. I love Julia Child. I can't think of a better woman to admire and (well quite literally) look up to. I know, I know. I sound like every hip cook in my generation. But really, she's the Christ of cuisine. I can give you five holy reasons why she exemplifies a foodie and should be idolized.

“1. The secret of a happy marriage is finding the right person. You know they’re right if you love being with them all of the time.
2. You learn to cook so that you don’t have to be a slave to recipes. You get what’s in season and you know what to do with it.
3. Animals that we eat are raised for food in the most economical way possible, and the serious food producers do it in the most humane way possible. I think anyone who is a carnivore needs to understand that meat does not originally come in these neat little packages.
4. I was 32 when I started cooking; up until then, I just ate.
5. Everything in moderation, even moderation.”

We can learn a few things from Julia. You're never too late for anything in life. Cooking should be therapy. Love makes life better. Be humane, more importantly, be human.

She's the epitome of what cooking is all about. It's sometimes tickets, yelling, scurrying, burning, haute cuisine and stress. Admittedly, those that choose to love food this way enjoy the slightly BDSM factors and have probably had enough of the missionary position of cooking. But for most, it's more like a fresh, young love filled with innocence. The slightly uncomfortable effort of de-boning a chicken. The unsureness of making gnocchi for the first time. The eventual slow up sweep of getting to know and understand your relationship. Just like a new partner, you start to feel at ease making decisions to make the relationship stronger. You start remembering the seasons of different vegetables. You can name more than three mushrooms. You can even start to figure out and decode the meat department with complex understanding. You even season appropriately with heavy hands of salt and spice.

Taking a leap into a romance with food is almost identical to a human relationship. It can be scary and overwhelming. It can seem easy to avoid. But it's gratuitous and forgiving and somehow you keep trying and learning. You fall every once in a while, but for the most part you educate yourself from mistakes and take another step further into the darkness.

Take a lesson from Julia Child, try everything. Don't ever be nervous. And for goodness sake, don't ever be afraid to be a ginormous woman who loves butter and cream and all things classic. Even if it's just inwardly.

Let's take a trip down memory lane...

So this is from my days in the mountains when I played bakery with a few friends and didn't really sleep ever. It was a nice first try and watching this old video makes me miss the place.