Where have you gone, Joe Dimaggio?

Forgive me father, for I have been MIA.  Medical student In Action.  I have neglected my friends, I have neglected my health, I have neglected my laundry, but most importantly, I have neglected you.

For nearly three years I diligently blogged about food.  Food in the restaurant, food at home, food in France.  I had a rhythm and we found our groove.  Slight bouts of writer’s block were cured with fresh walnut rolls from the nearby boulangerie or a flare-up of egos in the restaurant.  We were happy together.

And then med school rolled around.  I wasn’t any less happy, but my entire universe had lost its focus.  No more random quests for dried mango in Paris or new pizza to try in Seattle.  No more time to make dinner or chefs to complain about.  I was a study machine.  And I didn’t know how to relate that to you.  I loved every minute of my first year of medical school (just as Scott).  But you are no place for musings on pathology or physiology.  You were born out of a passion for pine nuts and pain au chocolat.

And I’m fine with that.  You aren’t a pensieve (don’t hate me for quoting the ‘Potter) for every random thought that enters my mind.  You have a purpose in this life.  A food-driven, restaurant-inspired, chef-centered purpose.

pb+j m+ms

Nothing goes better together than strawberry jam and chunky peanut butter.  Slather it on sandwich bread, cut your masterpiece in half diagonally, place in Ziploc bag, and you have heaven on Earth waiting for you for lunch.

The stick-to-the-roof-of-your-mouth-ness of peanut butter is perfectly paired with the smoothness of the jam.  Peanut butter tastes best when warm–it’s smoother, its wafting aroma excites your taste buds, and it balances the cool, straight-from-the-fridge-ness of the jam as they waltz gracefully on your tongue.  And how could you forget the crunch of the peanuts contrasted with the semi-whole pieces of strawberry?  Magnifique.

So, naturally, when I was faced with the opportunity to buy “Strawberried Peanut Butter M&Ms” at my local Walgreen’s I jumped at the opportunity, after first confirming that my cashier was a fan.

Peanut Butter M&Ms are delightful on their own merits.  No wafting aromas or perfectly smooth stickiness to send the arachibutyrophobics running for the hills.  The peanut butter is salty and crumbly.  Not worthy of a partnership with strawberry jam.

And the strawberry?  Like eating shampoo.  But the flavor is short-lasting and quickly overpowered by the chocolate and pb.

Don’t get me wrong, I love Peanut Butter M&Ms.  But I don’t like them masquerading as a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.  There were no excited taste buds or waltzes in my head.  No perfect pairing of sticky and smooth.  No memories of school lunches and Ziploc bags with diagonally cut sandwiches.  Only a craving for classic Peanut Butter M&Ms, hold the shampoo.

bag half full.

This is an unopened bag of Tostitos.  Apparently they are now 20% fuller.  Woulda liked to have seen them before…

shlom, jul!

Time Travel.

Eating can transport you to a different continent.  The smells and sounds…and taste of the food can temporarily remove you from the urban grind and trick your tastebuds into believing you are on the beach in Italy, if you’re lucky.  Or you can swap one metropolis for another and pretend you are eating in Delhi.

But just as in Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory, we are not restricted to north, south, east, and west for our food travels.  Sometimes food takes us backwards, rarely forwards.

The soup my dad made on Passover reminds me of my grandmother.  The peanut butter and jelly cookie I ate reminds me of the cafeteria in elementary school.

And the root beer float I bought last week reminded me of a time I never knew…1950s America.

The root beer float was invented some 110 years ago by a man in Colorado, but it enjoyed its heyday in the 1950s at soda fountains across the country.   And there I was in 2009.  Big orange umbrellas, the bright tables near the parking lot, the jukebox inside the restaurant.  Sure, it was big on the kitsch factor.  But rightfully so.

Dedicated to Brunch and to Neta.

Four of my seven roommates from Senior Year were reunited yesterday for brunch, arguably the best meal of the day and the sole reason holiday weekends exist.

We braved the heat and the early morning and ventured eerily close to where the numbers end, but it was worth it because my friend Chris was manning the kitchen at Prune and the food did not disappoint.

Fresh Ricotta with Honey, Pinenuts, and Figs

Huevos Rancheros

Homemade Granola

Chickpeas with Poached Eggs

This post is dedicated to my college roommate, Neta, who puts up with my incessant food photography…among other things.

I miss it.

There were two of them.  Crumpled against the fence of a neighboring townhouse on East 92nd Street.  Her head was rested in her hands, he had a cigarette in his mouth.  And I could tell you their story without missing a beat.  Their chef’s whites gave them away.  The cigarette didn’t hurt, either.

They had just come off the line after a grueling 10, 11 hours at work.  They prepped through the morning, grabbed family meal at 4–though he was always behind on his mise en place and only ever managed to sneak in a few bites of lunch.  The first guests started rolling in and the pace didn’t let up for hours.  And then they broke down their stations, wiped down the counters, and finally caught a breath.

I’ve been there.  I’ve done that.  And only last night did it really sink in just how much I miss it.

My year in the kitchen was quickly overshadowed by rote memorization of bacteria and viruses, muscles and nerves.  My late nights working the line have been replaced by midnight cram-fests and early morning study sessions.  My chef’s jacket is now a white coat.  And I’m no longer measured by my knife skills and speed.  It’s now communication skills, empathy, and professionalism.

I miss the rush of the restaurant.  The nights I was so tired I could hardly move.  The smells, the sweat, and the speed.

I miss the kitchen.

Mac + Cheese.

Eric and I went to dinner last night with his parents.  The decor: orange.  The menu: mac + cheese.  Sure, there were variations on the theme.  But for the most part, dinner was one part mac, three parts cheese (with the requisite crumbs on top, duh).

Here’s the evidence.

oscar.

I think my parents had it right all along.  We were not allowed to win goldfish at our school carnivals or our camp carnivals or the town carnival.  Goldfish were not an acceptable prize for the ring toss; stuffed animals and slap bracelets were.

So when I rescued Oscar (formerly known as Harvey) from the dreary dining room table of 2122 Massachusetts Avenue, I kept it a secret from my parents for all of 5 hours.  But once my mom realized that a pet goldfish meant she could offload her ugly glass vase on me, guilt free, she was an eager accomplice.

Oscar weathered the journey from the dining room table in Washington, DC, to the 4 hour bus ride, sitting at my feet in an Ann Taylor bag in a pint-sized deli container with holes on the top, to the E train at 34th Street to the 6 train at 53rd Street to the pet store on 86th Street to my house.  He has held up resiliently, despite my innocent attempts at his life.  See, I love my fish.  I can’t help it that I think he’s adorable when he laps up little fish flakes.  And that I feed him three times a day.  I can’t help it that his deli container gets all cloudy bc I (over)feed him like any Jewish mom would.  I can’t help that I disliked all the ugly tanks in the fish store and that I’m waiting for his perfect new home to arrive at mine, via my mom and her ugly vases.  I’m just trying to make him comfortable.

But until then, Oscar is being strong.  He is adorable cute swimming in the wake meals gone untouched, making googly eyes at me in the cloudy water of his deli container on my dresser.  He loves it here.  I can just tell.

possible future med student

Ben read every single entry while he was at work on Monday.  Yep, every single one.  From the time I bitched about work in Seattle to the time I bragged that Sarah Jessica Parker stepped on my messenger bag.  Every single one.  And he had one comment.  ”You’re no longer a possible future med-student.”  And he was right.  I am now definitely a med student and a future doctor.  

I don’t know why I’m faced with writer’s block when it comes to medical school.  I can write for hours about pears and pies, but I’m at a loss for (written) words when faced with penile implants and pancreatic cancer.

Sure, I think about medicine a lot.  I grapple with what it means to be learning about the ins and outs of the human body.  I wish Miss Frizzle were around to make it understandable.  And I sure as hell embody the typical Medical Student Hypochondriac Syndrome that seems to inflict only me.  But, yes, I am most definitely a medical student completely immersed in medical education.

But I have not written a word since August.

I’m not ready to say that I’m not as excited about medicine as I am about food.  Maybe I’m afraid that you’re not as excited.  Or maybe I’m more comfortable talking about food.  I’ve been eating pears and pies longer than I’ve been learning about penile implants and pancreatic cancer.  I have more fun making snarky comments about stale bread and stiff waiters than I do mouthing off about renal physiology.  

And it might be best that I keep these two separate after all.  The blog is for food; medicine stays in the hospital.  It’s a nice distraction from the sterile hospital.  Restaurants and hot fires and appetizers are sexier than scrubs and stethoscopes and draining abscesses.  And trust me, I won’t be posting any pictures of those up here anytime soon.

And in the meantime, here are some recent photos of hot chocolate, from Seattle to Union Square.

in the lap of luxury.

I like routines.  I brew the same tea with the same 2 packets of Splenda and same dash of milk each morning.  I eat the same cereal during class each afternoon.  I go through the same motions each day from leaving school to walking through my front door.  And I watch Top Chef with the same group of friends each Wednesday.  

We we switched it up last week and moved our Top Chef watching party to the heart of the action.  We traveled a few blocks south from our comfy PJ-attired digs on 97th Street to the swanky coolness of Craftsteak…and right onto Stefan’s lap.

  

 

Why would I fix something that isn’t broken?  Good question.  Bored in histology class I persuaded Scott that getting reservations at Craftsteak with the purpose of sneaking a peak at Carla would be far more fun than studying.  He agreed.  An hour later, enlisting the help of Scott’s friend Ben and the concierge at the Four Seasons, we had snagged a table for 4 at 8:45, giving us ample time to mingle at the bar, survey the scene, and suppress our paparazzi tendencies.

Dinner was a mix of delicious food and neck-craning muscle spasms.  Could we help it that Tom and Padma walked in halfway through our salads?  Or that Jaime and Stefan were cuddling as we ate our perfectly roasted Jerusalem artichokes?  

But we managed to keep the excitement to a minimum as we enjoyed our dinner and let the cheftestants enjoy theirs.  I had a perfect salad of arugula, shaved fennel, toasted pine nuts, perfectly whispy parmesan cheese, and lemon confit.  Scott had roasted salmon on top of root vegetables.  Ben had cod with pumpkin puree and blood orange.  Michael had a romaine caesar with anchovies (or were they sardines?).  Our table was dotted with side dishes of Jerusalem artichokes, spinach gratin, the creamiest gnocchi, and crispy cauliflower.  Clearly our appetites trumped our voyeurism for the first half of the night.

But as the food slowly disappeared and the (faux) celebrities started pouring in the balance shifted and my fingers inched towards my trusty Nikon.  Scott promptly slapped them away.  ”A camera like that will scare anyone.”   So we reached for Ben’s point-and-shoot, paid the check, and walked into culinary nirvana.

Stefan is a flirt.  Padma is a bitch.  Jaime is a sweetheart.  Carla is zany and fun.  Leah is awesome.  Patrick is cute.  Melissa has bangs.  Hosea is quiet.  And I was star struck…but determined.   

Me: Hi, so yeah, I used to cook a bit and now I’m in med school… [blabber blabber]
Stefan: Ha, you were smart to get out early. [chuckle chuckle]
Me: But, yeah, um, could I have a photo with you?
Stefan: Sure!
[I crouch down to chair-level...]
Stefan: Wanna sit on my lap?
Me: Duh!