Jane can wait…

One of my many weekend trips home over the past few months wasn’t by Amtrak or Peter Pan bus, but rather the Metro North train from Grand Central to New Haven. It was the plan for Brian to get to New Haven around 6 PM, around the time I’d be arriving, and then driving back to Rhode Island together after a quick bite to eat.

When 6:45 PM rolled around and I was still twiddling my thumbs in the New Haven train station (I have the “10 more exits” text from Brian saved on my phone for evidence), I was not a happy camper. Hunger, exhaustion and being forced to wait around usually spell disaster for me; or more specifically, for those around me.

When, 10 (or so) exits later, Brian finally arrived to pick me up, I was undoubtedly sporting what my family lovingly calls “The Daddy Face,” named after the don’t-mistake-this-smile-on-my-face-as-me-being-amused look that my father has perfected over the years. Having 4 children will do that to a man.

Anyway, Brian apologized profusely for making me wait, and explained that, while he was running late to begin with, as he was leaving his garage in Bristol he saw the most beautiful sunset.

And he just had to stop and take photos.

This explanation did not go over well. I just didn’t get it. But being that I was hungry, exhausted and although tardy, he was my only mode of transportation home (not to mention Brian is hard to stay mad at), all was soon forgotten and we had a nice dinner in New Haven and drove back to RI.

I didn’t give any of it much further thought at all until last night, when I was driving to Brian’s house in Bristol. As I came upon the top of the hill before his house, the sun was setting over Narragansett Bay right in front of me.

I just had to stop and take photos.

So now, Brian, yes… I get it.

Your sunset was undoubtedly absolutely spectacular, too, and I know why you had to stop and capture it, leaving me waiting at the train station.

(Just don’t let it happen again.)

NYC Memories

In the 5 months that I have lived in NYC, I have not spent many of my weekends here (cue a raised-eyebrow “You don’t say?” from my co-workers, who often see me lugging my weekend travel bag into the office on Fridays). In fact, I can probably count the number of weekends on one hand. I don’t regret that; it’s just the way it is (I refuse to say the overused, “It is what it is” in this situation even though I realize that in saying I’m not saying it, I actually did).

Ahem. Carrying on…

It’s just that my priorities usually took me elsewhere each Friday evening through Sunday night. And when I say Sunday night, I mean it.

At the beginning of my time here, I would take the 6:20 PM or 7:20 PM Amtrak train back to NYC, getting in around 10, and when I started taking the bus, I would either take the 6 PM or the 8 PM, getting in, depending on traffic, anywhere between 10 and midnight. So I didn’t exactly have leisure time to wind down and relax on Sundays.

I felt rushed the entire day, knowing I was on a deadline, and then once I got back to NYC, it was basically try-to-hit-the-pillow-right-away-so-you’re-not-a-zombie-in-a-few-hours (the rate of success of which was admittedly low and I was usually, in fact, at least part zombie on Monday mornings).

But yesterday was different.

Because I had planned to meet the person who will be subletting my apartment at 3:30 PM to talk details and sign the agreement, I had to take the 11 AM bus back to NYC. And while at first this bummed me out because it meant leaving so much earlier than usual, it ended up being a pleasant experience, one that ended up reaffirming some of the reasons why I had moved to the city, and in particular, my neighborhood, in the first place.

The bus arrived at Port Authority at 3 PM (never mind that it really shouldn’t have taken us 4 hours to get from Providence to NYC in absolutely NO TRAFFIC – that’s a different post on a different day when there’s a little more distance between me and my experience with Peter Pan Bus Lines). The cab dropped me off at my apartment about 25 minutes later, and that was the first time I really noticed that there was something different about getting back to my apartment on this particular Sunday.

It was light out, for one. But also? There were lots of people walking around. It wasn’t just a random person here and there… there were people walking together, pushing strollers. My little neighborhood is on the Upper East Side, so it’s not like Times Square, where it’s always packed and everything is open 24/7. So to see that the cafe across from my apartment, the grocery store down the street, the pizza shop around the corner were all still open as I made my way home on a Sunday was quite the sight!

It really reminded me of the day I found my apartment. I forget what my Dad had going on that day (because he would never voluntarily not come on an apartment-hunting venture with any of his kids), but it was just me, my Mom and Brian. Brian and I had not even yet declared ourselves boyfriend and girlfriend, although we had been spending a lot of time together and each of us definitely knew how the other felt. I had two appointments set up with roommates in Midtown on the West Side and one set up with a roommate on the Upper East Side. One of the girls I met on the West Side was someone I totally clicked with, but I realized somewhere during those three meetings that not only would I prefer living on the Upper East Side because of its proximity to where I’d be working, but also that I would really rather live on my own.

Meanwhile, Brian just calmly sat in the back seat of the car as my Mom not-so-calmly traversed Manhattan trying to keep our schedule. (Driving from one side of the city to the other when Central Park is closed to traffic isn’t the easiest of tasks.) When we needed to park illegally so that Mom and I could go meet potential roommates and see potential apartments, Brian graciously offered to stay in the car in case any parking police came by.

By the time I figured out that I wanted to look at places without roommates, it was getting to be the afternoon and we were all hungry. I had found a studio that looked nice on Craigslist, and I made an appointment to meet the broker. With about an hour to kill, Mom, Brian and I went to a cafe across from the apartment. It was a beautiful late summer day, so we sat outside in the sun. And I remember just falling in love with the neighborhood.

It was quiet yet active. Peaceful yet bustling. Quaint but city. People were walking around… families pushing strollers, couples walking dogs, kids skateboarding on the sidewalks. I hoped that the apartment gave me the same kind of “home” feeling, and as soon as I walked in, I knew that it did. It was the first place Brian was actually able to see that day – no longer banished to the car since we were able to find a legal parking space. And we all agreed that it was the best place – location-wise (see previous comments), convenience-wise (10 blocks from work) and sanity-wise (living! by! myself!).

And yesterday was the first time I found myself seeing my neighborhood through that lens again. It was another peaceful, sunny weekend day just like it had been 5 months prior. I wasn’t rushing home from work. I wasn’t thinking about what I was going to order make for dinner. I wasn’t freezing my butt off and just trying to make it from the cab to my door as quickly as possible. It was nice.

But not so nice that it takes back my decision to move back home… just nice enough to put a wonderful end to my time here. Because the graciousness and calmness and accommodativeness that Brian showed that day? That, I’ve come to realize, is just who he is. He is a wonderful person who makes me truly, truly happy and content when I am with him… but being with him is an impossibility when I am in New York.

It’s funny, because on the way home from NYC that day back in September, Brian called one of his friends who lives in the city to say hello. Explaining to his friend what he had been doing there was the first time Brian referred to me as his girlfriend. I remember my Mom kind of looking over me when he said it, like, “Is this the correct information?” – and finding that I really liked the thought of it.

And now I also like the thought of me being a Rhode Islander again.

Tennis, Anyone!? A Giveaway!

Ever since I made the decision to move back to RI from NYC, I have been putting a little list together in my head of Only-In-New-York things I MUST do before leaving. One of those things – attending an event at Madison Square Garden – is already taken care of for me!

I am so excited that on March 1 I get to see Serena Williams (2009 Australian & Wimbledon Champion), Venus Williams (Seven-time Singles Grand Slam Champion), Svetlana Kuznetsova (2009 French Open Champion) and Kim Clijsters (2009 US Open Champion) battle it out at the 2010 BNP Paribas Showdown for the Billie Jean King Cup. It’s one set of singles semifinals followed by a best-of-three-set final for $1.2 million in prize money.

And I’m equally excited that I have a pair of tickets to the Showdown on MARCH 1 at 7:00 PM to give away!

**To enter to win, leave a comment naming an event you have seen, or hope to see(!) at Madison Square Garden. For a bonus entry, leave a question for the amazing Kim Clijsters, who, at 26 years old juggles her high profile tennis career with being a mom to 2-year-old daughter, Jada. (Read more about her here).

Contest ends Wednesday, February 24, 2010 at 5 PM.**

We also have an exclusive discount to the 2010 BNP Paribas Showdown for the Billie Jean King Cup: $10 off select tickets with code MOMGEN!

Other Links:

MSG Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/MSGnyc

MSG Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/madisonsquaregarden

These Streets Made Me Feel Brand New

So, in news that’s probably not surprising to absolutely anyone who knows me (and definitely not surprising to those who already know)… I’m leaving NYC and moving back home to Rhode Island.

It was a decision that was both not at all and very difficult to make, and yet one I am absolutely at peace with.

It’s not that I don’t love living in the city. It’s not that I don’t love my job and the people with whom I work. It’s not that I don’t love traveling back and forth every weekend (well, love may be a bit strong of a word in this case).

It is that last summer, when I first made the decision to move to NYC, I was in an extremely different spot in my life than I am now. I didn’t have a mortgage anymore – or even a lease. I didn’t have a significant other in my life. I didn’t have a career keeping me from moving elsewhere.

So with tons of excitement, I got a job, found an apartment, prepared to make a new life in the city… and then (you know the story) I met Brian in RI.

When Brian helped move me into my apartment at the end of September, we were a very, very new couple, and it was understood between the two of us that we would see where things took us… but that I would be in the city for at least a year, probably more. But trips home, initially planned once a month-ish, quickly became weekly occurances. Riding into Providence on the bus each Friday night started feeling more and more right… and driving to the bus station to go back to NYC each Sunday evening began getting harder and harder.

And while, yes, much of my decision to move home has to do with my love life, there are, of course, other personal factors, as well. Basically, what it comes down to is this: while last summer everything was pushing me away from home, toward starting over somewhere else… now there are things pulling me back, things that are very, very important to me and my happiness.

There is nothing I would have regretted more than not moving to the city. When I needed it, the streets did make me feel brand new. The lights did inspire me.  But with all do respect for Jay-Z and Alicia Keys, there is a place in the world that can compare. And now… now it’s time to go back there.

Kitchenette Confidential, Part II: 3-ingredient tomato sauce

Ever since I made the decision to try to spread my cooking wings, I have been making a noble satisfactory valid effort to step out of my comfort zone in the kitchen. (Remember, my “comfort zone” was right about at you-just-can’t-get-any-worse-than-this, so there really wasn’t anywhere to go but up.)

The turkey/rice wrap and omelette I made were (dare I say) successes. I even cooked some perfectly hard-boiled eggs, thanks to these easy-to-follow directions.

And since so many of you were kind enough to share recipes with me when I first sent out the SOS signal for help in the kitchen (or, in my case, kitchenette), I decided the least I could do was attempt some of those very recipes and see how I measured up. No pun intended.

The first recipe on my list? Tomato sauce. Why? Firstly, not one, but two of my friends sent it to me. Secondly, it calls for just 3 ingredients. Simple. Minimalist. I like those things in a recipe.

And since there were only 3 ingredients for me to find, I wanted to get exactly what the recipe called for. So while I had to do a little searching, I did finally find ingredient #1, San Marzano whole peeled tomatoes in a can, at the Food Emporium. Ingredient #2, unsalted butter, was easy enough. Ingredient #3? A medium yellow onion. I’m not gonna lie – I had to read the labels in the produce section to make sure I was grabbing the right kind of onion. It feels both freeing and sad to share that.

When I got back to my apartment, it was first, of course, time for a photo op:

Then it was time to get down to business. “Business” meaning putting the contents of the can, 5 tablespoons of butter and the peeled/halved onion in a pan…

…and stirring and simmering for 45 minutes:

When that was done…

… I set it aside and cooked the pasta. Just a tad too much for the pan, perhaps. Oh, and I probably could have broken it in half. Go ahead, you can laugh:

The pasta actually cooked pretty evenly, though, and it was finally time to enjoy the final result:

(The flowers around the paper plate are there to class it up. Just go with it.)

And I would be remiss without posting a picture of myself with my soon-to-be-enjoyed meal… it’s my signature pose (because “signature” in my book = doing something twice):

So there you have it. And I must say, it was a delicious tomato sauce. I could maybe go a little lighter on the butter next time, but overall it was amazing. I couldn’t believe something so simple to make could taste so incredibly yummy. And it was great for leftovers, too… I had the rest for dinner the following night and it was still wonderful.

I’m going to tackle a chicken recipe next. I’m not a fan of raw meat, so this will present a new challenge… but one I’m ready to take!

Buses, Trains and Automobiles *Updated*

As I ride from NYC to Providence on the 4:30 PM *scheduled* bus that finally departed Port Authority at 5:20 PM, I am once again reminded that, while it is possible to travel from one city to the other, it is most often impossibly difficult.

I don’t have a car in the city, so these are my options for traveling back and forth: 1) Amtrak from Penn Station to Providence 2) Peter Pan Bus from Port Authority to Kennedy Plaza in Providence 3) Metro North from Grand Central to New Haven, then getting a ride from New Haven to Providence 4) By foot (an option I have not explored, but have, in frustration, entertained)

Each option has its pros and cons, of course. The pros are fewer and farther in between, but the biggest pro of all – the fact that I eventually end up at my destination – far outweighs any con. That is not to say the cons are not plentiful. Let’s analyze.

A selection of the CONS of Amtrak:

1) Cost. Usually I am traveling at peak hours, which happens when you have a 9-5 job… work kind of gets in the way of travel. And peak hours = high cost. High as in $92 for the Northeast Regional (meaning it stops approximately every 5 (slight exaggeration) minutes and $118 for the Acela (just two stops before Providence). Oh, and that is the cost for ONE WAY.

2) Crowds. The trains are always packed. I can’t remember the last time I traveled on Amtrak without a seatmate. Once I had three – a man and his two rambunctious young boys sitting on his lap. He had a Southern accent and kept pointing out the “Interstate” like it was actually something interesting. GOOD TIMES.

3) Tardiness. It is ALWAYS, WITHOUT FAIL, INEVITABLY, NEVER NOT late. Once by an hour and a half. Inexcusable.

4) No WiFi. Seriously? If I’m going to shell out that kind of cash, be late AND put up with listening to a guy salivate over Route 95, I best be able to do it while updating my Facebook status with something like, “Dude, it’s a HIGHWAY.”

A selection of the CONS of Peter Pan Bus:

1) No electrical outlets. The free WiFi they offer rocks, but if you run out of power on your laptop, the perk is kind of moot.

2) Traffic. So much traffic. Again, that traveling-at-peak-hours thing kind of gets in the way. And it makes estimating your time of arrival for your pick-up person kind of difficult. Ugh, traffic.

3) Customer Service. Just trust me on this one. There’s definite room for improvement, and that’s putting it nicely.

4) It leaves out of Port Authority. It’s dirty, it’s a hub for the homeless, sometimes a pigeon or two flies overhead while you’re waiting in line for the bus, and unless you exit onto 8th Avenue, you’re going to end up in a neighborhood you just don’t want to be in.

A selection of the CONS of Metro North:

1) The trains are older and less comfortable then Amtrak trains. And there are three seats to a row, so you may find yourself wedged between two strangers.

2) The farthest it goes is New Haven, so for my purposes, I have to find someone willing to drive and hour and a half from Providence to pick me up there… and then drive and hour and a half back with me. The logistics of this may be why I have only used this mode of transportation once.

3) I’m sure New Haven is a lovely little city (?)… but its train station isn’t exactly a place where I’d elect to spend a lot of time.

A selection of the CONS of by foot:

1) Again, I have not yet used this mode of transportation, but my iPhone GPS estimates that it would take me approximately 2 days and 5 hours. And that’s just too long to go without a shower.

Yes, I could opt to just stay in the city more often so I don’t have to travel back and forth so much, but I have some interests in Rhode Island that make the frustation of trains or buses worth it.

And so, I continue to travel…

*Updated to add: It is 8:00 PM and I am still on the 4:30 PM (ha!) bus to Providence as I type. In this time, 3 new things have come to light:

1) I forgot to add this CON about Peter Pan: the bathroom situation. Cramped, shakey and sink-less is no way to go. I’m not asking for an enjoyable experience in the bathroom, just a somewhat pleasant one. And a workable light would be nice. Just sayin’.

2) AS IF we weren’t already running 50 minutes late, the bus driver apparently thought that taking a random 10-15 minute break at a rest stop would be a good idea. At this rate, the 6 PM bus is totally getting there before us.

3) Brian has a bone to pick with the label “some interests” in the second to last sentence. I guess my previous post didn’t spell out how I really feel, huh?

Going it alone… or not

I logged a lot of miles last year, training for my first marathon.

I started training months and months before the day of the race. Short runs turned to long runs turned to longer runs. Mild temperatures turned to freezing temperatures turned to warmer temperatures.  Long-sleeved shirts and headbands turned to long pants and gloves and jackets turned to shorts and tank tops.

But one thing remained constant: I ran alone. With the exception of maybe two training runs over the course of those months, it was just me, by myself, with my thoughts.

I had a lot to think about during that time, so in a way, it was my therapy… to just go out the door with nothing else to do but run and think and figure things out – or at least try. In many ways, it was a time of redefining myself. Who I was, after 4 years of marriage, on my own again.

I doubt that many people get married with the belief that they’ll be divorced in just a few years. I certainly didn’t. I was young when I got married (I had just turned 24) and when we separated I had just turned 28. That weighed on my mind a lot… how I had gone from my early 20s to my late 20s, and with what to show for it? As much as I knew it was the best thing for both of us to go our separate ways, in many ways I felt like a big failure. A failure as a mom to our dogs, a failure as a wife, a failure as a daughter, a failure as a sister, a failure as an aunt. No one but me made me feel this way, of course, but these were the things I had to work through, to figure out… and I was able to as I ran and ran and ran.

I didn’t want to fail myself as a runner. My marriage vows – “in sickness and health” – those I may have failed, but I didn’t want it to be the same for my training. I pushed through or treated or contended with colds and minor setbacks with determination.

But always alone, just the way I wanted it, the way I needed it.

After running that first marathon, I was on such a high from the feeling of accomplishment that I wanted to keep training. I signed up for my first triathlon, a Half Ironman, and continued to run – and swim and bike – on my own.

Then over the summer, when I was on almost-daily Auntie duty at Audrey’s pool club, I became friendly with another woman who did a lot of running. She was always telling me about this 5-mile race that she ran every Thursday night… it was low-key, fun, and a great group of people showed up for it every week.

And every week I resisted going because, well, I didn’t run with people. I ran by myself, that’s how I liked it, how I needed it.

But one Thursday in early August, I finally relented. I saw her at the pool club again, she told me I really should come that night… and only because I had to run 5 miles that day as part of my training for my next marathon, I went.

And I’m glad I did because that’s the day I met Brian.

We were introduced by my friend before the race. I remember Brian asked me where I was from and I told him, but added that I was moving to New York shortly (to which – so he says – he said to himself, “Do you think that’s going to stop me?”).

Around the first mile, I remember seeing Brian, like, randomly directing traffic, which probably made me pause for a quick second in confusion, but he later told me that since there’s no police presence at these weekly races, and there were a lot of people running that night, he was just wanted to help the traffic flow.

In any case, at some point around mile 3, I heard someone come up next to me and say, “Howdy.” I turned to my right and it was Brian.

It had been a long time since I’d run a shorter distance race, so I had been concentrating on keeping track of my breathing and my pace. I thought he was just saying hello as he ran by me, but he slowed down a bit and started asking me about myself. What did I do for a living? Why was I moving to New York? Where did I usually run? Unaccustomed to talking and running at the same time, and going at a pretty decent speed, I started to feel fatigued. “You can go ahead of me. I know I’m holding you back,” I said. But he stayed and talked, keeping me at a good pace, telling me when the 4-mile mark was coming up, and that after that it was a straight, flat road to the finish.

I remember thinking that it had been a long time since I had felt that kind of encouragement… probably not since I had run cross country in high school. He pushed me that night, and I appreciated it.

Over the next few weeks we saw each other in group settings. Between planning my move and other commitments, I made it to a few other group runs and workouts (running with people! willingly!)… until one Saturday when Brian and I had our first run together, just the two of us.

I was training for the Marine Corps Marathon in October and had planned on doing 17 miles alone (naturally) but Brian offered to come to my side of the state for an early morning run. And he offered cook for me afterward. Sold!

And because a.) Gmail does a stellar job at archiving chats, b.) I don’t regularly go on deleting frenzies, and c.) I’m sentimental, I still have the formal written offer, courtesy of Gchat:

Brian: i was thinking, you’re being so kind to let me run your 17 miler, the least i can do is make some breakfast for you

Before the run, I wondered if I would have enough to talk about for over 2 hours with someone I had just recently met. During the run, I was quite certain Brian regretted ever asking to join me. Because I bascially took the contents of my brain and emptied them onto him over the course of those 17 miles. Everything I had been working through on my own throughtout the months and months of my solo runs landed right in his lap. To Brian’s credit, if he was thinking, “What the hell did I get myself into with this girl?” he didn’t let on. In fact, he just listened to me – really listened – and gave his input and insight at just the right moments.

After the run, he went to his truck and instead of driving away (which I totally wouldn’t have blamed him for), he came back with English muffins, eggs, fresh veggies, granola and yogurt. He told me to go sit outside on my parents’ back deck and he basically took over their kitchen, whipping up a veritable feast for the two of us (which, after burning all those calories, we earned, dammit).

Then he asked me if I wanted to go running again the next Saturday.

And that is how Brian won my closed up, slightly wounded, very apprehensive heart… just by being his honorable, caring, sensitive, kind, loving, sweet, honest and wonderful self.

It is also how I realized that I didn’t, actually, just want to run by myself.

Because I guess, in the end, it wasn’t so much that I needed to run alone…. it was that I needed the right person to run with.

Kitchenette Confidential (or, a non-cook’s cooking blog)

I was in no mood to cook dinner last night.

I was still tired from Sunday (waking up at 4:30 AM in Rhode Island, driving to New Hampshire, running a 16 mile race, and then driving to NYC all in one day will do that to you). Then, the shuttle back to Manhattan from Queens (where I work on Mondays) was full and I had to find a cab to take me back to the city (I know I have to master the subway system at some point, but yesterday was not the day, all right?).

And, oh yes, one other teeny tiny little thing: I can’t cook.

But somehow, for some reason, last night I had co-signed on Brian’s idea for me to cook dinner.

The night before, after arriving in the city, finding a parking spot on the street, taking Brian’s dog for a walk and dragging our exhausted selves to the market about 2 minutes before its closing hours (at which time we inadvertently extended said hours by dropping a bottle of beer on the floor), Brian cooked turkey cheeseburgers that were chock full of deliciousousness, a word I just made up.

So with some ground turkey and slices of cheese left over, I apparently had no excuse but to make us a Monday night meal. No matter how many excuses I tried to throw out.

First I called Brian on the way home from work and tried to explain that I was simply too tired and hungry to begin my cooking adventures that night. When that failed, I tried to explain that there was simply nothing I could do with the ingredients we had but make more burgers. And burgers two nights in a row? Unacceptable.

But there was no reasoning with that boy.

He instructed me to stop at the market on the way home and buy some wraps. I could cook up some rice and ground turkey and make wraps for dinner, with broccoli on the side. And just as I was about to produce yet another excuse why it was a good idea to grab take-out instead, he brought out the big guns: “While you’re at the market, buy some chocolate pudding and a graham cracker pie crust and we’ll make a pie.”

Well played, Brian, well played. Because really? I will do just about anything for chocolate. Even cook.

So I did as I was told at the market. When I walked into my apartment I was greeted with a line-up of all the other ingredients I would need (including pots and pans). It was a photo op, and yes, I was as scared as I looked:

But it was also a success. Because somehow – without any help (just a little guidance maybe) – I produced these babies:

Even more deliciousousness! And it wasn’t even that hard! And it didn’t even take that long! Who knew cooking could be so easy!? (For the full breakdown of my little cooking experiment in photos, check out my Whrrl story here.)

Oh! And yes, there was chocolate pie, too. But it didn’t last long enough for a finished product photo. Chocolate has a way of getting devoured quickly. It’s good like that.

So tonight, with Brian back home in Rhode Island, I was left to fend for myself. It was a make-it-or-break-it kind of night, as home cooking for one goes. I didn’t get home from work until 6:30 PM and really, the last thing I felt like doing was cooking by myself, for myself. At least having Brian there the night before had made it fun.

But I gave it a go. I had some eggs, leftover rice, cheese and frozen spinach. And while I thought I was the only person on earth who had to Google “How to make an omelette,” it was comforting to know, based on the search results, I am just one of many cooking morons out there.

And I’m happy to report that this experiment was another success – a simple and delicious dinner.

I started with 4 egg whites (I actually prefer the taste of eggs without the yolks; it’s not necessarily an “it’s healthier” thing for me), to which I added a little bit of salt and pepper:

Next, I beat the eggs and poured the mixture into a non-stick skillet, which I had sprayed with Pam and put over medium heat:

It cooked on its own!

Then I added the rice, spinach and cheese:

And then folded the omelette over:

Voilà!

(Pretend the paper plate is actually really nice China.)

I’m very proud of myself – and I’m ready to conquer the recipes so many of you have graciously been sending me! I mean, I’m no Anthony Bourdain, but you have to start somewhere, right?

Here’s to more deliciousousness…

Wherein I embody the old adage: If you can’t take the heat, stay out of the kitchen

My apartment is tiny. Really tiny. How many steps do you think it takes for me to get from the couch in my living room to the bed in my bedroom? It’s a trick question: the “living room” and the “bedroom” are the same room. (And the answer is: about a half a step.) If I stood in the middle of my apartment and spread my arms out, there would be very little space between my fingers and the walls on either side. I had to have my parents bring my small, circular hightop table back home because it took up too much space.

But it’s my apartment. I pay the rent. I pay the bills. I love it.

I love its hardwood floors. I love that it’s 10 blocks from work. I love the neighborhood. I love the sounds of people going in and out of the laundromat below my window. I even love the hissing of the radiator, as it reminds me of waking up on winter mornings in my childhood home.

The one part of my apartment that I’m in more of a love/hate relationship with is the kitchen. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a lovely little area, with new countertops, nice cabinets – even a dishwasher. But I have to walk by it pretty much anywhere I go in my apartment. And it mocks me.

It mocks me because when I first saw the apartment, I was sooo excited about the kitchen. It was brand new! It was clean! I was going to cook for myself every night!

In my excitement, one rather important thing escaped me: I can’t cook.

But it’s not only that. I don’t like to cook. Which is probably why I can’t; I’ve never wanted to learn. And I’ve never really needed to learn.

But that has changed. I’m going to let you in on a little secret: New York City is expensive! Oh, yes it is. Why didn’t anyone tell me that before I moved here?

And while I am working and making a living, I do have to pay rent. And bills. (See above). And I have absolutely no right spending as much as I do on food each week.

Coffee on the way to work? Sure! Have to start the day off right.

Food delivered at lunch? Why not!? Too rushed every morning to pack my own.

Take-out for dinner? Yup! Exhausted after a long workday and besides, who has time to go food shopping?

No. It’s time to give myself some tough love: You are not a baller. You do have time. The money you spend on eating out is absurd and unacceptable – and it has to stop.

But, oh yeah, I can’t cook.

You see, I have a few issues with cooking:

1)    Recipes are notorious for requiring ingredients I don’t have. Ingredients I have to make a special trip to the grocery store to buy. And then when I buy them for that one recipe, they just sit in my cabinet or refrigerator, not to be used again, until they go bad and I have to throw them away.
2)    Recipes are also notorious for calling for ingredients I’ve never heard of. That’s basically just asking for a recipe to hit the proverbial cutting room floor of my kitchen.
3)    I like quick and easy, and many recipes are neither. Heating up a can of soup? That I can do. That is quick and easy. That is not, however, “cooking.”

I become a total idiot in the kitchen. And it’s frustrating how cooking seems to come easy to so many people, including Brian. I love when he cooks for me. It’s one of the reasons I fell for him (more on that in another post). It’s cute how he thinks I’m learning as I watch him. “See? You just throw ingredients together! It’s easy!” he tells me.

It’s not easy. I’ve tried throwing ingredients together. It’s rancid.

But I’m not a quitter. I’m also not going to make it much longer if I continue to drop money like what on eating out. So I’m on the lookout for recipes that are the following:

1)    Simple (read: contains ingredients found in any ol’ market)
2)    Yummy (read: will not turn out rancid)
3)    Idiot-proof (read: I can handle it)

And then maybe I’ll be one of those people who can brag descriptively on Facebook about the delicious meal I just created (rather than being the person who hisses at them).

Because I have to walk by my kitchen no matter where I go in my apartment. In fact, it’s the first thing I see when I walk through the door to my tiny apartment. We may as well try to get along.

Help? Where can I find some simple/yummy/idiot-proof recipes for one? Do you have any to share?

Life and Love After Divorce

Today I was outed by my niece as a bad blogger.

Those weren’t her exact words, per se, but when she told me she had been doing some research on me (those were her exact words) online, she mentioned that she saw I had posted something about William’s birthday.

“Hmmm, William’s birthday,” I thought. “That was in September.” Mind pause. “That wasn’t the last time I posted something, was it!?”

Indeed, it was. A quick glimpse at my blog on my iPhone (OMG, how could I not have blogged about getting an iPhone for Christmas!?) confirmed that my last post was September 25… and that moving to NYC had clearly had a negative effect on my blogging upkeep.

(Oh, yes, besides the iPhone thing, that too: I’ve moved to NYC.)

Regular readers of my blog (when, you know, I actually kept up with it), might be shrugging their shoulders and saying, “What of it? It’s not like you blogged a heck of a lot last year anyway, before this hiatus.” (Or something to that effect. Not verbatim, perhaps.)

Well, all I can say is this: 2009 was a transition year. Not that I really intended for it to be. Well, that’s not the exact truth. Early on last year I knew I would probably be going through a lot of changes. It was just around this time last year that my ex-husband and I separated, in fact. So, you know, that’s a pretty big thing in itself. But I certainly didn’t know what was in store.

And it did end up becoming a banner year for CHANGE with a capital C (and HANGE, apparently).

After getting separated, I moved out of my house and back in with my parents. I chopped off about 9 inches of my hair. I completed not one (which was my first), but two marathons (qualifying for the Boston Marathon both times!). I completed not one, but two Ironman 70.3 distance triathlons. I made a great group of running/triathlon friends. I made the decision to move to NYC after a few fun visits there over the summer. I sent out my resume, interviewed and got a job. And I moved. I signed a divorce decree, testified in court – in a real courtroom – and got a divorce. I went back to my maiden name. I reconnected with old friends. I let yet another doggy into my heart. I cried a lot. I laughed a lot. I had my heart broken. And, oh yes, I fell in love.

Now, love is a tricky subject to tackle on a blog. Believe me, I know. It’s out there for the world to see and very hard to take back. Declaring your love for someone online can be like the equivolent of getting voted Cutest Couple in the yearbook (because, yeah, those are notorious for making it in the long haul).

And while I’m not one to divulge intimate details of my life on my blog, I will say this: I did meet someone just a few weeks before I moved to NYC. We became friends. We went on a few dates. I found out quickly that he had just about every quality I looked for in a man. I resisted. I told him just about every thing that was wrong with starting a relationship with me. He didn’t flinch at all. I found that each time I was with him, I liked him more and more. I still moved away because I knew that if I didn’t I would regret it forever. I have found that absence, indeed, makes the heart grow fonder (but I see him just about every weekend because, honestly? Absence also sucks).

All I know is that 8 months of living with my parents showed me exactly what I was looking for in a relationship. Yes, I had seen their relationship firsthand before, throughout my childhood, adolescence and early adulthood when I was living at home.

But it wasn’t until I was on the other side of a marriage, with the knowledge it brought me… when I could identify and pinpoint the things that they had in their marriage – that I had longed to have – but that were missing from mine… that I really saw, for the first time, what made theirs work. The love, the support, the openness, the laughter, the friendship, the understanding, the forgiveness, the connectedness that is a part of their marriage each and every day. I wanted that. I longed for that. I knew I wouldn’t settle for anything less. But I seriously wondered if I would ever find it.

I was able to talk to my parents a lot – A LOT – about marriage and relationships in general during those 8 months I lived at home. (I also may or may not have watched He’s Just Not That Into You with my Dad and cried my eyes out as he hugged me and assured me everything would be all right. But I digress.)

One conversation has always stood out in my mind, though. We were talking about relationships and in passing I said, “I mean, I know that all relationships take hard work…” and before I could finish, I noticed them kind of looking at each other while giving me the side-eye. And then they explained to me that the word “hard” never enters into their line of thinking when it comes to their marriage (OK, now, yes I know where this could go, but let’s not bring it there. Lalalalala I can’t hear you.). To them, it’s not even “work.” It’s about always having each others’ best interest in mind. Their belief is that when you love someone, you want what’s best for them. And you want to give him or her the very best of you. It’s about making each other, and each others’ happiness, a priority because you want to.

So, I thought, maybe my idea of what went into a relationship was a little off. Maybe finding the person you want all that for, and who wants all that for you, too, was the hard part, not the relationship itself.

But what I have happily discovered with Brian is that neither finding that person nor wanting the best for the person you love is all that hard. And feeling the same from him in return is just absolutely wonderful.

I do not know what the future will bring, but I am so very happy right now. It took one hell of a year to get to this point, but I don’t think I would appreciate all I have now if I hadn’t gone through some rough times.

I’m glad I’m on this end and I can blog about life – and love – after divorce.

Even if it took getting outed by my niece to get me here.

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