What You Desire

4:15 pm on Thursday.

The Osso Bucco had been braising for almost an hour now, and I was letting it go till 7:00 pm. Desirable anticipations of the sweet veal meat melting away from itself, in a pool of saffron risotto, set around an exquisite steeple of bone marrow. It will be beautiful. I mean, come on, what more could a party of 12 want tonight after a foggy Boston day!?

Lobster??
Wait, what do you mean you desire, lobster?

This is, in fact, exactly why I am here and offering up myself and my craft to do what I do best-- To cook what someone wants to eat. I honor that. So in that moment, standing in a large galley kitchen with swirling caramelized veal aroma around me, I did what any private chef would do. Traded kitchen clogs for running shoes, and apron for a purse, and down the dock I ran towards the main street of awaiting taxis.
I had been up making the perfect sofritto for my osso bucco since 9 am, and even my hair wreaked of simmering olive oil and sprigs of sage leaves. But I had just entered a whole new realm of chefing- the ultimate search and retrieve. Fresh local lobster is my mission, and I will succeed.

I quickly transformed into an aggressive machine that would do anything, and blow down anyone that stood in my way of getting my hands on a dozen Massachusetts lobsters. In mid-stride out of the yacht marina, my arm flew into the air and my gaze met that of a taxi driver. I was in.

"Boston Fish Pier, please" -I demand with an edge of girlish charm.

"Alright.... How you doin' today?' -my driver says to me as his eyes smile through the rearview mirror.

"I'm doing ok, my friend. But I am in an urgent and desperate need for 12 fresh lobsters, and I need your help. I need them fast, and I will pay you to keep the meter running while I get them"- I respond to my new partner in crime for Lobster mission 2011.

He picks up on my sense of urgency on the matter, and most likely smells the braised veal cologne I'm rockin'. He speeds up, and I fasten my seatbelt while digging out my phone from my back pocket.

Gone Gypsyn'

When she calls my phone, an image of her standing in front of a busy Florentine street appears. With hands over heart, eyes closed, and a blissful expression upon her face.

While waiting for a cab outside of Piazza del Santa Crocce, on our way up to hear the Gregorian chants in Santa Michelangelo, I asked her a question- "Kim, how does Florence make you feel?" When she turned around to answer me, I captured her on my camera. That was 4 years ago, and I still have that photo on my phone.

I left Santa Barbara just days ago. I procrastinated till the final moments of my last morning to pack up my bag. The grey duffle bag (which doubles as my home most of the time) looks more like a black hole of doom to me now. In fact, at that moment of packing, I loathed that bag and all of it's tiny little zipper pockets and cobblestone proof wheels! It was all just too soon to leave.

Kim, my mentor and friend for the past 7 years, threw me... yet another..., going away party just hours before my flight. We drank California chardonnay under my final California pink sunset. Fresh bread with whipped peppers, feta and allepo chilies. Her handmade goat cheese alongside fresh strawberries. Lamb meatballs roasted in the wood fire oven, on warm corn salsa with aioli. She knows me well. Poetry was shared till the wine bottles had finished, and 6 pm came too quickly.

Arriving in Boston and settling into the work groove yet again. (note: provisioning a kitchen in your own country [ie: Trader Joes and Whole Foods!] is far more inspiring than the super markets of Nuuk, Greenland.)  My first night spent with friends, dinner at The Butcher Shop, an apple cider rum martini (or two) at The Beehive, and hours spent shopping in South End Fromaggio (which sells Stumptown coffee!). The next day I received a poem from Kim-

IN A TREE HOUSE

Light Will someday split you wide open Even if your life is now a cage,

For a divine seed , the crown of destiny, Is hidden and sown on an ancient, fertile plain You hold the title to.

Love will surely bust you wide open Into an unfettered, blooming new galaxy

Even if your mind is now A spoiled mule.

A life-giving radiance will come, The Friend’s gratuity will come--

O look again within yourself, For I know you were once the elegant host To all the marvels in creation.

From a sacred crevice in your body A bow rises each night And shoots your soul into God.

Behold the Beautiful Drunk Singing One From the lunar vantage point of love.He is conducting the affairs Of the whole universe

While throwing wild parties In a tree house-- on a limb In your heart.

-Hafiz

Thank you Kim, for being my teacher of food and of love for the moment. Oh, and for throwing endless amounts of wild parties... from treehouse, to villa, to heart. I love you, and I will see you soon in Morocco! -Ash

Stay Hungry, Stay Foolish

"Your time is limited, so don't waste it living someone else's life. Don't be trapped by dogma — which is living with the results of other people's thinking. Don't let the noise of others' opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary."  -Steve Jobs, 2005

Steve Jobs, a visionary of our lifetime, who's life was cut short at the age of 56 by cancer.

But his approach to life has been an inspiration. Thank you, Steve Jobs for taking us outside of the box, then shrinking the box down and putting a touch screen on it.

"If today was the last day of my life, would I want to do what I am about to do?"

Living each day as if it was your last- This is why I embrace my life as a gypsy chef.

Choice & Eggs

My ticket is purchased, and I am already touching the surface of goodbyes with my friends and family. My father finds new ways to ask me eachday how sure I am of needing to leave so soon. My mother wont even talk about the actual date that I depart, and friends have tried to cease every spare moment to cook or hike just one last time.
Santa Barbara has a way of putting on a damn good show that keeps you wanting more and more, but I know that it is time to go.

I found this write up in my journal from when I was living in Florence this summer. Even with the perfect vegetables, pink sunsets, and favorite faces that California has on display to keep me wanting more, I know very well that it is time for me to leave.



And this explains why....
x - Ash




-Written on July 12, 2011 in Florence Italy-


What is it about traveling?


This question posed in an email to me this morning from an old friend in Seattle. Quitting his desirable job to answer an urge, a calling, a gut feeling to travel again. One which comes from a place deep inside, that after awhile we can't shut off, as it keeps on yelling to be acknowledged. Is it the people, the places, the food? (Yes, my appetite is most definitely a key deciding factor in why I do almost anything.) But it's more than that, and it got me thinking today about, what is it about traveling?

I sat at my table, high in the sky of my Florentine apartment and pondered this question. My perfectly cooked soft-boiled eggs, toast and coffee there to segway me into the day. This. This is why I travel, I thought for a moment. Eggs is why I travel? No. But this moment is why I travel. I have no concept of what time it is right now. I have nowhere to be. And I want eggs for breakfast.


Challenge, change, desire, freedom- all come to mind when I think about my choice in lifestyle. But I know that it is bigger than that. While on skype the other day, my cousin from New York asked me what I was speaking, "Is that Australian?... or is that British?", he said. (Dear God, neither, I hope) ... but yes, my speech patterns, cadence, and even the choice of words have changed a bit. And all because, well, because they can. When I am out here, alone in the world, I can be whomever I want to be. I don't have to sound American if I don't want to, and I think subconsciously I have changed my speech patterns to fall somewhere in the middle of it all. Leaving people to question is she ...South African? Spanish? Welsh? Well, maybe.


It's the undefined existence, and the freedom to be, go, say and eat whatever you want, whenever you want. All in a way that is not selfish really. In fact, it is the sense of knowing what and when to do things in life that will make you a better friend, acquaintance, lover, sister, daughter, etc. Knowing how much of your authentic self you can deliver is an answer found within the self.

I travel because I know that I am supposed to. That I will have a veil lifted, a clarity and a sensitivity on the world that I will acquire no other way. Even at the expense of being a neutral being, unidentifiable by geography or accent. Regardless of how people will view my lifestyle or selfish choices to live my way, when I look in the mirror, I know who I'm looking at. And when I look at perfectly cooked soft-boiled eggs from the farmer at Saint Ambrogia market, which lie upon the crimson blue plate found in a Moroccan souk, and smell fresh brewed coffee laced with burning Indian incense from the living room..... This is exactly "What It Is About Travel."

Priorities...

The three of us made a decision to take an adventure.

A decision induced by Anejo Tequila margaritas, hamburger- comas from Fathers Office, and the vibrational sounds of Icelandic techno music on my ipod. Decision made.

We shall go to Joshua Tree.

What to pack for an impromptu trip to Joshua Tree:

-Sleeping bags

-Red Stripe Jamaican Lager

-Fancy yogurt and granola for the morning after

-Shoes for romping

-Yoga mat

-Nikon, Leica, and Rolleiflex cameras

-Stumptown coffee and coffee-making accessories

-R Kelly Playlist on iphone

 At 2:30 am the three of us woke up while sleeping at the top of a large rock above our campsite (a better view for sunrise, naturally.) It was the full moon that woke us up, as it screamed our eyelids open like a disco spotlight. Roaring thunder and streaks of pink and purple lightning drew our attention over the mountain to our right. Thick clouds covered the large, neon nightlight above, and drops of water began to fall. In agreement that this may not be the smartest place to rest our heads, we headed down to the camp site.

By 4:30 am after 2 hours of falling slave to the chinese water tourture of sparatic rain drops on my exposed face. I finally rejected the urged to find stillness and sleep. I wrapped my sleeping bag around my shoulders, chose a nice rock to lean up against, and sat up to watch the magical light show above.

By 5 am, we had all decided that enough was enough, and although we had neglected to pack a trusty tent (minor detail) we did in fact pack some incredible coffee. With headlamps on, we boiled water, ground beans, set up the single-drip cone, and let the chestnut-colored liquid fill our cups. The perfect cup of smooth, tight, and rich black coffee slipped into our sleepless bodies. The desert continued to put on a great show for us as the sun slowly started to show her face.

We packed up and drove out of the grey clouds, a sea of Joshua trees behind us now.

Priorities- Coffee or Tents? ............ coffee wins every time.
Thanks for the magic, J-Tree.

-A

The West Side of Things

I've broken down some layers. Peeled away the skins of the onion, if you will.
I agreed to go cook on a boat in the Arctic Circle for 6 weeks of my life. At the end of a very long and diverse year out in the world, It turns out that I am not plenty of things, a sailor being one of them. Plus, cooking food in a moving kitchen is far from simple...easy... or enjoyable really (note: eating curry before sea sick- painful. Eating bananas- tolerable)
 Encouraging my body and mind to work just as a chef- learning the nautical ways, cleaning fish at all times of the night and day, and wearing a life vest to shop for food. My right shoulder is twice the size it was a month ago (really need to start learning how to be ambidextrous in the kitchen...) My knees ache (really need to stop cooking barefoot!)  And the grey color of my skin has finally started to find it's pink again. 16 and sometimes 19 hour days were spent in that galley. A 20 minute break here and there was found to sit on a freezing cold bridge deck and close my eyes in silence, shake my head in confusion, or throw a few punches at the side of the vessel.

But alas, I am home.

16 hours and 5 flights it took Zoe and I to find our way back to the sunshine state. Boarding a prop-job plane in the middle of Arctic-nowhere, Canada. We drug our belongings down a dirt path from the tender to the tiny airport. The town of 25 souls looks as if they are still sleeping at 9 am, and the layer of fog is thick. My bag, being the bigger of the two, as it is filled with a year's worth of goods and weather changing-options, is quickly cutting off the circulation to my hands.
An Inuit woman in her 60's appeared alongside me and offered to take my bag the extra 200 ft to the airport on the back of her quad (that's right... a quad). I took her shuttle service offer of Canadian hospitality.
We enter the airport trailer, and find ourselves face to face with the one and only airport representative. She took our passports, called another airport employee on the phone, and stared blankly into the computer screen which separated us.

"well...ah....I don't ah know..." She says with a strongly confused look.
"yeah... but ah there are just so many numbers on here" (referring to my passport.) This seems to be her first international passport processing ever.
She types a few lines on the computer.
I scan the room- instant coffee jar without a lid, powdered milk creamer spilt on the floor, 1 dirty mug, a filing cabinet, and a hand-written prayer to Jesus Christ taped to the wall next to the door.

30 minutes pass and my ticket finally prints out. The printer is now too hot and won't print Zoe's ticket. Fear that one of us may not make it out of the hell-hole settles in. I help fix the printer and a light at the end of the tunnel reappears. A pickup truck drives our bags the 400 ft to the plane. (in fact, I think it was driven by the same Inuit woman in her 60's...)

 Zoe and I have seats 5A and 5B- the last row in the plane. 3 other passengers join us on the 12-seater plane to Pangnirtung, Canada. The captain eases our fears during turbulance by directing our attention to the mountain range to the right which is famous from the 007 James Bond movie.
Yeah, whatever..... now back to acknowledging my final moments of life, as my imagination plots how to survive a plane crash in the Arctic....hhhmmm...

4 more flights like this later, and we arrive in a familiar place- LAX. It even smells good! I wore a pair of Italian leather sandals for my whole traveling day with the knowledge that the west coast life was closer and closer. I landed, hugged my mama for the first time in a year, watched LA taco stands feed lines of hungry Californians, felt my body thaw, and went to sleep without any plans of breakfast to be made in the morning.


My American battery will be recharging for 6 weeks or so before repacking that dang bag and returning to the endless queues of mass public transportation. Once again living in the open question and feeling alive in the unknown. But it is true that nothing and nowhere can make a Californian feel this good than to truly be on the West side of things, and to finally be "home."

3 Hours Off

The guests had all left for the day in large SUV's with packed lunches from my galley. I had a nap, fed the crew, and was driven to shore for some necessary reconnection with Mother Earth.

Our small tender pulled up to the tiny harbor of a tiny sea-side village in the middle of, who knows where, North Iceland. The fisherman were busy, at 10:30 pm, on the last of the days catch. I agreed with one fisherman to buy 25 pieces of the brilliant green and purple translucent scaled fish, still stiff with rigor mortis.

 A giant glacier sat atop the large mountain in the foregrounds, and a few colorful houses splashed the seaside landscape. 1 road. 1 restaurant. 1 gas station with only 2 gas pumps. It's 11 pm, the sun is still searching for a place to set. I go for a walk.

Wild cotton, purple volcanic rock, soft green moss, fresh water springs. A quiet moment to myself on top of a hill, gazing down at the rough ocean bellow. Gratitude.

 A brisk jog back towards the fishing dock, moving my legs in a way that is far from natural to me now.

After picking up my Mackerel from the boat dock, the fisherman offering his gift and declining my Krona payment, and heading back to the boat. 12:30 pm now and the guests are heading to bed. Squatting on the back deck of the boat, Jess and I cleaned and filleted 25 fish in the middle of the night. We threw the heads and spines back into the sea of which they came from. Our work space lit just by the hint of remaining sunlight and the lower boat lights which shine into the blue water bellow us. Barefoot with our pants rolled up and knives working away, we chat about the endless possibilities of mackerel in our near future.... broiled with maple and soy atop udon noodles with avocado and cilantro. Smoked with french-style potato salad. Lets just keep a few whole to grill with lemon and olives.

I still can't remember how to spell or pronounce the name of that sweet sea-side town in north Iceland. But it was the best day off I've had in a very long time.