Tiramisu

I read somewhere that you should never try a new recipe if you plan on sharing the end result with others. The logic behind this advice is intended to save you from the humiliation of failure should your kitchen experiment go awry. While I'm sure this suggestion has proven helpful to some, I wholeheartedly disagree. There's no fun in making something safe—a proven winner—because the whole joy of cooking (at least for me) comes from my connection to the process, not the end result. Julia Child was quoted as saying, "The only real stumbling block is fear of failure. In cooking you've got to have a 'What the hell?' attitude." My thoughts exactly. That being said, I've had my fair share of flops, but they've taught me to let go and move on (which has only served to further fuel my courage in the kitchen).

So when my friend Paula asked me to bring dessert to her cookout, I was inspired to try and make Tiramisu. When I embark on this kind of challenge I usually pull a few recipes and start to get a feel for the ingredients and the process. Tiramisu is an icebox cake, so there's no cooking involved, just assembly. How hard could it be? And with espresso, chocolate, heavy cream, mascarpone cheese, and brandy as the ingredients, how bad could it taste, even if I screwed up? After flipping through a few books, unable to find a recipe that really spoke to me, I just decided to wing it. What can I say—I like to live on the edge.

Be forewarned: there's enough espresso in this recipe to grow hair on your chest and enough brandy to give you a bit of a buzz. This dessert is not for the vice-free partygoer. This dessert is the life of the party.

First, choose the dish you're going to use. I initially pulled out a large 8 x 12 inch baking dish but as I started to place the lady fingers in the bottom I realized that I wouldn't have enough cookies to fill the entire container. I ended up choosing a slightly smaller, oval dish. Whatever you have will work perfectly.

1 package of Savoiardi cookies (Italian ladyfingers)

3-4 shots of espresso (you could probably use strong coffee as a substitute)

1 pint heavy cream

8 oz mascarpone cheese

6 T brandy

1 tsp vanilla extract

1/2 cup sugar

any good quality chocolate you have laying around (to shave on top)

Prepare the espresso first so it has time to cool (you can let it rest in the fridge while you get everything else ready). Whip together the heavy cream, mascarpone cheese, brandy, vanilla, and sugar until soft peaks form.

Now for the fun part! Pour the cooled espresso into a shallow bowl. Give each lady finger a quick dip in the espresso (on both sides) and place it in your dish of choice. The key to the dipping is to keep it brief; do not let your ladies bathe too long or you'll get soggy tiramisu. Layer the bottom of your dish with the caffeinated (or caffeine-free) cookies and then pour half of the whipped cream concoction overtop. Shave a little chocolate over the cream.

Ellie, my assistant, surveying the ingredients.

Two happy blondes.

Repeat the entire process, creating a second layer. Place in the fridge for an hour or (if you're a planner) overnight.

Over at the barbecue, I admit I was the tiniest bit anxious about how my dessert would actually taste, but when those vrttis (thoughts, mental interruptions) popped up I just doused them with my vodka tonic and continued having fun. By the time I got to the Tiramisu it was half gone. It was a huge hit! A few people told me they loved that the ladyfingers still had texture, and I enthusiastically explained to them the secret of the "quick dip". They were amazed.

I loved this dessert so much I decided to make another one today; this way I get to share the recipe with you and I get to eat it again at my family's Memorial Day barbecue. (It's not all looks, folks.) I was so excited to make it I forgot to add sugar to the whipped cream, but I'm confident it will still taste good. Attitude, after all, is as important as the ingredients.

Fettuccine with Asparagus and Poached Egg

Last weekend I made dinner for my mother on her boat. It couldn't have been any more perfect just to float on the Hudson and enjoy a homemade meal. What I loved about the whole thing was how it all came together. Meandering through the farmers' market only a few hours earlier (inspired by the fresh produce and the fact that I had the weekend off) I was suddenly struck by the desire to cook. I bought my ingredients—asparagus, eggs (from Grazin' Angus, the best eggs ever), strawberries, and goat cheese—called my mom, and the rest was history.

And what could've been better than fettucini? You're right, nothing. While the water was boiling, I chopped the asparagus into bite-sized pieces. The asparagus were added into the boiling pasta during the last two minutes of cooking. As I drained the pasta and asparagus, I reserved one cup of the water to help make the sauce. 2 T of butter, a few T of parmesan, salt, and pepper went into the pot with the pasta and asparagus, and I added enough of the reserved pasta water to help the sauce coat the fettucini. I plated the pasta over at the boat, where my mother poached two of those amazing Grazin' Angus eggs. Lots and lots of freshly ground pepper gave it the perfect taste. I could hardly contain myself as I split open the poached egg and all of the neon orange yolk oozed down into the layers of fettuccine goodness. Each bite was like heaven in my mouth.

The goat cheese was crazy good. There are no words. 

For dessert we had fresh strawberries, which actually tasted like strawberries, a detail that I know must resonate with everyone. They were sweet and tart and bright red. A little shortbread cookie was the perfect compliment.

I loved the simplicity of this meal. As I stretched my legs out, staring out over the city skyline, I felt so grateful to have allowed myself the luxury of getting swept away by my creativity. I'm learning that creativity is similar to meditation. Trying to be creative prevents me from being creative.You can't force it to arrive, you have to invite it in and then get out of the way. Totally relaxed and inspired, I found myself saying, "More of this, please." Allowing rather than doing makes the space for life to unfold on its own. It's my new summer mantra and I'm excited to see where it will take me.

(Easter) Sunday Brunch

It's been a million years since Easter, which makes writing about Easter pretty useless at this point. You are probably as interested in bunnies and Easter eggs as you are in, oh let's say, your taxes. I feel the need to explain. I've sat on this post since, well, Easter because it kept needing more time in the oven. I decided to just wait until the cake tester came out clean rather than trying to pawn off some uncooked post about a holiday that has long since passed. Ironically, in waiting for my thoughts to bake, I came face-to-face with the exact struggle I was trying to articulate—guilt over not doing "enough"—and to prove (to myself) I have truly learned my lesson, I've decided to move full speed ahead with this post. If you keep reading you'll find a recipe for buttermilk biscuits, so at the very least I hope you'll be inspired to put on an apron this Sunday and whip up some brunch.

This Easter, I reluctantly accepted that I would need to let go of my penchant for perfectionism because I didn't have the time to do everything I would've like to have done. The entire holiday weekend was jam-packed with commitments, not the least of which was a five hour anatomy lecture I had to teach on Easter Sunday. No matter how I sliced it there just wasn't enough time for elaborate entertaining. Instead, I rummaged under my bed and found the remnants of decorations from those years when I must have had a lot of spare time on my hands. Peering through the dust bunnies, I found some baby chicks, birds' nests, and robin's eggs. I felt both grateful and disturbed to have had a small forrest of creatures living under my bed.

The large branches I bought at the Union Square Green Market made a statement without a lot of effort. Wait, what am I saying? Carrying them home on the PATH train was an all-out war; I'm fairly certain I took a few peoples' eyes out that day. When I finally arrived home I realized that I could've cut the same exact branches off the trees in front of my apartment (although I think it would've been illegal to do so). Drama.

On the menu front, I decided to stick with something relatively simple—scrambled eggs and bacon—until the shame of not doing enough prompted me, at the last minute, to make homemade buttermilk biscuits. Thankfully they were a breeze to make. They even gave the bacon a run for its money.

Homemade Buttermilk Biscuits

8 tablespoons cold butter, cubed

3/4 cup buttermilk

2 cups all-purpose flour

1 t sugar

1 T baking powder

1 t salt

I made the dough right in my food processor. Combine all of the dry ingredients. Add the butter and pulse until it's the size of small peas. With the blade running, pour in the buttermilk until the dough just comes together. Turn out the dough onto a floured surface and kneed with your hands. Roll out and cut out the biscuits with the rim of a glass (unless you happen to have biscuit cutters laying around). Bake for 20-25 minutes at 350, or until the bottoms are golden brown.

Breakfast tasted so yummy, in that good 'ole fashion Southern kinda way. I could've used a Bloody Mary, but other than that it was a lovely Easter. In retrospect, I'm thankful to the Universe for forcing me to abandon my typical "go all out" approach to entertaining (or life, come to think of it). I learned a lot by observing myself through the process. Admittedly, I felt anxious about doing less. My emotions waffled between pride (for attempting to let go) and inadequacy (What are we going to do without homemade menu cards? How will we manage?). I'm so used to trying to accomplish it all that I felt naked without a long to-do list. Some compassionate post-game analysis revealed that perhaps, to some degree, I see the success of a perfectly executed to-do list as a benchmark of my own worthiness.

The pillows I bought at West Elm, which I carried back to Jersey along with the deadly branches, because I felt like I hadn't done enough to decorate.

I'm currently reading Brené Brown's book, The Gifts of Imperfection, and it's calling me out on the shame I feel about not doing enough. As a shame researcher, it's only fair that she uses examples from her own life to illustrate her points. She writes, "...there are days when most of my anxiety grows out of the expectations I put on myself...I want to show the world how great I am at balancing my family and career. I want our back yard to look beautiful. I want people to see us picking up our dog's poop in biodegradable bags and think, My God! They are such outstanding citizens." Frankly, it's just so nice to know I'm not alone.

Make no mistake, if I had had time to dye my Easter eggs with a homemade concoction of extracted organic beet juice, I would have. Spending hours lost in my creativity is extremely relaxing to me—it helps me refill my well. But then there are those times when I just have way too much going on and I can't, for example, make homemade buttermilk biscuits and then write a timely (and perfectly perfect) blog post about it. It kills me, and it's hard to let go of feeling like I'm not doing enough ... of feeling like I'm somehow not enough for not doing enough. Sometimes I force myself to find a way to do it all, but then I black out and wake up months later covered in paper mâché, or sprinkles, wondering what the hell happened to me. Brené sums up this need to keep up with my expectations: "When we struggle to believe in our worthiness, we hustle for it."

All of this self-study reminds me to be aware of what's motivating my efforts. Why do I do what I do? If it makes me truly happy, it becomes an uplifting experience; it brings me closer to myself. If I feel like I have to do something in order to be enough, it only makes me feel more inadequate. I'm trying to edit my overzealous to-do list by learning how to discern between what empowers me and what makes me feel less-than. If not, my long list of expectations will continue to loom over my head, threatening to perpetually make me feel like I'm always falling short of the mark. It's challenging because the unrealistic bombshells are strategically hidden amongst the benign chores.

Do the laundry. 

Make dinner. 

Answer emails. 

Look like a supermodel. 

Take out the trash.

Lower your cholesterol.

Hand-paint Easter eggs.

Be better at everything in general.

I know I'm not alone. Elizabeth Gilbert, in an article she wrote for Oprah.com, suggests the following: "As we head into this next decade, can we draft a joint resolution to drop the crazy-making expectation that we must all be perfect friends and perfect mothers and perfect workers and perfect lovers with perfect bodies who dedicate ourselves to charity and grow our own organic vegetables, at the same time that we run corporations and stand on our heads while playing the guitar with our feet?"

Time with my family reminds me of what's important.

And so it seems a perfectly performed to-do list is not a report card for the Soul. I'm learning that imperfection and inadequacy are not synonymous. As a reminder, I've been repeating this mantra from Brené's book: "Wholehearted living is about engaging in our lives from a place of worthiness. It means cultivating the courage, compassion, and connection to wake up in the morning and think, No matter what gets done and how much is left undone, I am enough."

This work is big and heavy. I'm happy to put my Easter post to bed because I need a break from all of this self-study/vulnerability/shame stuff. I want to go do something fun. As my teacher Mark Whitwell says, "Just live your life and have a nice breathe." Maybe I'll go make a scrapbook of my recent vacation. Or maybe I'll make some homemade lavender sachets for my underwear drawer. Oh, there's so much to do!

Spring Flowers

Spring has sprung and I'm literally giddy with delight. After a thorough cleaning of my home (which coincided nicely with my annual tax time procrastination) I desperately wanted to bring the season indoors with some fresh flowers. I love the creative process of arranging flowers because you get to play with so many design elements—texture, color, proportions and shape. The overall aesthetic is up to the creator and you can take risks knowing that it will always be inherently beautiful. Flowers, to me, are decadent necessities; they brighten my home and my mood.

I adore simple arrangements of just one type of flower, like these amazing tulips from the Union Square Green Market. When you bring your tulips home, wrap the stems in parchment paper (if they're not already) and secure with a rubber band. Give the bottoms a fresh cut and let them sit in a vase of cold water for a few hours, which will toughen up the stems and hopefully prevent them from drooping.

These antique hydrangea make a statement and I especially love the unexpected whimsy of the viburnum, whose daintier heads pop up above the regal crowd. As much as I cherish hydrangea, they're high maintenance (a character flaw I put up with because they're so gorgeous). After giving them a fresh cut, take your scissors and cut the bottom inch of the stem in half and then into quarters (making an "x"). Put them in hot water from your tap. If they start to wilt, you can repeat the process and then spritz the heads with cold water.

I made this pretty pink bouquet of peonies and ranunculus to try and keep my spirits up in the midst of preparing my taxes. They sat on my desk, whispering sweet words of encouragement when I wanted to curl into the fetal position. Who knew a little floral pick-me-up could save me from such loathsome intensity?

The most important thing to remember about arranging flowers is that no matter how they turn out, you'll soften just a little bit every time you look at your creation. Flowers are a reminder that beauty can be found in ordinary things. Sometimes it's the simplest moments of appreciation that can change the way we look at our experience.

Fennel Orange Salad

I think you're going to love this new recipe. There is something about the crispness of the fennel with the sweetness of the oranges that makes this salad a pure delight in the dead of winter. The measurements aren't specific, but no matter the proportions it always seems to taste just right.

Chop one fennel bulb (remove the core) into bite-sized pieces reminiscent of chopped celery. Place the chopped fennel into a ziplock back (or a bowl) and squeeze in the juice of one orange. Peel and slice a second orange, cutting between the flesh to ensure perfect little wedges, and toss them into the bag with the rest. Place the bag in the fridge to marinate, allowing the acid from the oranges to soften the sharpness of the raw fennel (anywhere from a half hour to overnight). When you're ready to serve, dump the fennel and oranges into a bowl and add olive oil, salt, and pepper. Top with sunflower and/or pumpkin seeds. Every bite will feel like sunshine in your mouth.

Chicken Noodle Soup

I have a cold. You know, the kind where you feel awful all over but sadly still good enough to function (not that many of us have a choice). When I was little, my Mom would make homemade chicken noodle soup and I would drink Coca-Cola from a plastic cup shaped like an ice cream sundae. Unfortunately I don't have my trusty sundae cup anymore, but I'm grateful for the unbelievable pot of chicken noodle soup I made yesterday. "Must keep going" is the mantra I chanted to myself as I hovered over the stove yesterday, knowing that the reward would be well worth the effort.

Great soup starts with a great stock, and there's nothing better than homemade. It's one of those things you can quickly prepare and then let simmer on the stove while you go on with the rest of your life. You can make it in advance and store in the freezer, or you can enjoy it right away. There's no right or wrong combination of ingredients, so use this list as a springboard to explore your own flavors. As an aside, your home will smell out-of-this-world.

Homemade Chicken Stock

-1 whole chicken

-handful of carrots

-handful of celery

-1 turnip

-2 onions

-1 head of garlic

-fresh italian parsley

-dried thyme

-generous salt and pepper

Don't even bother peeling the vegetables. Cut them in half and throw 'em in the pot. Add enough water to cover the chicken and most of the veggies. Bring to a boil and then lower the heat to a simmer and leave uncovered for anywhere from 2 to 4 hours. Drain through a colander and then through a fine sieve. You can skim the fat off the top before either pouring it into freezer-proof containers, or back into the pot to make soup on the spot!

The chicken will literally fall off the bone. If you're planning on freezing the stock, reserve the chicken for sandwiches and salads. If you're making soup right away, add the chicken back to the broth.

Chicken Noodle Soup

-use chicken from making the broth OR roasted chicken breasts*

-handful of carrots and celery, peeled and cut

-noodle of your choice

*Place bone-in, skin-on split chicken breasts in a baking dish and rub with olive oil, salt, and pepper. Cover and roast at 400 degrees for 20 minutes. Turn down the heat to 350 and roast uncovered for another 20 minutes.

A note about the noodles: you can certainly cook them in the broth, but I've found that they soak up all of the liquid and you're left with less stock. Bad news. I suggest cooking the noodles separately and adding them to the bowl before serving. Storing the stock and the noodles separately ensures that you'll get to enjoy all of that precious broth for days to come!

The Hole in the Sidewalk

I have literally spent the last three weeks trying to compose an inspiring "New Year's" post. Every word has felt like pulling teeth and it's quite clear that even though my topic is definitive (and now, arguably outdated), I have no idea what I'm trying to say. I've tried writing in the morning, before the influence of caffeine. I've tried writing late at night, after the influence of Pinot Noir. Neither scenario has helped me to nail down a point. I've tried to just let it go—"So I won't say anything inspiring this January. Who cares!"—but I can't seem to move on. For fear that my poor blog might collect dust all year while I remain immobilized by writer's block, it seems that my only choice is to try and give birth to whatever it is that lies restless in my heart.

I feel ambivalent about New Year's because while I believe in the process of change, I'm hesitant to get behind the idea of New Year's resolutions—to lose five pounds, to find the perfect relationship, to achieve a specific goal—if said resolutions promise to hold the keys to eternal happiness. While I wholeheartedly believe that we should take advantage of a new beginning, when anything and everything feels possible, the pressure motivating us to "get there" implies that where we are right now is complete crap. And so I feel like I'm stuck between a rock and a hard place because the act of seeking contentment and the art of being content appear to come into direct conflict with one another. Hence my writer's block.

In my fervent quest to find something inspiring to say, I happened upon a poem by Portia Nelson entitled "Autobiography In Five Chapters." I've always loved it because of how simply and poignantly she describes the process of change. She uses the analogy of falling into a hole in the sidewalk and when I read it aloud in my classes, it struck a chord with so many of my students that I wanted to share it here.

Chapter 1

I walk down the street.

There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.

I fall in.

I am lost ... I am helpless.

It isn't my fault.

It takes forever to find a way out.

Chapter 2

I walk down the same street.

There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.

I pretend I don't see it.

I fall in again.

I can't believe I am in the same place.

But it isn't my fault.

It still takes a long time to get out.

Chapter 3

I walk down the same street.

There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.

I see it is there.

I still fall in ... it's a habit.

My eyes are open.

I know where I am.

It is my fault.

I get out immediately.

Chapter 4

I walk down the same street.

There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.

I walk around it.

Chapter 5

I walk down another street.

I feel especially drawn to chapters 2 and 3. Chapter 2 is that place where I acknowledge my desire to change a pattern. Chapter 3 describes my seemingly uncontrollable return to exactly the pattern I claim to be so desperate to change. My first instinct is to blame others for being stuck ("She pushed me in. He made me jump!") but unfortunately I know better. The truth is, I choose to be there. And yet, when I'm in my hole, all I can really think about is getting out. I peer over the edge and imagine what life would be like when I get "there"—that place where everything will be okay—and suddenly I'm convinced that the only way I'll find contentment is by climbing out of the shadows and into the light.

Carrie Owerko often quotes BKS Iyengar in class, telling us that he believes that the weakest, tightest parts of a pose are the brain of the asana. This mode of thinking has changed the way I look at my yoga practice. I'm no longer interested in "getting there", because as long as I choose to do a pose for the sake of achieving it I will continue to miss the point. The study of my postural imperfections has allowed me to identify and apply the appropriate strategies to effect change on my mat and, while this entire paragraph may seem tangential, it dawned on me that perhaps a similar approach could be applied to that dark, cozy hole in the sidewalk. Maybe the hole's the place to be?

Determined to find out for myself, I dove into my hole armed with a fine-toothed comb and a pocket knife. As it turns out, you can only get to know the space if you're willing to turn on a light. The view was shocking but educational. Rather than following the usual protocol of strategizing an escape, I did something radical (for me, at least): I put up wallpaper, bought some throw pillows, and decided to reside in exactly the space I had vowed to avoid.

As you can probably imagine, parking oneself in the shadows of one's mind is no picnic, but as the yoga community continues to tell me that I should try to dwell in a place of love and light, I feel compelled to suggest that you do the exact opposite. The answers are written on the walls of that deep, dark hole in your sidewalk. Sutra 2.7 states, "Attachment is that which follows identification with pleasurable experiences." Whatever belief we water by returning to the hole is actually the brain of the entire operation. The process of dismantling those beliefs, one by one, is what catapults us forward into chapter 4, or better yet, chapter 5. Until we cultivate a tolerance for what "is"—an ability to soften in the face of darkness—we'll always believe that life could only be brighter if we get "there". I consistently have to remind myself that once I get "there", it will only end up being another "here". And so they say, "Wherever you go, there you are."

If, by this time next year, I'm still stuck in my hole, I'd like to think that I'll be able to rest down there with more ease and equanimity. Unraveling my beliefs has been the best yoga I've practiced in a long time, but it takes work. To quote BKS Iyengar again, "Practice (abhyasa) is a dedicated, unswerving, constant, and vigilant search into a chosen subject, pursued against all odds in the face of repeated failures, for indefinitely long periods of time. The discarding of ideas and actions which obstruct progress is vairagya [detachment]." My weakest links, my tightest parts, my holes in the sidewalk ... these are my chosen subjects, and my yoga is to find the courage to abandon the erroneous impressions which make me believe that I don't have a choice. To know that it is a choice is extremely empowering. Perhaps the act of seeking contentment is the practice of acceptance, because in a place of profound acceptance, earnest, lasting change can occur. I feel certain of one thing: the only way to embrace the brilliance within is to brave the darkness and turn on a light.