Apron Anxiety

Holy incredible time at my book party. Was SO nervous and somehow let it all go and actually enjoyed myself. I’m in the “Fuck it” stage, as one Berkeley writer recently taught me, and guess what, it feels really good! So much to write and tell and sort out inside myself, but for now, here’s a link to a wild Entertainment Weekly story about my life. And I have to share this email from a sweet, new friend. This whole week has been surreal and magical and her story captures that. With all my love and thanks to all, I’m heading out for the biggest breakfast of my life, Alyssa

Here’s what happened: This morning I was down at the Union Square farmers’ market hunting down green tomatoes and stocking up on goat cheese for Tom with only 10 pages to go in the book. About halfway back to the office I realized I left my copy on top of some heirlooms at the tomato stand. I took the subway back downtown and found the young vendor sitting in the truck, already finished with chapter 1. She said she loved the story and needed to know where I bought it—I asked her to hang on 20 mins, grabbed a coffee and quickly finished the final pages so I could give it back to her. (My apologies for getting in the way of a sale!) I could tell she had already connected with you/the book. I’ve never experienced that reaction from someone when I actually knew the person behind the words. Such a cool moment. I had to share :)

I started this blog what feels like another lifetime ago. I wasn’t even sure I’d tell anyone about it at first, and definitely didn’t have any bold ambitions. Honestly, I just needed something to do. A few years later, this Tuesday, my memoir is coming out with the same title, bursting with stories of the same joy, the same ache — just more. I’ve never identified as a blogger, but I was born a writer. And so, because of this page, these recipes, those photos, this font, that song, and all the stuff in between, the creation of Apron Anxiety, everything has worked out. And I mean everything. I recently gave an interview where they asked for five words to describe myself. “Happy,” flew off my tongue. HAPPY. I’m happy because of the book, of course, but it’s so much more. It’s simple: I feel loved. Not just by an incredible man (newsflash!), but by friends and acquaintances who have been so helpful and generous for no other reason other than kindness. I left work on Friday, two weeks off for bookstuff, and my pals at Grub Street, and the mail room, and the candy stand downstairs, sincerely wished me luck on the launch. They all had the same sparkle in their eye as they sent me off on my so-called sabbatical. Now it’s Saturday night and I’m taking a shower, making crispy kale (take an entire head of kale, drizzle it in *good olive oil, add salt and pepper, bake at 375 for about 10 minutes… better than a bag of Terra Chips, I swear 2 g-d), and staying in. Need to be rested for the week to come. Oddly enough, I’m not even nervous. And I don’t think I’m lying. Life is so good as is; anything more is just ego. Goodnight world.

Photo credit: Jen Gotch

The things I do, I do hard. When I laugh, I howl. When I cry, I wail. When I kiss, I shiver. If you’re my friend, I’ll fight your battles and find your answers. If you’re my passion, I’ll write you, sing you, shop you, spin you, smoke you, and sweat you until all the muscles of my mind, body or wallet wear out. If you’re him: You have it good. Hard-core commitment - to the things that truly matter, though nothing less - comes easy. Yet it’s this all-or-nothing mentality that kept me away from cooking until I was 32 years old. I wasn’t into it. Foodstuff was fucking lame. And that was the end of that. We are afraid of what we don’t know. Until I got desperate. You all know the story (if you don’t, buy the book!): I taught myself to cook as a last resort. And it changed everything. But unlike the rest, I don’t cook to extremes. There’s no tension or seduction or inner-rage involved, which is odd because I used to thrive off that stuff. Nah. There’s a balance, a kinda, a sorta, a maybe when it comes to me and the kitchen. I cook sometimes, if I feel like it, if I’m inspired, if I’m - oh I don’t know - hungry? I manage my fridge the same, relaxed way I do my closet (fashion being the one category I’ve never been manic about). A few nice choices. Understated, but exciting enough. All good things, not much fuss. It’s awesome existing in the gorgeous grey, for once. Sometimes I even think about phasing out of the food world professionally. I think I’m fine with or without it.  We’ll see. Tomorrow I’m judging a grilled cheese contest at Artisanal, and I’m honored. But the other judges are all hyper-ambitious types who know and care so much more than me. They’re committed, and I’m coasting. It’s interesting. Although, that’s the beauty of food, isn’t it? There’s a place-setting for everyone. I just hope mine has no mayo.

I have no interest in ever becoming a “food snob,” sorry, but a “wine snob” is a secret aspiration. Wine talk - at its best - can be a blast … Taste the Ryan Gosling of reds … a rose that will be your best friend, then blow your husband … this white is a paranoid schizophrenic and she’s off her meds … I mean, can we really go there with, like, ramps? Whatever! That said, I’ve become a big fan of Corkbuzz Wine Studio, an elegant wine bar where experts are as involved as you want them to be in the education of your evening vino. You can go to drink alone, on a date, with a group - and you can also go for a class. Classes are smart and sexy; you stumble away all worldly and sophisticated.

Corkbuzz’s owner, Master Sommelier Laura Maniec, has generously offered an Apron Anxiety reader free admission (for two people) to any of her April classes. (Normally would cost $150, or more.) Just email ME your Apron Anxiety pre-sale receipt at ApronAnxiety@gmail.com, with a few sentences about your most amazing wine experience - a 3-dollar bottle swiped from Walmart, or a big, bold Barolo with that evil, incredible boy. Tell me.

This weekend, I’ll announce the winner! So raise your glass, buy a book, and let the games begin.

Twenty minutes before hair and makeup were supposed to arrive at my apartment, and one hour before the fashion team, prop stylists and photographers were set to buzz from below, I got the call.

Someone I loved - very much - had died. He was sick, ALS, and it was time. But that didn’t mean my heart wasn’t ripped out and torn apart.

Immediately, I started to cry thick, hard unstoppable tears. I’m sure everyone I grew up with cried thick, hard, unstoppable tears that morning too.

As more calls came in about wakes and funerals and other awful things, I realized that I had not yet showered for the big group of stylish people who were coming over to make me beautiful.

I hadn’t swept my floors, picked up the Perrier, baked a banana bread, or prepped myself at all for the reporter who went on a limb and made this magazine article come alive for me.

Sweaty and shaky, I didn’t know what the fuck to do. But I chose to pull it together. That felt most responsible.

The make-up artist was first to arrive. She was especially kind, given my red and puffy eyes. The rest of the team strolled in and I filled them in on my morning, trying not to sound too morbid. I might have been repeating myself … he always believed in me … I don’t remember.

Late in the night, the photo-shoot wrapped.

It was gorgeous, and, I think, glamorous, and I tried my very best to look and feel the part. Somehow I cooked a good dinner. There were smiles, flashes, and high fives. Everyone got what they needed.

But I wasn’t quite myself.

I attempted to make a toast - rich, witty words I had imagined myself saying - but my voice shook so bad that I sat back down.

Forgot to do and say and cook and bake half the things I dreamed of in anticipation of this article, which I’d orchestrated in my head every single night for the last few months.

Though, I think it all went fine.

Yesterday was the funeral for my dear friend who was a hero to me and my family for so many reasons. During one of the exquisite eulogies delivered at the church, someone reminded the hundred of mourners of this beautiful man’s favorite quote:

“Courage is grace under pressure.”

In his memory and honor, those words will continue to guide me through life and love, friendship and fortune, and maybe even hair and makeup.