Friday, July 31, 2015

test drive

When I was seventeen I started dating my first real boyfriend. For three sweet months, I floated through life in a daze of love, lust, and teenage hormones. News of this quickly traveled south to Los Angeles, where my grandparents lived, and one day I received an envelope from my Panta (my paternal grandfather, named for my inability to pronounce "grandpa" as a toddler), containing an article he clipped from an automobile magazine.

Test Driving a Car Before Buying it is No Longer Necessary, the article proclaimed. The piece made the argument that if a car fulfills your basic requirements, a professional inspection is all you to know whether it's worth your money--no need to take it for a spin before committing. Paper-clipped to the article was a note from Panta that read, "I heard you have a boyfriend now, so I wanted to send you some car advice. Love, Panta."

Since the only car in my life at the time was my parents' 1986 Volvo station wagon, it became clear to me that his intention wasn't to educate me on the art of buying a car, but rather to suggest, rather humorously, that I consider not having sex with my boyfriend until marriage--i.e.: skipping the test drive. I called him to thank him for the article, and told him that, though nothing had happened yet, if it did, I wouldn't be telling him. "I only ever bought one car!" he told me. "And she was the only one for me!" This exchange became one of his favorite stories to tell.

Sixteen years and several boyfriends later, I finally found the car I want to spend the rest of my life driving. Despite Panta's suggestion against it, I did ample field research to eventually find it. Like a twenty-first century Goldilocks, I test-drove everything from pick-up trucks, to Maseratis, to Subarus, Priuses (Priuii?), and even a couple of skateboards.

Test driving eventually shifted in meaning. At first it really was primarily about figuring out sex. As I grew older, I began to learn the value of test-driving a relationship--feeling for myself where my connection with a potential partner drove smoothly, and where it could maybe have used a better turning radius. With every spin around the block, I learned how to better gauge if a relationship seemed like a good fit--or if maybe it was time to put on the brakes. My driving skills got better and better.

By the time I met Evan, I had done my fair share of driving. I had learned to recognize worn tires and crappy paint jobs, as well as great cars that just weren't right for me before I even turned on the gas. Evan and I took our time test driving our relationship, gingerly approaching inevitable sharp turns and bumpy roads together, catching our breath each time we came out of them OK. Eventually the bumps and turns became easier to predict, and we learned to trust one another to navigate our way out of them. It became clear to us both that this was how we wanted to drive for the rest of our lives.

I'm thankful for every other car I test drove, though. With each one, I became a better driver, and from each one, I learned another rule of the road. And even though I didn't follow my Panta's advice, I'm pretty sure he would have loved the car I ended up with.

Saturday, January 3, 2015

swing your partner

My father taught me how to dance.

He would play music from the 50's in our living room, hold my hands in a partner dancing pose, and teach how me to keep the rhythm with my feet, while waiting for his cues for each move. On his say-so, we would spin, twirl, and dip to the sounds of The Best of Doo-Wop Uptempo.

Learning to follow was a challenge for me. Since early childhood, I have always been a little bit anxious. And, when you're anxious, one of the best ways to soothe yourself is to keep yourself apprised of what's happening next. This is not so easy when your dance partner is the one deciding your next move.

It took Evan and me some time to get our dancing rhythm down. He is an excellent leader, but, in the beginning, I found myself fighting to lead, if, for no reason other than to soothe my anxiety about what our next move was. I had to manually override my desire to take over, driven by the fear that I might fail to follow effectively, embarrassing myself by spinning out instead of in, or dipping prematurely.

Evan is a really good dancer. His embrace is gentle, but secure, and he holds my gaze as he twirls me away, before pulling me back in. With every spin around the dance floor, I've learned to trust his ability to navigate things. When he asks me to dance, I no longer feel like I have to choose between fighting for the steering wheel and giving up all control. It's something we do together.

On New Years Day, while on vacation in Austin, Texas, we went dancing at a famous Honky Tonk club in East Austin, The White Horse. We were surrounded by intimidatingly talented couples who wore Wranglers and cowboy boots, and knew the involved multi-step dances to each song, but we decided to give it a try anyway. I had a purse with me, and didn't want to set it down, so I kept it on as we headed out to the middle of the floor. The music was unfamiliar, my bag was cumbersome, and we were tired and still a little hungover from the previous night's festivities, but still, we danced. Together, we found the rhythm, we managed to work around my purse, and we moved to the music in sync with one another.

And there, it occurred to me that this is what being together is all about: sometimes you lead, sometimes you follow. You work around each other's baggage. You communicate. You catch each other. You hold hands. And even when it's scary, you find a way to see the unknown as an exciting adventure ahead, rather than something to fear.

Wednesday, December 17, 2014

things i know (this week, anyway) #34

- For better or for worse, no one is ever truly, permanently gone from your life.

- Return your shopping cart to its keeper instead of shoving it between two parked cars. It takes 30 seconds and it will make someone's job a little bit easier. 

- If it can be made with a white potato, I will try to make it with a sweet potato

- Step-counting apps bring out my inner obsessive-compulsive, leading me to walk loops around my small apartment in my pajamas: "Sorry, honey. I'm at 9,925 steps for today, and I can't get into bed until I hit 10,000." 

- In this everything-is-available-on-the-internet age, we so often forget the importance of good etiquette. Web-based entrepreneurs (all entrepreneurs, really) put a lot of time and energy into building their social network following. As such, if you would like one to help you promote something, make a connection for you, or teach you how to improve your own digital content, you should ask nicely, and be sure to touch on the fact that you realize the value of their time and digital real estate, and would be very grateful for their help. You should also be willing to (or at least be prepared to be asked to) pay for it. If you don't treat their work with respect, why should they help you out? No matter the industry, it remains true that there really is no such thing as a free lunch.

- In this time of conflict, social injustice, outrage, and protest, it strikes me that one of the things the world needs most right now is good listeners.

- If you think you don't like tofu, that is probably because you aren't cooking it right. To make really good, crispy tofu, start with firm or extra-firm tofu, then press it in a clean dish towel, to remove excess liquid. Cut it into cubes or strips, then fry it in a decent amount of oil (2 tablespoons in a medium frying pan should do the trick), over medium-high heat. Let it develop a nice, thick crust on the exterior of once side, then flip it and do the same on the other side. Once it's cooked, drain it on paper towels, then salt it lightly and use it immediately, however you like. Properly-cooked tofu is a crisp, toothsome delight. Learn to do it well and you'll never look back.

- It's weirdly intimate to wear a mud facial masque in front of your partner. 

Thursday, October 2, 2014

yom kippur

When I was a child, I loved going to Yom Kippur services at our synagogue for one very specific reason: I got to sit next to my father for an entire day.

I was minimally interested in the service itself. Rather, I relished the experience of being close to him all day long, running my fingers through his tzitzit (the strings on the corners of a Jewish prayer shawl), twisting them into braids. Just before the service started, he would lean over to me in the pew beside him and, as we are instructed to do on Yom Kippur, ask for my forgiveness: "Gab, if I have done anything in the past year to hurt you, I am sorry. I hope you can forgive me."

"I forgive you, Daddy. Do you forgive me?" I'd ask, breathing in his freshly-shaven cheeks, scented with aftershave I bought him for Father's Day at Bath and Body Works.

"Of course I do, sweetie."

In that moment, everything would be right in the world. And there would be no place else I'd want to be. For me, he was the conduit of an entire religion, culture and people. Sitting next to him in his just-pressed suit, listening to his recitation of the prayers, using the Ashkenazi pronunciation of Adonoy instead of Adonai (meaning God), just as his own father had, was the closest to God I had ever felt.

Until I was twenty-nine, it was the only place I wanted to be for Yom Kippur.

Almost three years ago, I fell in love with a man who also attends Yom Kippur services. In fact, he attends services, colloquially known as shul, nearly every week. In our first year together, I felt ready to be with him for High Holy Day services, here in San Francisco at his progressive but traditional shul, instead of with my family at their Reform temple, an hour outside the city.

In lieu of a traditional mechitza (a curtain separating men and women during prayer), my boyfriend's shul has a men's section, a women's section and a mixed middle section. He is a longtime davener (pray-er) in the men's section, and so I found a seat for myself in the mixed section. I was surprised by how much I enjoyed the service, and by how good it felt to pray surrounded by people I knew and liked. What I wasn't prepared for was how much it made my heart ache to spend a whole day in synagogue without my father by my side.

Yet, tomorrow evening begins the third Yom Kippur since we began dating, and I will continue to attend shul in San Francisco with my boyfriend, where the services are nice but still not entirely comfortable for me, instead of at my hometown synagogue, where I know all of the prayer melodies, the Hebrew is transliterated, and I can sit with my family, next to my father, as I did for so many years. But despite my longing for my family, our San Francisco shul is where I want to be.

And with each year, it's gotten a little bit easier. The prayers have become more familiar; I love the collective, inviting spirit of the community. I have found friends and a place for myself within it. And on Yom Kippur, in the early evening, when I start to get bored or tired, or too hungry to focus on the service, I'll slip out for a few minutes, walk down the block and call my parents to wish them a gut yontif (good holiday).

When my dad gets on the phone, he'll tell me, as he always has, "Gab, if I have done anything in the past year to hurt you, I am sorry. I hope you can forgive me."

And, just for a moment, it will be as if he is right beside me in a pew, smelling of Bath and Body Works cologne and toothpaste, with his arm around me.

Of course I'll forgive him. And I'll hope he can forgive me, too.

Monday, July 21, 2014

things i know (this week, anyway) #33

- In addition to its karmic virtue, and the fact that it's just the right thing to do, the world is very, very small, so be as kind as possible to everyone you meet.

- Emily Gould's Friendship is the best book I've read this year.

- Cats do LITERALLY NOTHING BUT SLEEP all day long.

- There are few things that make a person feel older like the moment when someone whose diaper you have changed adds you on Facebook.

- Arguing with people on the internet is like arguing with a racist grandparent: nobody's stance gets changed and you just feel pissed off for the rest of the day.

- What fairytales and rom-coms don't tell you is that a huge component of romantic love is making space for the other person to be him/herself.

- I don't think I will ever get used to seeing my cookbooks in bookstores or commercials for Young & Hungry. It's weird every time.

- Net Neutrality is very important. Read up on it.

- The easiest way to step up your culinary game is to use an extra virgin olive oil that actually tastes good. My pick for a budget-friendly bottle is this one.

Monday, May 26, 2014

things i know (this week, anyway) #32

- Taking criticism well is an art, and one which I am still trying to master.

- The above stated, it's important to know whose criticism to write off.

- As it turns out, there is no better preparation for using a teleprompter than reading books aloud to children. It requires exactly the same skill set.

- In case you didn't hear, you should change your eBay password.

- The need to end the gun violence in this country is dire. Let's start by reexamining the state of gun control and support of the mentally ill. And, most importantly, let's continue the conversation until we start to see progress. Though we may sit on opposite sides of the subject, we can all agree that too many people have died. 

- An important part of being a freelancer is reminding your client (nicely but firmly) when they still owe you a check.

- Anonymous internet commenters are the inside-the-car road ragers of the new Millenium. 

-  Having your hair and makeup professionally done and your clothing professionally styled is a lovely glimpse into how you are capable of looking. At the end of the day, it requires much more time and energy than I would be willing to devote to my appearance on a daily basis, but it's nice to know it's there. 

- There is a noodle dish for everyone

Monday, May 5, 2014

cooking for one

Of all reasons I've heard from people for why they don't cook, perhaps the the most common one is that they're a party of one.

"It's just me," they'll say. "Why should I bother when there's no one else eating with me? I can get takeout delivered to my door, and not have to do any prep or wash any dishes." Or worse, they'll make the case for a microwaved frozen dinner.

There is, of course, a litany of reasons why cooking for oneself is a good thing to do: it's healthier and more cost-effective than the aforementioned options; when you control what goes into your food, you control what goes into your body. Fresh ingredients are not only healthier, but also usually cheaper than take-out or frozen meals. Those are valid points. But they're not the main reason I do it.

For me, cooking for myself is one of the most deliciously indulgent, deeply satisfying pleasures available. It's "me time" in the best possible sense: I get to cook exactly what I feel like eating. I can season my food precisely to my liking. I get to take my time chopping, basting and roasting, not worrying about anyone else's schedule or level of hangry-ness. I can sip wine while I stir, and listen to whatever music I please. I can set a beautiful table and enjoy my dinner formally, or I can eat on the couch, while I watch Law & Order: SVU--it's totally up to me. After dinner, I can sit at the table and read for an hour, or, if I feel like it, I can abandon the dishes and go take a bath.

Don't get me wrong, I love cooking for others. Most nights, I cook dinner for Evan, and it's my favorite part of the day. But, on the nights we don't eat together, I relish my time in the kitchen alone. The importance of the quality of my dinner doesn't diminish because I'm the only one eating it.

I hope to have a family someday, and I hope to cook them incredible food every night. But I also hope that, occasionally, I'll find myself on my own for dinner. I'll pour myself a glass of Pinot, turn on some Smokey Robinson, and chop, stir, and nurture my body and soul with a special meal made just for me.

Why wouldn't I bother?