Japan and China Trip Part 1: Training and Trip Preparation

It's been a while since my last post. I guess I've been waiting for something really noteworthy to write about. I suppose completing the Great Wall of China Marathon is noteworthy...not to mention traveling around Japan solo. I've wanted to go to China and Japan since I was a little girl. Specifically since Kindergarten when my mom (also my Kindergarten teacher) played "Big Bird Goes To China" and "Big Bird Goes to Japan" in class. I remember clearly daydreaming about the mysterious cultures around the world. In the 6th grade, I loved learning about Japan in Mrs. Curtis' Social Studies Class and proudly got a 100% on Japan history and customs exam--the test was of course laminated and hung on our refrigerator. I also used to have this huge, laminated world map that I liked to draw on (unfortunately one time I used permanent marker...) and plan out itineraries. Starting in elementary school, my favorite treat was when my mom would borrow "Around The World In 80 Days" from the library and I would watch it eating buttery, salty elbows macaroni. Just like in the movie, I wanted to see the Great Buddha and the famous Geisha girls "not to be sneezed at."

A few times since college I have thought whimsically about going to Japan, but never really seriously. There were always reasons not to go: I'm too busy with school, I don't have any money, I'll go when the timing gets better. But you know what? Timing never gets better. I never suddenly have excessive amounts of money. For some reason, it's always easier to not have new experiences and to think of why-not's. At some point, you just have to DO IT. Make it happen.

I started thinking about a trip seriously after the NYC Marathon back in November. Obviously that was a very painful experience that I wouldn't like to repeat, but I was attracted by the idea of destination races. I enjoyed going to an unknown city and being able to experience a tour in this unique fashion. I was exhilarated regardless of the pre-race errors. In fact, my sense of achievement was even larger because of all the obstacles I overcame. I started looking around at races in Japan first. The Tokyo Marathon was appealing--but it was in February. I decided that was way too soon after the NY debacle. My body needed more time to heal before building up mileage again.

I somehow typed in "adventure marathons" into Google and found my way to the Great Wall Marathon website. I immediately was intrigued. A destination marathon in China! That's what I'm looking for. Something big. Something to shake up my schedule. Something to really motivate myself to the next level.

Reading through the site, I discovered that you can't just sign up and go to the marathon. You have to sign up with a tour group, go ~1 week before the race and tour around Beijing. I wrote Steve Hibbs, coordinator for Marathon Adventures, and asked him exactly how much things would cost and about any hidden costs as well. Once he confirmed that it was indeed a pretty good deal for the trip, I went ahead and booked a flight. Wow! Even back then, I didn't really believe that it was going to happen. I didn't think about how hard it would be--other than "it's a marathon. It's gonna be tough, but I can do it."

That's the thing about me, I get involved in activities and I never question whether or not I can do something. I assume that I can, someway or another. I like that about me. On the other hand, when I actually saw the course I definitely had a few [hundred] doubts and fears, but I didn't let that hold me back.

When I booked my plane ticket, I noticed that I had a layover in Tokyo. This is when it dawned on me, "I'm going to be in Tokyo. I really should just take a few extra days and go to Tokyo." Once I started to plan a trip to Tokyo, I realized where I really wanted to go was Kyoto, the historical capital of Japan. I would need more than a few days. So, my trip to China with a short stop in Tokyo became 8 days in Japan and a week lead up to the marathon in China.

My marathon training was an experiment of sorts. I wasn't sure how healed my body was after NYCM. I was mostly uninjured after NYC race day, but I did feel a lingering weakness in my left ankle. Not pain, just a tiredness. I took December off from running. Started walking everywhere in early January--the hardest was walking home after spin class Wednesday night's, my ankle would definitely be weak after an hour of walking. I looked online, found ankle-strengthening exercises, and started doing them 3x a week.

In mid-late January I started running again at a very slow pace. We're talking 13-15 minute miles. And for just 10 minutes at first. And then I would alternate 10 minutes walking and 10 minutes running a couple of times. And I kept up with the walking home from lab/class. I decided for this race, I wouldn't care about speed, just building up endurance safely--keeping close watch on that left ankle.

By February, I was thankfully feeling good. Ankle weakness was getting less and less. Slowly building up continuous running. Still, I didn't concern myself with pace or miles. Just time on my feet without injury! When I was able to handle the continuous running without pain, I started to focus on building mileage.

Since I still needed to make money for my travels (and pay my bills), I continued my schedule at the gym: 3 spin classes and 2 body pump per week. I love love love teaching, but if I didn't need the cashola for travels, I would have definitely liked to cut back a little bit. It is definitely tough to manage a marathon training plan on top of teaching five classes. The plus side is that I am always cross-training and limiting the number of runs per week, which definitely prevents overuse-running injuries. The Body Pump classes also kept my arms and core strong right up through Race Day, which definitely was a big help on the Wall.

Also, when you only have 3-4 running days per week, it forces you to make them high quality workouts with specific aims: long distance, hill/stadium repeats, tempo/fartlek, easy/mid-distance. Instead of my usual weekly Thursday speed workouts, I stuck to stadiums and hill repeats. I didn't want to tempt myself to go fast. Listening to my body, I knew that if I pressed the pace too soon, I would injure myself. No speed! Just hills.

In March, I paid off the final payment for the marathon tour. Started getting obsessed about possible itineraries. I'm not usually a detail-oriented person, but I knew that I had to plan as much as I could before leaving, both so I wouldn't be clueless in an unknown city as a lone female traveler and so that I knew exactly how much money would be needed before the trip and during. April was spent obsessing over travel guides, blogs, and stories from other people. I made sure I knew how much hotels would cost, museums, temples, onsens, subways, rail passes--fortunately I found out that you have to buy the Japan Rail Pass before you go to Japan and this saves you hundreds and hundreds of dollars, no exaggeration.

By the end of April, the weather started getting nicer and my body started feeling strong and healthy. I started some fartleks--no real speed sessions, but short bursts of speed on mid-distance runs. Warm, sunny weather always makes me say "I feel the need. The need for SPEED." Yeah. My body handled this well. Mid-April to the beginning of May was my Monster Month. 50-65 miles a week. Plus teaching class. Needless to say I didn't do much besides work and workout. I went to a party at the end of Peak Week and was ready for bed by 10. I toughed it out until 1am, but I basically was a zombie.

Here is something that I hope I remember for next time: for me, the worst of marathon training is not Peak Week. It's actually the week (or two) after I hit my highest mileage. Mentally, I keep saying to myself, "Just make it through Peak Week and then we're in Taper Phase!" What I always seem to forget is that the week after is still pretty high mileage. I went from a 23 mile-long run to 20 miles and 65 miles per week to 50 miles. Really didn't make that much of a difference and didn't give me much (or any) relief. The good news is that my ankle was fine and I felt uninjured, albeit tired and achy. Relief did finally come the following taper weeks with just 35 miles, then 25, then hardly any running for the 2 weeks before Race Day. I did end up doing ALOT of hiking the 2 weeks beforehand, since I'd been packing in as much touring as possible.

Part 2 Up Next:
"Nina The Barbarian = Nina Goes To Japan"

Nina And The Cursed IT Band: A Running History

In middle school, I had been a promising runner and had won many of the 5k-cross country races by a minute or more. I specifically remember several times looking back behind me, seeing no one at all, and feeling my shoulders relax: I had the race in the bag. I would then impressively kick it in at top speed to the "Ooos and Aaahs" of the crowd. I loved to win.

My style of racing was similar in the 800 meter race. The first of two laps were spent in the mid to back of the front pack. At the 500 meter mark I would start to pick up the pace, pour on whatever I had in the tanks, and speed ahead to win the race.

I also excelled at the triple jump. In 8th grade, I had already been jumping over 30 feet and got to go to the state comp (most other girls were jumping 26-28 ft).

Getting in shape and winning was easy for me back then. I could start the running season with no preparation at all. I'd take for granted that my body could go from no distance work (just soccer running) to full on cross country training, including hills, speed work, tempo runs, and distance runs. And stretching? Yeah, maybe I'd quickly "stretch" for a couple seconds before or after a run--you know, go through the motion of reaching for my toes or grabbing some shoelace to stretch my quads.

For three and a half years (6th-part of 9th Grades), I was able to do this no problem.

Then it all went downhill and not in a good way.

I remember the exact moment that my knee started hurting me. It was the last home meet of the cross country season in the 9th Grade and I'd done fairly well--tenth place. Post race, some people were stretching out, cooling down properly, but I was lazing about in the grass, eating Smart Food and scanning for my Mom's silver Volvo to pull into the parking lot. When I finally caught a glimpse of the car pulling up, I instantly jumped off the ground, threw my bags across my back and sprinted across the field. As I was sprinting, I gradually felt a burning sensation just below my kneecap. The pain increased exponentially and I hastily stopped, stretched out, massaged the area, and prayed to the Gods. It seemed to go away. After five minutes, I was running across the field again, telling myself that it must have been a weird fluke.

Of course it wasn't a mere fluke. It was the start of Illiotibial Band Syndrome or ITBS, a common overuse injury for runners.

At the end of the Fall running season and into the Spring track season (I played basketball during the Winter), I started to consistently feel the pain in my left knee. Instead of doing what a normal person would do--take time off, see a physical therapist, cross train, stretch...--I felt that I should just continue to push myself through the pain. It didn't seem to change my gait or running style; I could still keep my pace up; I was still getting PRs (personal records). It just became another challenge to overcome. Isn't that what running is all about: staying mentally strong, pushing yourself as hard as you can go? It didn't occur to me then that not all pain is good pain and that this injury could go on to affect me for the following ten years.

After almost a year of pushing myself through the left knee pain, the burning sensation started to travel up into my hip. And then, probably because my gait had changed without me knowing it, my right knee started to hurt. And then my right hip.

You would think that all of this pain would have been a signal to me to listen to my body and ease up. No dice. I was stubbornly stupid [back then] and convinced that these problems would work themselves out without taking time off or changing my lifestyle.

Well, mid-cross country season in 10th Grade, my body went on strike without my permission. By the time homecoming came around, I was barely able to walk. My hips were so stiff I couldn't stretch properly--yes, now I was at least trying to stretch out. I was unable to keep a good pace during the races. I was now finishing in the latter half of the race.

What a blow to my ego! No longer being able to run through the pain, and no longer being able to walk without pain, Coach Sawyer ordered me to physical therapy. I went to a local place, to a guy who specialized in IT Bands. He told me that in his entire 20 years of therapy he had never seen a case as severe as mine. Usually ITBS localizes in the knees or the hips. My entire band (from the knee extending into the hips) was tight and tender. We started with FRICTION rubs--massage meant to break up tissue, circulate the blood, and release tension. These are not nice, soothing massages. The pain was so severe that I would feel it shoot into my brain.

This did help a bit. I was able to walk without pain. Unfortunately, I was too stubborn to take time off. And I wasn't really stretching outside of the PT sessions. And I did no cross training to help build the muscles around the knee.

Junior year was a disaster. I consistently ran in the back. I physically couldn't hit good times. I became frustrated and negative. The spring season was worse. My triple jumps were an abysmal 25 ft and often I would fault out because I couldn't keep my stride consistent and mess up the timing.

I would often end these meets in tears.

In retrospect (ahhh, how nice it is to be able to look back on these events with the wisdom I've gained since then), my problems with my knee and the way I handled the situation was representative of a larger problem in my life. That is, every time a problem would arise, I would be convinced that somehow it would just work itself out. The best thing to do would be to keep plugging along, don't change how I'm going about things, and just hope for the best.

The wrongness of this line of thinking is so obvious when I'm here, sitting at my desk, contemplating my life, and trying to suss out the past. If only I didn't have to keep learning about this the hard way! As a side note, my Dad has always said that the sign of true intelligence is being able to learn from mistakes and to not make the same ones over and over again. This is a wise statement and has proven to be hard to follow through on!

Anyways, this lack of problem confrontation came to an apex in the winter of Junior year when I came down with the croup and almost died--mostly because I did too many things and didn't admit that I needed help or needed to take a break when I felt overwhelmed with life. Again, even though I felt pretty sick and overwhelmed, I kept thinking that if I just kept going and made it through this difficult time, my health would work itself out. Sound familiar? How stubborn of me!

This bent with the croup and near-death caused me to re-examine my life. I realized that my problems with my Health, the IT Band, and doing too many activities were all connected. I'm not taking action to make my life better. I just keep going forward, making the same mistakes over and over again. Not the sign of intelligence at all!

I needed to change. Easier said than done, right?

Ameliorating my knee situation turned out to be the easiest change (at least in the short term). I researched the IT Band, found out the causes and the solutions (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sz73i3O01d8). I ended up not doing any sports Senior year and the first semester of college--I thought this was going to be hard, but I had been so frustrated and down that I was glad to get out of it for a while. I went to PT, did the stretches for real, and focused on relaxing more.

By the time I got to college, I was ready to start running again. But this time, I was going to do things right. My first semester, I still didn't run, but I walked everywhere I went. I read that it's important to build a strong foundation before getting into serious training. Once I had been walking for 30 minutes 4 times a week, I started easy jogging--just for one mile and then walk the rest. In this fashion, I started to add on more and more mileage. A slow build up was key.

In addition, I made sure I added in stretching sessions after each run and one longer session per week (one hour focused solely on stretching and core work). This lateral and core work turned out to be a key to rehabilitation: I had learned that ITBS is not only caused by doing too much too soon, but also because the muscles surrounding the knees are not built up [in runners]. Makes sense: with all the forward motion we do, the sides of the legs are completely neglected, weak, and tight. This causes imbalances in the knee which can lead to injury.

The real test began in the Winter of freshman year at Colby: I joined the Track & Field Team. I'll admit, I was nervous. Would I fall back into my old patterns? Would my knee start hurting again? Will I ever be as good as I used to be?

I will never forget my first race back. I gave up being a distance runner and became a 400m runner instead. I came in dead last. By five seconds. Yep, Nina Martin came in dead last and could only whip out a 75 second 400. And my glutes had never burned so much! While I went on to improve my 400m time by 12 seconds over the course of the next four years, I sadly was never able to regain my triple jump skills. Indeed, I never broke 30 feet again and fouled out many, many times.

Regardless of this one negative, many good things happened for my running career at Colby. I relentlessly worked on technique and form and became one of the "instructors" of weight lifting technique to the underclassmen. Me and my workout out buddy Liz (and then later Kate), would think nothing of spending an extra two hours in the weight room before or after practice. Cross training, stretching and core work became a normal part of my everyday routine (on top of the running workouts). Also, I proved to myself that I could train hard and remain injury free: a sign of a responsible runner. My confidence and good spirit was rejuvenated as well.

These good habits and experiences at Colby not only prevented further injury, but also influenced decisions post-graduation. After college, I went on to train for the Philly Marathon AND remained injury free! I made sure I trained for this correctly and took an entire year to build up the mileage, adding in massages, stretching sessions, and lots of cross training. I followed the Runner's World Training plan. I was (am) extremely dogmatic about training safely.

My obsession with technique that started at Colby has also influenced me to become a group exercise instructor in Body Pump (weight lifting) and Spinning (great cross training for running). I feel it's very important to share my mistakes with other athletes and help them safely achieve their goals.

In summary:

*The good news: no IT Band pain since high school!

*The bad news: I never regained flexibility in my hips--they still cramp up and are rod-stiff.

*The Extra Good News: I am a marathoner with no injuries (knock on wood). I continue to be vigilant about listening to my body, stretching, and dealing with problems as they come up. I have taken up climbing and yoga to work on my flexibility and hopefully one day I'll be able to sit in the V-position and lean forward.

So, if you are serious about running, my advice is to become serious about cross training and stretching. My story turned out well because I am now completely dedicated to the well being of my body. Health comes first! This means taking the extra time to stretch and work on your weaknesses.

I learned these lessons the hard way, but at least I have proved over time that I have at least some intelligence and have stopped making the same running mistakes over and over. Now if I could only apply this to the rest of my Life, I'd be a genius!

Lessons Learned:

1) Health comes first. You have nothing without your health.

2) Listen to your body; don't ignore pain. Take action: ice, aspirin, stretching, heating...

4) If you feel bad pain, immediately take three days off, if persists, take more time off, get help!

5) Make stretching part of your daily routine

6) Make cross training part of your weekly routine; build up those non-running muscles + strengthen the running muscles! When I do consistent core work, I feel stronger when running.

7) Be consistent...my racing style used to be start off slow, then sprint the last leg. Terrible, can lead to injury! Pick a goal pace, stay with it. Never do more than you have trained for. This goes for your overall training plan too. Be consistent with your running. Don't leave off training until the last minute and expect your body to do more than it's ready to.

8) Add on mileage slowly, never more than 10%--this lets your body adapt slowly

9) Have your race pace be consistent with your training pace.

10) Be patient with your training, i.e. building a solid foundation or taking time off. Shit happens. Deal with it.

11) Have fun; don't take yourself too seriously. We are choosing to do this in our free time. Most of us will never be pro's, so why get all bent out of shape if one day you can't hit a pace or if you have to take a day off. Things that you do for yourself in your free time should be fun.

Happy Training!

Useful links:

Great YouTube Video on ITB(S): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sz73i3O01d8

ITBS Article: http://www.runnersworld.com/article/0,7120,s6-241-290-291-2861-0,00.html

Injury Prevention: http://www.runnersworld.com/channel/0,,s6-241-0-0-0,00.html

Back To The Future at Colby

Last weekend I went up to Colby College to meet up with an old professor of mine and to catch part of a track meet on the new facility. I hadn't been back to Colby since graduation five years ago.

I went up to campus spontaneously--not really processing what it would be like to be back at my alma mater and in the middle of nowhere Maine; and in a blur--trying to reach my destination as quickly as possible. As I finally reached Waterville and was trying to recall how to navigate the roads to campus, I noticed some small differences. I was shocked to come off the highway and not find the WALMART, but some other large store called Mardens. What happened? In Waterville, Walmart used to be the center of shopping unless you wanted to high tail it to Augusta to the more upscale Old Navy or Barnes & Nobles....What Colby student didn't easily waste $50 when you only went in to buy, for example, a $3 notebook? What happened there?

Anyways, I passed the Mardens and remembered to take a left at the first light. This road leads directly to campus. I am glad to report that nothing has changed here. Still lonely, narrow, and filled with potholes. So many TREES! All of a sudden, there's a bend in the road and, VOILA, a clearing in the trees gives way to a breathtaking view of the Pond, Miller Library, Bob's, the Athletic Center, and the various sport fields.

I parked next to the pond, stepped out of the car and almost died of shock. It was sooooo gorgeous! Dumbstruck, speechless, overpowered...these are a few words to describe the wonder I felt at being back at Colby. Sure, I had a picture in my head of the picturesque campus and I knew that it was beautiful, but seeing it was a different matter. I uttered the following two statements about every other minute: "I used to live here??" "Oh my God, sooo Gorgeous!"

You also have to remember that I've been living in Philly for the past five years. As much as I love Philly, I still have to run 2.37 miles to experience any semblance of Nature and trees.

I waited at Bob's to meet up with my old advisor, mentor, and friend: Professor Jim Webb. As I waited for him there--in a place that I'd waited for him countless times before--I felt as though no time had passed. Not true, of course. I've had many experiences since last I saw him that have taken me on a different path than the one I had envisioned at Colby years ago. I had no idea back then that I'd love biochem, signal transduction and would want to apply to MD/PhD programs. I hadn't even expected to run multiple marathons or become a group exercise instructor.

Life takes us in interesting directions; directions that can't be predicted. Along the way we discover new aspects of ourselves. In this process we sometimes forget our old goals, opinions, and feelings until we are somehow reminded of what used to be important to us. At these junctures, maybe you decide that these feelings are no longer a part of you. Other times, like for me at Colby, you decide it's important to remember those feelings and incorporate it into your present goals.

As a parting gift, P. Webb gave me a copy of his new book, Humanity's Burden: A Global History of Malaria. I started reading it and was transported back to Colby again when I was his research assistant and he my advisor for my Senior Scholar's project; both of us working on mosquito research. Last weekend, we "jokingly" said that someday we would do a collaboration. I hope we do! I want to keep alive my ties to Colby. I feel very proud to be a Colby grad and have been sporting my "Colby Track & Field" hat all week.

Continuity gives us roots; change gives us branches, letting us stretch and grow and reach new heights. ~Pauline R. Kezer

Seattle!

It's been over a week since my last post. What have I been up to?

Mostly I've been out visiting Andrew D'Avis in Seattle. Unfortunately, I didn't take any pictures during this time, despite having brought two digital cameras with me. So much for my new "take more daily photos" resolution. Here's a breakdown of what I saw.

Runs:
-Lake Washington
-Interlaken Park/ran part of the marathon course
-Volunteer Park
-Humongous hills up to Capital Hill; my Philly legs were put in their place!
-Very eclectic architecture. Each house seemed different; moreover even each window on each house was different.
-Sprawling buildings/lots more "space" for a city

Coffee Shops:
-Victrola Coffee & Art http://www.victrolacoffee.com/
-Bauhaus Books & Coffee http://www.bauhauscoffee.net/
I was not disappointed!

Restaurants/Pub/Other Fooderies:
-Spinasse http://www.spinasse.com/ Highly recommend this one. Food was great, but the ambiance was excellent. Designed like you are in an Italian dining room and can see through to a homey kitchen. Very cool!
-Volunteer Park Cafe http://www.alwaysfreshgoodness.com/. Smells divine as soon as you walk in! Great waitress. Great food, though I was so tired from travel I don't remember what I ate. I do recall a nice bottle of Syrah from Columbia Valley, Washington (l'Ecole no 41, 2005).
-Honey Hole http://www.thehoneyhole.com/
-Dish Cafe http://seattle.citysearch.com/profile/10783787
-Kimchi Bistro http://www.yelp.com/biz/kimchi-bistro-seattle. Small family owned restaurant. Very nice people there. Had very filling and tasty Dol Soht.
-The Stumbling Monk http://www.drunkenmonks.org/. Great selection of Belgians.
-Pikes Place Market
-Madison Square Market (coop)
-Dave Zucker's Pi(e) Party! However it was on 3/13 as he had to leave for China on Sun. Thanks Dave for inviting me! It was the most memorable Pi Day! There were many, many tasty pies; I sampled at least 10. There was a raspberry/strawberry one that was quite good. Well, actually that's the only one that I can recollect with any clarity, so it must have been very good...
-Last night, went to Charlie's apartment for dinner [cooked by Andrew's housemate (lamb ragu, very tasty!)]. Then Andrew and I made chocolate souffles. Turned out well if I do say so myself!

Yes, we ate well!

NB. Of all of the wines we drank, I didn't like any of the European wines--which was odd because I'd had those wines before on the East Coast and know that I've liked them before. There was a 2005 Chateauneuf du Pape that I was very disappointed in. It was really acidic and never opened up even after a half hour of breathing. On the other hand, all of the West Coast wines were impeccable. I wonder if anyone else has experienced this phenom. In any case, I was glad to finally try some good California wines, in particular a Pinot Noir. I was very impressed. I am completely ignorant when it comes to West Coast wines.

Cool views:
-The Library. Thanks to Andrew's friend who works at the library, I was able to get a look at the cool conveyor belt system that ushers/organizes the incoming and outgoing books. Pretty high tech! http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Seattle_Central_Library
-The view from Charlie's apartment. Amazing! Can see all of Seattle skyline, the Needle, Elliot Bay. You could really see how quickly the weather changes there. The apartment had sunshine, but you could see rain falling out over the bay. Clear view of the sunset (well it got hidden in the end by little storm clouds). But you could imagine how wondrous it would be on a clear day.
-First night there, walked up to Volunteer Park. Great view of Elliot Bay and all the mountains that surround Seattle. There's also an art museum, a green house, and an interesting circular sculpture. I forget what it actually was, but it reminded me of The Death Star with it's center blown out (yeah, a little strange, but come on, I was on EST and I'd been traveling all day).
-I was blown away by views from path around Lake Wash. To be so close to the mountains, but still in a city. Awesome! So much green too. I almost (ok, I did) tripped several times just because I couldn't tear my eyes away from Nature.
-Up on Cap Hill it seemed as though there was a great view from every street corner: mountains, lakes in both directions.
-Drove out to Puget Sound. Wow! The wind was crazy that day. I'd say this added to the magic of the shore. Lots of dogs and other people strolling the beach and tide pools, having a relaxing Sunday morn. There were seaweeds, rocks, shells, and drift wood to play with/on. This is one of the downfalls of Philly: no beaches, no lakes, no waves. I felt utter glee from being out in nature like this; energized by the wind and surf and salty smells!
-The Fremont Troll http://www.roadsideamerica.com/story/2236

So, yes, I had a great time in Seattle. Is it the better coast as Emily Meshberg incessantly argues? TBD.

Bullies Then & Now

I recently became Facebook friends with someone who used to be a bully. He was a terror at the bus stop; nobody was safe from his demeaning comments or physical threats. I personally remember him picking out my own insecurities, namely my "buck teeth with the gigantic space in between." Yup, sometimes he'd even just call me Bucky for short. Just one utterance from him could send you reeling.

I wonder what he is like now. Is he still a jerk? Unfortunately his facebook page doesn't (or can't) reveal his current personality. Propriety prevents me from writing on his wall and demanding if he is still that same bullying creep or if he has matured into a better person.

What do you think? Are people who were bullies in middle school or younger (he moved before high school) really jerks or are they just going through an insecure phase themselves that passes?

My Band; RIP John Pike

Aka Gozer & The Gozarians aka Zuul aka Apoptonic aka Work In Progress.

Yes we're geeks and proud of it.

I've been officially playing the drums since the fourth grade. Unofficially, I've been tapping out beats since I was born. Some of my earliest memories are of me sitting atop my Dad's shoulders, watching the drum core of the local marching band stomp by. I'd try to imitate the rhythm, using my Dad's head as my first snare drum. Thinking back, he must have had bruises from my 'sweet' beats, but he never complained. Always a supporter!

In high school I mostly just played with the school bands (marching, jazz, and orchestra) under Band Director Bob Lassonde. I'd occasionally play a school musical or with fellow students (shout out to Four Green Polo Shirts). Back in those days I was obsessed with playing Zeppelin, namely Kashmir or Stairway to Heaven. Couldn't get enough of that heavenly bass drum sound. In college, I branched out a bit. My other drummer friends and I would go down to this park with our sticks and knock out rhythms on anything we could play on. This is what I'd like to call my "creative/hippie" phase. Later years at Colby saw me playing in a band with a good friend of mine, Leif. We did a lot of covers and had a blast together, though we didn't really practice that regularly.

My drum playing reached an all time low in the years immediately following graduation. My grad school program sucked me into a dark abyss and I didn't do much besides study and run. I kept thinking to myself that I'd get back on those drums soon, once I got some more free time and motivation. However, I 'all of a sudden' found that three years had passed and I still hadn't picked up a drum stick.

In June 2007, all of that changed. A childhood friend of mine and fellow drummer died unexpectedly. Just as his own band, Ra Ra Riot, was starting to get momentum and start a tour that summer, Johnny Pike's life was suddenly taken away. Apart from feeling an immense sorrow for the loss of such a talented and outgoing musician, I was reminded of how quickly things can end and how important it is to take advantage of the moment. Don't put off things until tomorrow because a) you'll most likely put it off again to the following day, etc, or b) shit happens, you may not be around tomorrow.

*You can't wait around for that magical free time, good timing, and/or motivation to suddenly appear. It's not going to come. Stop thinking about doing something and just go do it.

And thus, the day I returned from the funeral, I sent out an email to the Penn listserv and asked if anyone wanted to get together and jam; I explained that I hadn't played in a couple of years, but I really wanted to get into something consistent.


Matt and Jeff replied quickly; eagerly saying that this is exactly how they felt too. Jory got recruited through Matt; they've known each other for a while and had discussed getting together, but never got around to it. We've met pretty much every Saturday since then (ok, we have periods where life has gotten in the way, but overall we've been consistent).

And that is the story of how the band got together.

I cannot express how happy playing with the band makes me. The first level of pleasure comes from the mere act of playing and making music. It's great to be inside that beat and feel it easily flowing from you. Second, I feel happy because this is something that I actively sought out. I could have just as easily kept on slogging through my schedule, still claiming that I just didn't have enough time. Activities like this make me feel alive and that I'm living to the fullest. There's a jubilation in that knowledge.

March 27th! 12:30-3:30p. Temple Musicians In Medicine Spring Concert. Be there or be square!

3 "Brought Me To Tears" Moments

This week has me thinking about moments that have moved me to tears--tears of joy, sadness, spirituality, and bittersweetness. Here are three strong memories, in no particular order.

1. I am a HUGE Harry Potter fan. Ghostbusters and HP and the Sorcerer's Stone were my first two DVDs. I even traveled to London (while I was in France) for the premiere of HP2. I also used to visit the website www.mugglenet.com every single day between the years 2001-2007.

When the 7th and final book was released, I was up in Acadia National Forest, ME on my annual camping trip with my Dad. He and I waited outside a bookstore in Bar Harbor from 10pm-midnight with a mix of excited adults, teens, and kids. I of course was wearing my red Harry Potter t-shirt that I had bought in London--I wore this to all of the book and movie releases.

Once I had the book in hand, I was dead to the world--okay, dead to my Dad who was the only person around. I read 3/4's of the book in my tent that night by the light of a small, red lantern. I stayed up the entire night reading it, as per tradition. We were headed back to MA the next day and as I was in super obsessive-bubble mode, I had to continue reading in the car, despite being susceptible to car-sickness. About two hours from our destination, I was cruising through the last fifty pages of the book.

Spoiler Alert!

J.K. Rowling led me into a very emotional place when she led Harry off to his doom--to face Lord Voldemort. As Harry faces Voldemort with fear (as any human would), but resolution and falls to the death curse, the tears started rolling down my own cheeks. I took a moment to put down the book--something which I've never done before, usually I have to bulldoze through--and I let out sobs of grief and sorrow. Even though I was well aware that I had at least 50 more pages to go and Harry would probably somehow survive, it was still poignant and beautiful. Touching. And it signified The End, which left me feeling lonely and empty. Which was I grieving for more: the "death" of Harry or the end of the series? Hard to say.

Of course, I was not alone when I started to bawl. My Dad was right next to me in the car and kept shooting me glances of concern. Fortunately he knew me well enough to remain silent and let me experience the bittersweet ending to the series in my Bubble.

2. Three years ago on Christmas, my Grandmom passed surrounded by me and my family. We were not particularly expecting this to happen that day, but the increasingly bad cases of flu hinted that we wouldn't have much more time with her. My grandmother was a deeply religious Irish Catholic. I don't claim to be particularly religious or even spiritual for that matter, but the fact that she died on that particular day (and with all of us there) had us all thinking that the Angels had indeed come down from Heaven and taken her with them. I cried at her passing of course, but not tears of sorrow and sobbing (ok maybe a little bit of that kind too), but quiet tears of wonder and peace. Here is a woman that had lived a full life--she died at 98 and was independent and strong up until the last 6 months of her life. Here is someone whose faith would claim that this Holy Day made her passing more meaningful. And finally, she was at peace, she would no longer be suffering. If anyone was going to Heaven, it certainly would be her.

3. To conclude my year abroad study in France, I had an internship at the Tour du Valat Biological Station in the wetlands of the Camargue. Ten french researchers and I lived on the lands in a dorm and got to know each other quickly and deeply. On the last night there (and in France), we went to a secluded beach, built up a bonfire, roasted veggies, meats and toasted me off with many, many bottles of wine. Unfortunately/fortunately, we overslept and my goodbye was very rushed as I jumped on a moving train and threw kisses. I slept the whole way to Paris and didn't give myself a chance to let the moment sink in until I heard "final boarding for Flight 256 to Boston." This announcement triggered an explosive chain reaction: Oh, it's time to leave. I'm going back to the States. Ah when will I be back??!!??


And then the flood gates opened. I broke out into shaking sobs which included wheezing, tears, and wails. I can't recall ever losing control like that (especially not in a public place). I somehow collected my belongings and made my way to the gate. Since I couldn't say anything besides spasmodic contractions of the throat, I thrust my papers at the male attendant and looked at the floor. In french he consoles, "Oh, poor thing, are you leaving behind your lover?" I nod my head and pass on.

Yes, I felt like I was leaving a lover behind. A part of my soul. I was at home in Provence. I was living to the fullest: speaking other languages, learning about different cultures, meeting new people from a range of backgrounds, enjoying nature and its beauties, participating in centuries-old traditions...I couldn't want more from Life. I knew that I was meant to be there.

Faced with the return trip to the States, I was overwhelmed: I could barely remember how to speak English let alone melt back into 'habitual' life.

Six hours later, the sobbing had waned to silent tears only to be jump started again once the Boston skyline came into view. I was questioned at customs for ten minutes, mostly because I was talking in a french accent. (Official: Where are you from? Me: Massachusetts. O: Yes, but where are you really from--originally? Me: Hamilton...MA? O: I mean what country? Me: USA? O: Why do you have an accent? Me: (I start sobbing again) ...I...school...France...no...english... year... Official: Ooookkkaaayyy. Just tell me your name again. Me: Martin (accent)...I mean Marrr-tinnnnn. Please...let...pass. O: Okay, I'll let you go but I don't like this.

My Dad was waiting outside Logan with the car. He was so excited to see me and was all smiles--I mean it had been an entire year since I'd been home. Whatever control I had regained I lost completely when I saw him. My Dad was like, "Nina, I'm so glad you're so happy to be with us again. Umm yeah."

5 Most Embarrassing Race Moments

If you've been running in races since the sixth grade, shit happens...literally.

5. I took a year and a half off from running between senior year of high school and spring of freshman year at Colby because of IT band problems...in this time, the most exercise I did was walking from my house to school. When I started running again in January of 2001, I found that I had, surprise, lost all fitness. My first race back, I got dead last in the 400...by five seconds. Five seconds in the 400 meter race is equivalent to at least ten minutes behind in a mile race. It was pitiful and embarrassing.

4. Again, freshman year of college. I attempted to triple jump as I had in middle school and high school. The bounding drills caused me to get incredibly painful shin splints so I would have to pull a "seagull on hot sand": shifting my weight from one leg to the other and then back again. The pain was particularly acute at one indoor meet, so I decided to take some ibuprofen. Well of course the regular dose was not enough...20 pills later I was feeling a bit loopy. At the end of the meet, I jump onto the bus and am ready to head back to Colby. One by one my teammates climb onto the bus and say, "Whose Colby sweatshirt is this?" "Whose Colby tank top is this" "Did someone leave their spikes on the risers" "Who left their Colby sports bra by the track." I embarrassingly kept raising up my hand. Whoops. In total, I had left ~20 items of clothing strewn about the track. It's a wonder that I was still fully clothed. Chalk it up to dehydration. Chalk it up to ibuprofen overdose. Whatever. That earned me the title (and end of season award) for "I-took-so-much-ibuprofen-I-left-all-my-shit-at-the-track-and-apparently-my-brain-too." Definitely felt a bit sheepish after that and stopped triple jumping. NB, my other end of season awards included "The Prime Rib" Award (I'm particularly fond/proud of that one) and the "Full-Body Spandex Suit" Award (let me know if you want to hear about that).

3. Sophomore year of college. I was at a race at Tufts and wicked excited because my whole family was coming out to watch. Before the race, my mom was standing next to me and helping me to take off my warm up clothes. Once down to my race tank and underwear bottom, my mom gives me a good look up and down, smiling in support..until her gaze rests on my neck. Instantly her eyes narrow and her smile transforms into a grimace. "What is THAT?" she barked. "What?" "You have a hickey on your neck! I can't believe it. Don't let your father see this." My hand automatically shoots up to try to cover the evidence. But what are we kidding, you can't hide anything in my skimpy track uniform. I then had to walk proud over to the start line to greet my coaches and teammates. Apparently my mom was correct, my boyfriend must have gotten a little too frisky before the meet, and left a nice love bite for all to see. And everybody did see it. Nice. My sprint coach laughed, my head coach raised her eyebrows, and at least my teammate threw up her hand to give me a high five.

2. In the eighth grade I was an awesome distance runner. I often placed first by a minute or two. At the end of the cross country season, we had a big state meet at Pingree School in Ma. Kids from all over MA were competing in this meet = more competition = more pre-race jitters for Nina. The first half of the race went very smoothly, I was in a solid standing in the top ten and was feeling smooth. Little by little however, I became aware that I had to go to the bathroom...and not just pee, but a full on number two. The race was only 3.1 miles, so I figured I would just hold it in. Unfortunately, after five minutes of holding it in, I started to get sharp pains in the ol' GI tract, pains that turned to stabbings. I had a choice. Pull over to a Jiffy John and lose precious time. Or relax. I mean really relax. Ha. I chose the latter option and just let it go. The results were twofold. On the one hand, pooping in your race bloomers is obviously disgusting. What if some came out and I left a trail of droppings? Oh God. And then there's the stewing. Ah, yes, yuck. But on the other hand, I got rid of the pains, I felt light and smooth again. I was able to kick it in and get 8th place (and a nice little trophy). The embarrassing part was not just the act of defecating in my shorts; the embarrassing part came afterwards when everyone came up to congratulate me. I had to make an excuse and high tail it to the Jiffy Johns (finally) and clean myself up as best I could. Wow. I was pretty committed/insane even back in the 8th grade.

1. Most embarrassing moment ever. May 5, 2007. Broad St 10 mile race. In the two weeks leading up to the race, I had been suffering from a bad case of bronchitis: coughing, wheezing, fevers. Obviously this is not a good way to prepare for a race. I was feeling better by race day and felt compelled to do it because my Dad comes down every year to do it; it's a special event that we share together (though we don't actually run it together). That year my running buddy Melissa and I were running it together. Things were going well at an 8 min/mile pace for the first 7 miles. Around mile 7.5 however, the consequences of the illness started to rear their ugly heads. I got a case of brick legs and my tummy started to act up and I start coughing lots of nice balls of phlegm. Fun fun. I was determined to just keep going, so I threw back some Gatorade and put one foot in front of the other. By the last 200 meters I was feeling like complete crap and my stomach was definitely having a bad reaction to the orange Gatorade. 100 meter mark comes into view and I realize that I'm not going to make it...not going to make it in the sense that I had to pull over and puke on the sidelines. This is unfortunately not the most embarrassing part. Melissa tugs at my hand and says, "Come on, Nina, let's just finish this. It's right over there." Me being masochistic, stupid, stubborn, easily goaded--however you'd like to describe it--totally let her pull me in. I hadn't gone more than 50 meters when I got that queasy feeling again. And oh man, in the last 100 meters, of course the street is jam packed with spectators and worse, CAMERAS. That's right film and video. I'm pleading with myself, "Please, please, please, not now. Not here!" I think that I'm in the clear when I reach two feet in front of the finish line, only to suddenly experience an involuntary heaving. Oh no. As Melissa observes that I'm slowing down and tugs on my hand again, the vomiting commences. Not just any kind of spew...uncontrollable projectile vomiting (and what was the culprit--uh huh, the orange Gatorade). In front of hundreds of people and, oh yes, right into the cameras (only five feet in front of me and I was projecting the Gatorade at least three feet. Impressive?). Yes, so what's my awesome race photo from that year? That's right, they caught the projectile vomit on camera. And not after the fact; as it's coming out of my mouth. OMG. Grossest (and, come on, it's a bit hilarious too) moment ever.

As I was writing this post, I realized that I have many embarrassing moments (none so disgusting as that last one, thank goodness). These ones are the first that came into my head. I haven't even gotten into the wonders (and pitfalls) of marathoning. Perhaps another time.

A Meal To Remember: The Story of The Famed Bottle of 1997 Hermitage

In a previous post I mentioned how I've experienced several seven hour, very memorable meals. Two of these meals have been chez moi. This post shall detail the first seven hour meal that I created myself.

The Origins of My Own Seven Hour Meal:

As you can probably tell by now, I am a francophile. I've spent almost two years living over there, for school, work and pleasure. My junior year of college was spent in the south of France, more specifically in Aix-en-Provence. A lovely hill town/city, with narrow, winding cobblestone roads, and a splendid array of fountains--indeed, 'aix' means 'water' in Latin (vestige from the Roman times) and Aix-en-Provence derived its name from the many, many fountains that adorn the streets. In the fall of that year abroad, I volunteered on a small winery in the Rhone Valley in the Northwestern part of Provence. In the autumn, vinophiles come from all over the globe to help with the harvesting of the grapes.

Fast forward several years and I returned to the same vineyard and had to treat myself to a sumptuous bottle, errr ok, case  of Hermitage from the year I was there. On my return home, I impatiently awaited the treasure to arrive. Three weeks later I opened up a case of 12 dusty bottles of 2003 Hermitage. I was giddy. As I was inspecting the bottles, I observed that one bottle had a lot more dust on it than the others and had a different color label. I quizzically perused the label and as realization hit me as to the contents, my eyes bulged and I started shaking; shaking so much that I had to put the bottle down for fear that I would drop it. It was a 1997 Chave Hermitage! This is by far the best bottle of wine that I've had in my possession. An accompanying note from the winery revealed that they knew the bottle was a the case and based on my very zealous ravings at the store, they knew it was in the right hands now and to enjoy. I let out a long breath (for I realized I'd been holding it in) and sighed to know that it wasn't a mistake, it really was all mine.

Now that I had this treasure in my possession, what would I do with it? Store it? Drink it?

I couldn't not partake in it. I had to have it now. But if I was going to have it now, I'd have to honor it the best way I knew how. Create my own seven hour french meal--using recipes that I had picked up whilst in France.

But who would I share this with? Who would appreciate it? Whether or not a person is educated in wine and knows 'what vintage means what' is irrelevant to me. It's all about the spirit of a person. Will the person appreciate the full sensual experience of the meal? Will they be able to be swept up into the moment and not think about time or other concerns?

My best buddy Melissa first flashed into my head. We spent the most amount of time together. However, two memories floated to the surface: "I wish they would make a pill for eating, it's such a waste of time sometimes" and "why use a recipe that takes a whole day when you can use Rachel Ray's 30 Minute Meals?" I knew in my heart that Melissa was too practical to appreciate the bliss.

Soon after, I thought of my long-time family friend, Grant Swisher. As I considered him as a candidate, I absently nodded in approval. He may not know anything about wine, but he enjoys sitting and enjoying the simple pleasures in life. Plus, I've known him my whole life and he would know exactly what this bottle and accompanying food would mean to me. Our fathers went to Dartmouth together; his Dad was my Dad's best man; our families went on ski vacations every year; we both spent a considerable amount of time living abroad; we both went to Colby; and now we both found ourselves living in Philadelphia. Two New Englanders and old time friends coming together to enjoy a meal. Yes, I liked the idea of that.

I sent him an email entitled "A Sumptuous Affair" and he of course eagerly accepted.

I took a full two weeks to plan out the meal. The majority of the time was spent researching what flavors would go best with the Hermitage. Four days before the event, I walked down to the Italian Market and bought supplies at the butcher, the cheese shop, the chocolate shop, the spice corner, and the fruit/veggie stand. This is one of my favorite parts of making a big meal. Taking an afternoon to leisurely peruse all the specialty shops and converse with the owners. The Italian Market makes me feel like I'm fifty years in the past and doing things that many, many women before my time have done. It makes the meal all the more special.

First Course: Assorted cheeses
Accompanied by 2003 Riesling

Second Course: Puff pastry filled with goat cheese and shitake mushrooms
Accompanied by 2003 Croze-Hermitage

Third Course: Roast Venison with scalloped potatoes
Accompanied by 1997 Jean-Louis Chave Hermitage

Fourth Course: Arugula salad with a broiled Crotin de Chavignole on top. Dijon dressing

Fifth Course: Mocha pot de creme

Sixth Course: Calvados

Grant came over around 7pm. We finally finished the meal around 2:00 am. It was sublime. The wine made me giddy. Grant had to pour it into our glasses because my hands were shaking so much. I was ridiculously caught up in its aromas, so much so that I told Grant not to talk while I was taking a sip because I wouldn't hear a word he was saying. I was in its trance, in its thrall, whatever you want to call it; I was completely enraptured. What did it taste like, I mean other than heaven? Hmmm, not very good at descriptions. Blackberries. Slightly acidic. After taste of tannins, but only slight. Full-bodied. Left a very good taste in your mouth, even five minutes later. The scent was the most powerful I'd ever experienced. That's what really got me giddy. Drinking in the aromas was just as satisfying as drinking the actual liquid.

I also learned a lot about Grant that I didn't know before. Growing up, he had an obsession with the number 11 and made his mom give him 11 of everything in his lunch (i.e. exactly 11 grapes has to be prepared). He also has to have the volume of the background music at the perfect level at all times. This means that he may have to inexplicably get up from the table--mid-conversation or no--and tinker with the volume knob on my speakers. The music selection was awesome. Radiohead, of course, as we are both avid fans, then a selection of music from my France days. In particular I played a type of music called Rai which hails from french-Northern Africa. This always gets me feeling very sentimental and reminiscent, so of course the conversation also drifted down my memory lane in France. Grant has a wide and eclectic range of music so he eventually pulled his iPOD out and set the conversation and tone into another direction.

And that is how the evening played out. I remember it remarkably well considering the haze that set in around the second course.

The phenom of the 7 hour meal...

What makes good food good? aka the phenomenon of the seven hour meal.

Regardless of whether a restaurant is Michelin rated or not, I find that a solid indicator of a good meal is length of time at the table. This rings true for dinner parties as well. In this chaotic world that's driven by the clock, it is quite a feat for a meal to transport you away from the daily worries, make you forget about the time, and be "in the Now." I know that I've prepared a good meal when my friends say, "Dear God, we arrived here at 7 and now it's 1am. What happened to all that time?" Maybe this is another reason why I love the art of eating so much, it's one of the few things that can bring me into the Now--into my yen place--without much effort on my part to focus. As I'm eating and enjoying conversation, I'm here at the dinner table. My mind is not wandering off. I'm just enjoying the moment. I also actively try to enhance this "Now" atmosphere in my dining room/kitchen by not having any clocks around. Indeed, you can't see any clocks in my entire apartment. I find this state more difficult to achieve during yoga (maybe because I don't practice it as often as I do eating...) when I really have to fight with my brain to turn off and just be in the Now.

In the history of seven hour meals with Nina, there have been four that have stood out. Two in France, two chez moi. The first one is the very first seven hour meal that I ever had. It was in Rouen, France and it was random. Random because I was not particularly looking for a seven hour meal nor did I really know that that kind of bliss existed. I was in Rouen following a morbid desire on my part to see the exact spot where Jeanne d'Arc was burned at the stake. I had dragged my friend all the way from Dijon (yes, where they make the mustard) to this ville about two hours to the Northeast of Paris. NB: I spent my first semester of college in Dijon, France; I know it's a bit nontraditional, but it's a legit program at Colby.

Once I had communed with the historic spot (which took all of one minute), we found that there wasn't really anything else to do in town. We spotted a restaurant across the square and decided to get some lunch. The restaurant was called the Toque d'Or: simple, rustic, yet bustling. Immediately after being seated by the host, the sommelier appeared and asked if we'd like an aperitif. Neither of us had had one before, so we asked for a recommendation. This is when I was introduced to kir. Kir is a mixture of black current liqueur and white wine and in my opinion is the perfect (and necessary) start to any seven hour meal. The subtle fruitiness of the kir, served with a complementing amuse-bouche (pre-appetizer), prepares your palate and psyche for the joys to come. Little did I know at the time that this apero would become an honored ritual to most of my meals.

Once settled with our aperos, the menus arrived. You could either go "a la carte" and pick and choose the parts of the meal or you could select "prix fixe/table d'hote." The latter means that the menu lists fixed meals at fixed prices. This is usually the best deal. You can get anywhere from three to five, six, or seven courses for a much cheaper price than if you selected the courses individually. It is also preferable to choose this because the chef selects the courses very carefully so that they all go together: each course adds up to a whole and the consumer experiences the meal exactly as the chef wants him to. I always pick this menu if it's available--I'd be pretty egotistical if I thought I could choose better than a master french chef.

I could describe to you exactly what I had that day, as I somehow remember the meal like I had it last night for dinner. This would take a lot of time. In sum, it was filled with the terroir of Normandy...apples, cider, calvados, roast chicken...each course built upon the last, leaving the palate feeling complete by the end. The simple and the complex were blended subtly into an ecstasy of experience. We worked our way through each course slowly, pausing after every bite to savor and talk. Each course was complemented with a different wine as per the sommelier and each was completed with a swipe of bread across the plate. We had seven courses in total, each one building a haze around us, til the outside world no longer existed--all that was there was us and our plates and our conversation.

And just when we thought the meal had come to the end, the patron of the resto came over and commented on how he had never seen Americans with a zest for eating equal to our own. Not only was he impressed by our spirits, he loved how we spoke in french the entire time we were there--not just to the staff, but in normal conversation. In a token of appreciation, he had the sommelier bring over some digestifs (on the house), calvados (apple brandy) to be exact. Calvados is the traditional after dinner drink of Normandy. Again, we had never had digestifs and were excited after our pleasant experience with Kir. I've learned since then that I'm not as fond of digestifs in general as aperitifs. They tend to be extremely potent and always bring a tear to the eye and a flush to the cheeks. However, in honor of that first seven hour meal, I always serve a spot of calvados after all meals chez moi. I actually have grown to like it, especially on a chilly evening. It's definitely an acquired taste though.

This "on the house" offering of a digestif became a trend at all the restaurants I went to in France. By the end of every meal, the patron would love me and my dinner companion, come over and say how delightful we are, and give us digestifs on the house. What a great country! A place where my love for enjoying a good meal and disregard of time is praised and rewarded! Yes, I'm a francophile if you couldn't tell already...

To be cont'd...

L'Art de Manger

In case you don't know me that well, I like to eat. Not just eating for eating's sake, meaning to satisfy my metabolic needs, but I enjoy every aspect of eating: the build up (what am I going to eat, where am I going to eat, and with whom am I going to eat), the meal itself (the presentation, the flavors, the surroundings, the conversation, the "close my eyes and savor each bite" part, the perfectly paired wine), and the after glow (the "you're going to have to throw me in a wheel barrow and cart me out of here" feeling, the "I wish there was a bed next to my table" feeling).

This passion actually has an interesting history. When I was born, I had many, many allergies to many, many different types of foods. I was basically on an all white food diet. Most foods made me incredibly sick--poor mom. I only remember eating rice, though there must have been other foods as well. I do recall that when someone would offer me a saltine cracker, I thought it was a cookie. Really, I thought I was getting a real treat when I got to nibble on those saltines. To this day, I think fondly on those simple treats. This limited lifestyle ended when I was four. Not because my allergies suddenly went away, but because my longing to experience the array of foods that other people were consuming could no longer be repressed. I recall sitting at the kitchen table one evening with my usual bowl of plain rice and looking at the other people's plates that had large hot dogs in buns with the full panel of condiments on top. As my mouth salivated and my eyes bulged, I made a life changing decision. I reached out and plucked a hot dog off of my mom's plate and stuffed it into my mouth--barely chewing as I gulped it down whole. Oh man was it good. That hot dog was the best thing that I had ever experienced. I had made my decision: from that day forth, I would eat whatever I could and damn the consequences. I'd learn how to deal with it.

Of course, after so many years of eating the plainest foods around, I went to the other extreme and ate too, too much. I soon acquired the reputation of being a "big eater" and found that I had to fulfill that image for many years after, eating more than I cared to, just so people would have this opinion of me. It really became a part of my identity and distinguished me from, for example, my sister who has always been a picky eater. My grandmother used to tell everyone the story of how one Thanksgiving when I was eight years old, I asked if I could have the leg of the turkey. My mom of course loaded the huge leg onto my plate without a pause. My granddad turned to gram and stated disapprovingly, "Oh, what a waste, giving the little girl all that food." My gram just smiled knowingly, "Oh, just you wait and see." Sure enough, I sucked down everything on that plate and then was nosing around for seconds.

Soon, relatives and friends forgot that I had ever had problems eating foods and figured I had just grown out of my allergies. I would never complain: I was silently defensive all those years, wanting it to seem that I was normal and feared being pitied like that child who thought saltines were cookies...

Fortunately when I went away to college, I realized that this "big eater" identity was stupid and unnecessary and was just making it harder for my already dysfunctional digestive system. Now I just eat like a regular person, except with a deeper appreciation, I think, for food and its seductive powers.

So, now that you have a better understanding of my roots, you can see why I'm always in search of a good meal. And by good I mean a perfect blending of tastes and experiences; a symphony; a fuzzy haze; a bit of heaven. Since college, I have traveled to many places in search for good meals. Most notably, I lived in France with a family for a year and a half. Not only was I able to enjoy meals at some of the best restaurants in the world, I was also fortunate to be taught how to cook and bake from my french mom. My next food themed post will show you a bit about what I experienced and learned there...I'm salivating just thinking back to those meals...

Just as a little extra note before I sign off here, Philly is a perfect place to reside if you have a passion for food. Okay, we do have a reputation for cheese steaks and tastykakes and Obesidelphia...this is all true. However, there is also a large BYOB culture, which is one of the greatest features of Philly (there are over 200 here). I plan to do a whole posting on my favorite BYO's of Philly... I was up in Boston over the holidays and a friend of mine had never heard of BYOB. For those of you sad creatures who have yet to experience this phenomenon, let me explain. BYOB = bring your own bottle. This means that the restaurant doesn't provide alcohol, you have to bring your own. Why is this great? All restaurants live and die by their food. But that fact is truer when the restaurant doesn’t mark up alcohol. The difficulty in producing great food while running a small business is intensified without the safety net of bar proceeds. Consequently successful proprietors of BYOBs have a heightened focus on the quality of their cuisine. BYOBs are also usually small joints, giving you and your dinner partner a very intimate feeling while sharing the meal. Anyways, it's going to take some time to put together a post on this, as I want to go out and take pictures of my favorite places too...

Another thing to become obsessed with...

I’ve decided to start a blog finally. I’ve been inspired by my mom who over the Holidays pulled out this detailed list of things from her childhood. She’s been compiling it for a long time so there will be a permanent record of her favorite songs, places, and people…it got me thinking about my own childhood and the things that I’ve forgotten already. Also how time and perspective alters your memories. Having a “living record” of the present and then being able to look back at it would be so much better than in ten years from now trying to remember what I thought of the Jonas Brothers or some other fad of the time. So I thought for this first entry, I’d start compiling my own list of childhood fav’s and then from here on out try keeping more records of the things that I enjoy doing now…so here we go.

Taking boat to Cranes Beach. playing in hot pools. throwing wet sand at amy. sand castles. digging for clams. walks in the dunes with dad. finding driftwood and sand dollars. hermit crabs pinching my fingers. horseshoe crab skeletons. hard sand with bumps massaging my feat. soft sand burning my feet. sand bars. fishing: really “skating”–all we’d be able to catch were skates, except one time we caught a cod fish. sucking salt from my wet hair. smell of spf 8 sunscreen. soaked from huge waves coming over the side of the boat. the red cushion. sand pipers. chasing seagulls. running away from seagulls. Andrea’s purple lips. letting your legs get numb before going under water. green and brown seaweed tickling my legs. chasing Amy with the slimy seaweed. Essex friends. red playmate cooler. subs. red teddy bear towel. boston whalers.

Iron Rail. Tues nights ballet. Thursday nights jazz class. Mrs. Bradley. Gymnastics upstairs. The foam pit. Purple laces that you didn’t have to tie. Amy in the pink panther costume. Poodle skirts. sequins. I think I got it. Recitals at the beverly high school.

Me and Dad. YMCA. swimming every fri night with Dad. then out for oreo cookie blizzards at dairy queen. dennis the menace cups. blue and red swim bubble. pretended I was a lady bug. lessons. “minnow” level. swim team. first place back stroke–only because I swam in a zig zag and cut everyone else off. Walk for Hunger. First time when I was 10. Did it for 8 years. Dad kept saying, “Are you sure you want to keep going”" Aw yeah. 20 miles. Every year camping in Acadia National park since I was 10. First year with Molly our Golden. Got lost on Dorr Mt. thunder storm. molly quit and sat down after seven hours. would never go for walks after that. Dorr Mt. Cadillac Mt. The Bubbles. Eagle Lake. Blackwoods Camp Grounds. Trenton Bridge Lobstah Shack. The best lobstah, clams, corn on cob. Freeport. Bow st. Camping on casco bay. my blue tent, smelled moldy from Everglades… hiking along the rocky coast. light houses. sunsets. racoon fights outside my tent. dad afraid bears would come eat our food. summit rock piles. first time skiing at kingridge. skiing at cranmore, attitash, loon, brentwoods, cannon. kangamangus highway. old man in the mountain. Science museum trips–loved the discovery room–could touch bones. Children’s Museum–the maze to get to the second floor. Planetarium. Aquaruim–loved the penguins, the tide pool exhibit where you could touch the sea urchins, eels, star fish, the dolphins, the shark tank–divers would feed them little fishies, seal shows. stuffed animal (usually Gund) every time we went away to Philly without him.

Me and mom. Museum every sunday morning. free passes from library. Phila Museum of Art–armour (always would picture the scene from Bed knobs and broom sticks when the armor would come to life), chinease tea house, the pins with the dragons. MFA. Girl scouts, parades, crafts. Dancing to oldies in the kitchen, swing, waltz, Greased Lightening. T for two. Kindergarten together. Lunches at Brambles at the counter. Twisting seats. Blocks, story time, hermit crabs, big bird goes to china, big bird goes to japan. magic school bus. “This is the day the lord has made” christmas play. Mrs. Monahan trying to give me my lines…Learned the meaning of nepatism… summers in Havertown, PA. thrift store in Bryn Mar. Amtrak trains to Philly. PMA. Brought me playmobil for the trips. knights and horses. Made me a lunch everyday. Ham and Cheese with mayo. yogurt. hard boiled egg. At the Y, wouldn’t let her hair get wet. Ever. Baths. How much Shamus our black lab loved her. Pumpkin pies. Locked her in room to get her to stop smoking. Thanksgivings. Hmmm creamed onions and huge turkey legs. My favorite dinners cooked by mom: fetuccini alfredo, terriaki chicken, pork chops with aso sauce, “argentinian beef”, italian chilli. Awesome breakfasts: scrambled eggs, bacon, scrapple, thomas’ english muffins. 1995 volvo wagon. black leather seats. Lots of dog hair in the trunk. green fleece gloves. before that wagon with blue seats.

Reading Nancy Drew and Agatha Chrisie underneath the table and not getting away with it. Haiku Palace. Poo poo platters. spare ribs. snap bracelets. tie with this black vest that had gold coins on it (fifth grade).

Mrs. Bade, My mom, Mrs. Koch, Mrs. Freelove, Mrs. Hamilton, Mrs. Ranta, Mrs. Kinney….Mrs. Curtis’ homeroom, Mrs. Lovelace, Mrs. Herrick, Mrs. Zimmerman (? shoot is that right–english 6th grade). 7th grade: Mrs. Pettingrew, Mrs. Maroney, Mr. Civ, Mrs. Carter. 8th grade: Mr. Burt, Mrs. G, Mrs. C, Mr. Sawyer. Cross Country with Dave Sawyer/Track with Ms. Hoar. Band. Tambourine Girl. Pretending to be James Bond in woods with Jessie.

Ok, I remember more than I realized. I guess we’ll call this part 1 of my childhood memories list. Feel free to add your own! Holidays are a great excuse to think back and remember the “good ol’days”….