Painting on wood

At our last Table Twenty-Five event the art project for the evening was painting silhouettes onto wood. Each person was given a 12x12" piece of pine and I walked them through how to get their image onto it (after a few glasses of wine). It was a success. Nic and I did a practice run at my place a week before just to see how it would turn out with a little instruction. You can learn how-to here.

Here's Nic working on her son's silhouette.

Here are a few people the night of, working on their pieces. Aprons on and wine glasses nearby.

I spend a fair bit of time in Brooklyn and love going to the Brooklyn Flea market. The last time I was there, I ran into an artist I'd met in Soho a few years back. He was selling his art on the corner of Mott and Prince. I bought a bird screen-printed on linen. Turns out he's painting on wood now and I absolutely feel in love with this piece below. His name is Philip Sachs.

Another thing I love to do is find paintable surfaces in the trash. I found this piece of wood in the trash in Brooklyn. Excited to paint on it! Stay-tuned. PS - If you're interested in attending our next Table Twenty-Five event, you can purchase tickets by clicking the link above on the right...or you can click here.

Roasted mushroom soup

I honestly feel like I am in a never- ending vortex of snow and ice storms. My spirit is completely crushed and it seems like decades, eons since the sun last made an appearance and to be perfectly frank, I'm just not convinced spring is ever going to arrive. It's a glass half empty kind of day I guess but I am done guys. Done done done. 

When I woke up to more rain, more wind, more fallen branches, more grouchy neighbors, I seriously contemplated booking a last minute vacation. Somewhere sunny and warm. No rain or wind or broken tree limbs or neighbors who don't smile.

The other day, I found myself dashing to my car only to get stuck in the most vicious lashing of wind and hail. The kind that stipples your face like tiny little thumbtacks. And when I finally made it to the car, breathless and irritated and feeling quite ready for these last six months of winter to finally come to an end, I thought about the beach and my children and homemade ice cream and I sort of wondered if that was even happening this year.

I'm done venting. Thank you for listening. You're such gems.

On another note, this soup!

I guess the one teeny tiny good thing about this weather is that soup is still on the menu which is great I suppose since I love it. This week, I managed to make three different kinds of soup along with a loaf of banana bread and cookies with dark chocolate chunks and pecans. What can I say? Hibernation mode I guess.

Sadly though, my children don’t really like mushrooms and refused to even try this soup which is quite disappointing really because I know they would have loved it. Especially Nikolas who I'm pretty sure is going to be on Chopped someday. I suppose I could have called it a pureed vegetable soup which wouldn't have been a complete lie. An omission of sorts but certainly not a lie lie. 

And while we're on the subject, I think it's perfectly acceptable for parents to add in healthy little bits of vegetables to sauces and meatballs and not tell their children. My mom used to give us 'special milk' every morning for breakfast which I later found out, contained a whole raw egg. She added cinnamon and a touch of cocoa and it was delicious yes, but still. I mean, I get it. We wouldn’t have touched it had we known the truth but that was a real honest to goodness lie versus the kind I’m advocating here.

Not cool mom.

All this to say that, my husband and I have been enjoying this soup all week long and it's pretty fabulous. The thyme and roasted mushrooms give off a 'meaty' flavor and the white wine balances everything perfectly with just a touch of sweetness. It’s hearty and savory and exactly what this sort of weather calls for. And maybe if we just keep cooking batches of soup we can fool Mother Nature into thinking we don’t really care if spring ever gets here. Maybe we should all take the ‘meh’ approach and perhaps she’ll get fed up and stop the cruel hoax.

Whatever. It. Takes.

 

spaghetti with browned butter + cheese

For the past few months, my mother, sister and I have been on a never-ending quest to find my grandmother’s recipe book. My mom had some painting done a while back and things got shuffled. Boxes got moved. Items were misplaced. And even though they were very optimistic about finding it, my hopes started dwindling. You can imagine my heartfelt relief when my sister called last week with a pronounced, WE FOUND IT!

It was as though they had given me, that they had hand-delivered, a tiny piece of my heart, all wrapped up in an old, coiled, black notebook.

When I skimmed through it and saw her beautiful handwriting once again, I was moved. I remembered all of the birthday cards she had given me in the past- always with the same wish for health and love and happiness. Her handwriting is striking and meticulous and precise and as I read page after page, I couldn’t help but hold the book close to my heart with only one thought.

Her pen once graced these pages.

These recipes represent little moments in time that sort of stand still and I can’t help but wonder what she was wearing or what she was thinking about or who sat at her table that day to enjoy the homemade goodness of her cooking.

I can say with absolutely certainty that on many occasions, it was I who sat there. Elbows perched at the end of the table, slathering butter on homemade bread. Enjoying her braised beef and tomato with hand rolled pasta. Having more than my share of her buttery Greek cookies, dunked in warm milk with just a touch of coffee. Sometimes, she would make them with orange peel and other times with almonds and cognac. Whatever her method or choice of ingredients, they were always delicious.

Sometimes, I’d take her face in my two little hands and ask what her secret was. How was her food always so wonderful? And she’d just smile and shrug and say, I guess it must be my trusty old simmering pot.

Some pages of the book are wrinkled and others have pronounced spills of oil making them appear transparent, almost like parchment paper. On those particular spots, the ink has bled a little and the words are stretched and blurred but I can still make them out. And when I blow up one of the recipes and frame it, I want to keep it exactly as it is. With all of these amazing little imperfections. Because it’s these little details that tell the story you know.

I've always loved typography. I've always been drawn to scrolled letters or big chunky notes or the design associated with words strung together on a page. They conjure up the same feelings that photographs do. They are poems and hand-written cards and unfiltered emotions. 

It's art. All of it.

And having this large-scale framed recipe hanging in my kitchen will make my home feel complete. This recipe book, this framed art, is a page of her life. Of her journey. A true acount of who she was at the core.

A scrupulous home cook. An amazing storyteller. A really beautiful person.

It’s hard to choose a favorite recipe to be honest but perhaps one of her most requested, was a humble dish of spaghetti with browned butter and cheese. It’s such a simple thing really that I hesitate to even call it a recipe. She used Greek Kefalogaviera cheese but Parmesan will work just fine. It takes mere minutes to throw together. The cheese crisps up and gets brown and coarse and salty and your lips are left with this glossy buttery sheen.  It’s filling and decadent and completely delicious.

And every time I have it, every single time, I am that little girl sitting at my grandmother’s table. Elbow’s perched, napkin tucked into my collar, impatiently reaching over the table for the little bowl of freshly grated cheese.

I'm so thankful we found this little cookbook. This beautiful book of dreams. 

When I look inside, I know without a doubt that her spirit is with me everywhere I go.

xo

Another Table Twenty-Five event

My gorgeously talented friend Sarah sent me the proofs and video for our Table Twenty-Five event that took place a few weeks ago and I teared up when I saw them. I’ve only been dabbling in photography for a few years, largely as a result of Sarah’s influence, and at times I find it quite challenging to capture the spirit. The real essence of the places and the things and the people. But Sarah. She was able to bring me back to that magical night with such candor and realism that when I looked at the photos, I remembered exactly the way I felt just moments before our guests arrived. Or the relief I felt when I realized I had not in fact, forgotten to bring the water glasses. Or the complete and all encompassing liberation of realizing that the first course had been served and people, thankfully, seemed to be enjoying it. This isn't even her full-time gig. By day, she's the talented orthodontist who is transforming my smile and on the side, she helps her fabulous mom with her photography business. Only a true artist can capture those emotions and allow you to relive them over and over and I’ll be eternally grateful to her for enabling me to be connected to that moment forever. This project has been filled with so much excitement but also a little fear. 

Those feelings are completely normal. So I'm told.

Hearing the heartfelt laughter and beautiful conversations and thoughtful sentiments, it all confirmed that this entire endeavor was good and real and true. It’s an amazing feeling when passion and labor collide in the most brilliant way imaginable. When the planning and the executing connect in this really perfect way. Magical might be the only word to accurately describe something like that I think. That sort of euphoric feeling of relief and happiness and gratitude all jumbled into one knotted ball of emotion.

Our wonderful family and friends volunteered wholeheartedly to be a part of the experience and I have such deep-routed gratitude for all of them. For toiling and facilitating and being a part of every single moment. They made Panini's in the back room and added the finishing garnish of thyme just before the soup went out. They stirred the risotto and poured prosecco and made sure everyone had minted citrus water. And when our stovetop stopped working momentarily, they didn’t let on until after the entire meal had been served and our guests were happily immersed in art with a full belly in tow. 

Now that's true love.

It made me realize what an incredible team I am a part of. This team of people that I am proud to call husband and mother and friend and brother and sister.

We wanted a simple and minimal appeal and we hope we captured that spirit with our food and art and company. So thank you. For participating and celebrating and being a part of something meaningful. 

The really fabulous news is that we've picked the date for our next Table Twenty-Five event. It's going to take place on Friday, April 11th at the gorgeous Parentheses Gallery and just like last time, we only have a limited number of seats so if you're interested in attending, just click below to book a ticket.

Thank you again dear friends. For enabling us to do something we really really love and walking with us every step of the way. 

P.S I'm sharing the recipe for the pinapple-coconut cheesecake parfait we served that night. The taste reminds me of old fashioned pinapple squares so if that's your thing, you will love this dessert. 

 xo

The Dessert

chocolate cupcakes with strawberry frosting

First of all, I need to extend a huge, heartfelt thank you for your overwhelming response about our latest venture, Table Twenty-Five. We’re delighted about doing something meaningful and thrilled to be sharing the journey with you. Truly. The tickets for the first event were very limited but we’re contemplating adding more for upcoming ones since we already have people on the waiting list. I sincerely say that in the most unpretentious way possible. We really just wanted a quaint dinner party and an intimate art session and 15 seemed like the perfect number for some reason. The point is, thank you for your gracious, positive and supportive comments.  We have a really lovely evening planned for you and that’s all I’ll say about it for now.

I received a text from my mother about 30 minutes after our tickets when on sale offering to buy some in case people weren’t able to make it. I closed my eyes and imagined a table filled with all the people I loved. My mom and siblings and husband and children and it honestly brought a smile to my face. Mainly because I knew at that moment that my table would never be empty. There would always be people wanting to sit for a while and engage in meaningful conversation. Someone who would always offer to fold the napkins or clean the stemware or scrub the last few stubborn pots and pans. I can’t describe it exactly but the feeling was warm and beautiful and it reassured me in the most soothing way possible. It was a lovely little message in the midst of an otherwise hectic morning and it came at the perfect time. A time that allowed me to be contemplative and really, really grateful.

My mother, who has fiercely opposed social media in the past, regularly sends wonderful notes like this. Little tidbits that brighten my day. She has also joined instagram after a bit of coaxing from me because I knew she'd love the connection that only visual imagery can provide. She's even gotten the hang of using clever little hashtags in the most appropriate places. #toldyousomom.

My mother. A regular social media maven. 

The other day, she sent me a message: Hi Nic, there’s an article in the paper titled  An Underground Affair. I think you’ll find it interesting.

She was right. I did find it interesting and I probably would have missed it entirely if she hadn’t pointed it out. If she hadn’t known me so well. But that’s one of the things I really love about her. I’ll casually mention that I need slivered almonds for a recipe I want to create and all of a sudden the next day, she’ll bring some over. Or she drops by with yellow apples and sun-ripened peaches just because she knows the children love them.

Nikolas had a terrible stomach bug last week and she came over to take care of him while I worked for a few hours. When I was little and not feeling well, my mother’s gentle touch would always make me feel better. The way she pursed her lips together and gently kissed my forehead to check for a fever. She made the best grilled cheese sandwiches and a much-coveted steeped chamomile and honey tea that she’d let me sip from the tip of a spoon. The way she rubbed my belly in gentle, circular motions or the way she read stories and annunciated at just the right spots, making sure her voice was heightened and pitched differently for every character. The way she’d tuck the blanket around me in the most perfect little package leaving me warm and snuggly and feeling deeply loved.

I hope my children feel that way about me.

When I got home that day, Nikolas had finished another round of toast with peanut butter and banana and was humming softly while building a helicopter with his Lego set. Eating. Drinking. Playing. I always feel so much better when signs of health start to resurrect and my spirited children re-emerge. And I knew he spent the day with someone who loved him and took care of him. He napped and read stories and had soup and grilled cheese and soothing tea. He felt snuggly and cozy and deeply loved under a thick, warm blanket that was tucked just perfectly.

My mother, the chef. The storyteller. The texter. The tea-maker. The secret-keeper. The one who always knows exactly what I need, even if it's just a shoulder to lean on. Even if it's just slivered almonds. xo