marshmallows and steel

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The world is not a cold and dark place.

This, I thought, after I looked out the tiny window of the airplane and saw fire and amber and something that looked like eternity. It is truly amazing to see the sun’s light setting on them marshmallow clouds.

Yes. At the time I was cramming a bag of peanuts into my mouth, enjoying how very salty they were and wishing I had a cold beer. But I had plenty of beers the prior week and figured taking a break from the greatness that is Portland’s beer scene would be a good idea.

I spent the past week wobbling around (on one good foot) Portland, Oregon.
“I’m going [dramatic pause] to feed myself”, is what I told everyone.

Yes, food. Beer. Coffee.

The people. I’ve needed to connect with people there. Something about going after the holidays seemed too far and I was feeling too antsy. I wanted to connect before the holiday exhaustion set in. And I’m so glad I did.

I will not dive into the play by play, but I spent most of my days eating at my favorite haunts and spending time with people I’ve missed the most. I loved seeing my niece and nephew, and how big they are getting. Little P-Lu, especially. Chubby arms. Walking around on top of legos like they were nothing.

“She’s made of marshmallows and steel”, we joke. And it’s true. She is.

And W, still so bright and intrigued and silly.

I drove around the city a good bit and thought it’d be a good idea to give myself a lot of grace.

At least that’s what I heard being said in my belly. It brought me to tears, at one point, sitting in St. John’s Cathedral Park, breathing in the cold wet damp, and watching the lowest clouds stream through the trees like locks of hair being pulled through the teeth of a comb.

What a beautiful place this is. I remember the streets I walked down to get to work and thought, “Man, these were such sweet, sweet times.” I let myself feel afraid and acknowledged what made me feel anxious. My doubts about being a good husband. In my head, feeling like I had abandoned my people and left a career that was actually taking me somewhere.

No longer is it important for me to prove anything to anyone there. What happened, happened. I found myself experiencing some sadness from sitting in a place that once held heavy and heartbreaking conversations, and remembering always the sun-gold tomatoes that grew their vines around our old bikes.

What sweet and amazing and devastating things happened here. And I am alive. I am moving and movement is life, as they say.

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When my plane landed in New Orleans last night, I found out the Saints had lost.
I also found out about the riots and rulings in Ferguson.

My heart sank. It was all I could think about my entire drive home. How complex and angry and sad this made me and so many other people feel. How people I love and respect would disagree with one another. That’s sort of hard. We’re not very good at disagreeing, or seeing each other in a state of grace.

I realize I say grace a lot. And while that comes with a spirituality you may or may not want to be a part of, it can be universally understood. It is something I’m learning to understand.

When my plane was finally above all the dark and mucky stuff, I was able to see the sun setting far away. We were flying away from it, so I had to twist my head to see the horizon.

And there it was.

All sorts of warmth, even in the frigid blue. I thought that maybe I would be okay with this kind of heaven.

I leaned my head in the awkward space and closed my eyes. Traveling forward. Chasing a sky turning darker, and darker. All I could think about was chubby marshmallow arms and bright smiles. New normals. Fears and anxieties slowly laying to rest in the same ground from which they came.

Onward.

Into another horizon with the warmth of the sun licking my heels.

There is good, here.

And also in our hearts, especially where it hurts and feels the most dark.

Deep, deep down,
there is fire and amber and steel,
building a new heaven,
and a new horizon,
going on into eternity.

 

to hannah, on your graduation day

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Hi Han,

I used to write you a lot.
Even in India, we would write back and forth, share playlists and stay out later than we were allowed. And the year we spent long distance, shooting back and forth emails and songs and letters.

We got married, chubby and with pale skin.

We lived together for about five years. Ate a lot of good food. Had hurtful, imaginative and life-giving conversations. I used to feel guilty about not understanding the way you thought, like maybe I wasn’t fast enough or mature enough. You helped me out of those ditches. You brushed me off.

You were hungry, so I fed you.

I ended up being okay as a home cook.

You supported me pursuing that life, which meant being alone a lot during the day and night, but also getting to benefit from experiments at home, and to also let it fill our bellies when it wasn’t so great.
I was more than a cook. I took the role of comedian and listener and ball-buster and doubter of things I deemed ridiculous. I suppose that’s a role that goes back and forth.

But you loved to eat good food. And you loved that I was southern.

thank you.
you were the reason I started to cook. 

And we grew, and grew. Sometimes more chubby. A little less in certain seasons. But also like branches, out from their tree.

You went to a place I couldn’t follow. A place only you yourself were able to explore. A place that I felt you moving towards, even before that morning, where we both wept in our perspective resting places. My brown chair. And that Ikea couch where you fell asleep almost every night. You always said it was brown, but it was definitely a shade of purple. Something we never had agreed upon, jokingly. Fair enough. It belongs with a 2nd grade teacher now and I’m sure her kids don’t care all that much.

You were in school most of our marriage. A decision that was made through some financial stability, as I somehow became the manager of a coffee space in downtown Portland. You would have the space to go back to school, and it was something we both felt you needed to do.

And you did so well, even through all those damn reflection papers. Straight A’s all the time. Always putting my shitty ‘C’ average to shame. We would celebrate often, as every couple should do. Celebrate any time you can. Celebrate good grades and promotions and half anniversaries. Celebrate each other.

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So now, even as we find ourselves on a different road from where we started, I am finding space in my heart to celebrate you, today.

There are nights that I find myself choking back tears, because of some anger or a picture of you fell out of a book. Or through a rogue letter caught somehow in an old drawer.

I know you’ve worked hard.
And I know this was one of the hardest things you’ll ever have to do.

In many aspects, I will know you in ways no other person has.
People never leave us. Ya know?

As I like to imagine that scene in Harry Potter where Sirius points to Harry’s heart and says, “We’re hereyou see?

You will be walking in a gown, I assume. With a silly hat, looking much like a professor at Hogwarts.

And I will be doing what I do. Probably dishes. Or putting a plate on the pass waiting for a server to come scuffling over during the rush.

But I am close, Han.

And I am sending you light and love.

celebrate.

                                                   — Josh

 

 

 

Then Came the Meatballs…

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It was one of the best meals of my life.

I was new to Woodlawn C&P, my most recent place of employment. We were across the street from a rustic Italian joint called Firehouse.

Appropriately enough, the building itself used to be a firehouse; back when pictures were just black and white, and a giant rail car ran through the streets.

Matt, the chef and owner of the restaurant was around a lot during the beginnings of WCP, so one day he said, “Come to dinner tonight, I’ll take care of y’all…”

I wasn’t used to industry talk. We had been saving for a night out, anyways.

Hannah and I got dressed up well, or maybe she did, and I just did my best.

My favorite server Stephen, which I didn’t know at the time, was serving us.
“Hey, I work over at Woodlawn…Matt told me to come in and I think we’re just gonna leave it up to him!”
“Sure thing.” said Stephen. His presence helped the entire place feel warmer.

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I don’t think anyone at the time knew I was any good at cooking (not even me), or that I knew what good food was supposed to taste like. I had been reading cookbooks and memoirs about kitchen life, and I was still antsy to soak it all in.

I watched the inferno in their gorgeous wood-fired oven lick the top of the dome where they would cook pizza and mussels and bread. Wood smoke on food is amazing, if you didn’t already know that.

For the life of me, I can’t remember everything we ate.

But it began with fried cauliflower. Like most of the meals I continued to eat at Firehouse, it always started with fried cauliflower. Nutty, brown, and the first bite was always too hot, but you bit into it anyways. Served with lemon crème fraiche, it was the most comforting thing.

Sliding over our cocktails came a few more dishes. Romaine hearts, with anchovy, lemon and shaved pecorino. Bruschetta with chevre and acorn squash.

Then the pizza.

Neapolitan style. Almost gooey-like in the middle, as it should. 6-8 minutes max in that blazing hot oven, and they are done. It was a simple but perfect margherita. Basil, light tomato sauce, and buffalo mozzerella. Doused with a bit of good olive oil before hitting the table, and with a pinch or two of chili flake to taste.

I was almost full.

Then came the meatballs.

Three rich, fatty, sweet balls of meat that I’d never had come close since then. Braised in a light tomato-rosemary sauce with lucinato kale and a hunk of pugliese bread.

Hannah was done, but when someone is giving you the whole nine, I ain’t stoppin’.

We did it.

We ate all the food.

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Then came the digestif.

And then some sweets. Perhaps one of their pot de crèmes or tarts. I can’t quite recall, I think I was so blissed out that I lost some subtle conciousness.

If Matt read this, I know he would probably shake his head, and downplay how dramatic it was to me.

They comped our entire meal that night.

Not only was it a gesture of thanks, but it was a welcoming. I was becoming part of a bigger family.

It was this meal that taught me how good and simple and close to home food could be.

It changed how I cooked at home. It changed a lot more than that. It set the bar for what I wanted for myself.

I kept going back. For cauliflower, for meatballs, for the pizza. Each time, throwing my hands in the air (at least in my head) and submitting to the whole damn thing over and over again.

It allowed me to venture into other places that took just as much care of their food. I was spoiled rotten, I tell ya. Rotten.

Yes, it was one of the best meals of my life. And I will hold it deep down with all those good things that make me want to be a better cook, and how all the work they put in, came out to me on that table.

 

fried catfish and broken windshields

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Looking at the remnants of a broken passenger side window, my brain is fluttering.

I received an email from a person who said they found some books and a journal of mine about two miles up the road from where I live. (Along with broken glass.)

Ah, great. I think to myself.
I rush home to see my car had been broken into. All they had taken was my brown bag which contained Susan Cain’s “Quiet” (a book on being introverted, ha!), Marco Pierre White’s “A Devil in the Kitchen” and my food journal. I’m guessing in a sense of desperation, they grabbed the first thing that could maybe be valuable. Though they left my $120 chef’s knife and stereo. I guess people don’t steal stuff like that anymore.

Yeah, I was mad. Mostly because I don’t really have $190 bucks to get a new window, but also, I have stuff to do. Places to go. Things to move. (Including myself.) I suppose there are just some things you can’t control. Which just so happens to be most things.

I do have a lot to be angry about.
Leaving this city, regardless of the ridiculous shit that happens. But that’s every city, every day.

Leaving family and friends.
Saying goodbye.
Being a wreck.

I had to sit on my bed a few minutes ago and breathe in and breathe out, chanting to myself, “Don’t freak out. Don’t freak out.”

But dammit, I did not need this to happen too.

Regardless of the unfortunate situation that occurred yesterday, I came home from work and fried a bunch of catfish with my roommates. They poured me a beer and we commiserated for a second, and got on with our evening. Saying things like, “Man, I’m sorry, but I’d be so angry…you’re handling this so well!!”

I sort of just stare at the ground and raise my shoulders. “I dunno.”

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Yes, someone broke into my car. It’s unfortunate. I can be mad if I want to. But that does not add to my life. I’ve learned this as of late. It is broken regardless of how I feel. I can, instead, be grateful for the last few moments that I am with people I care about. I can cook them food and listen to their stories.

A broken windshield usually equals a pretty crappy day. You’re angry there’s not justice and that you have to foot the bill. But sheesh, this is story of millions.

I suppose though, going through a divorce, and a separation of body and soul, your priorities of anger change. Being alone is a hard thing. Doubting yourself, and your goodness is hard too.

Allowing your own voices to tear you apart is dangerous.

So what, a dude thought he could snatch something for a fix. He/She’s fighting their own battle. A battle that happened to include my car. I don’t know, I could be really mad. But I sort of laugh through it, because the pendulum always swings both ways.

I will allow myself to break down when I need to. But a broken window is not a determining factor.

Yes, I am tired and weary. The long road is ahead of me and I will say goodbye to the Rose City. I am also so thankful for its grace in my time of growing. You take the good with the bad. There is room for it all.

And when you need more space in your heart, you will mourn the loss of that anger and love that fueled your change, and you will wake up with something fresh. Something new, and something you know will become more familiar with time.

Here’s to healing,

and fixed windows,

and the long road ahead.

five years.

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As I process leaving this city and state, I am overwhelmed with a lot of things.

I think about my life here. 

It has been five years this February.

I packed up my car the day Obama was sworn in as President of the United States, said goodbye to my mom and drove into the Great Pacific Northwest.

I remember it all so well. Breaking down as I hit the Columbia River Gorge, and having to get it all out. How I was scared, and how I was so far away from home, and would be getting married so soon. It had all set in. All big moves are met with this realization eventually. The excitement of change is powerful. It distracts from the enormity of your decision. Living in another place takes it out of ya.

I settled in quickly. My home was already here, you see?

And I grew so fast. I changed and shifted.

I was a barista. A manager. A cook. A sous chef.

Friend. Husband. In-law. Son. Brother. Uncle.

All of these things contained inside this heart of mine.

A life, a full one, lived here.

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I wish so badly more of my family could have seen me live here. I wish they could’ve met my friends and my family. I wish they could have seen me cook and see where it was I made a home for four of those years.

This is where I became strong!

(I will tell them…)

I will show them where the tomatoes grew high.

And where I learned how to cook.

I would show them wine country. And the coast. And the Great Mountain.

I would sit with them in the rose gardens and share my heart. How I crumbled. And how I stood back up.

How it was all these people who pulled me up out of the trenches, dusted me off and told me,

we love you, Josh.

I lived a life here, so many people I know will never know. Maybe through Facebook, or at this here blog. But what I wanted them to see are the people I will miss so terribly. And the farm dinners in the Summer. The leaves in the Fall. The rain, and apparently, the snow.

But my friends and family far away showed me the same, wonderful, strong love that it takes to pull one out of these things. And I am going back to them.

I am returning the same way I came, in my little red car. Fresh.

Head held high.

(with the occasional, and necessary breakdown.)

And I will think of my friends who are going to have their baby soon.
The person who will take my place behind the stove at Woodlawn.
My roommate who will be using my desk for school work.

I lived a life here.

I was married here.
I learned how to live life deeply with another, and to also watch it unravel a bit, near its end.
This will take me some time, I think to myself. Hmff.

But it was full and big and necessary.

Today, I will give in to that sadness.
Knowing good and well people and places never leave you.
Never, ever, ever.

And I hope I left something good here. Something strong.
I hope I was good to its people.
I did recycle and compost a lot.

I give thanks, not only to the people who made this place so wonderful for me,
but also to the cultures here before any of us had a favorite IPA or doughnut.
They kept this land beautiful and thriving. I thank them for helping me to understand such a place.

This is all sacred ground I walk upon.

I lived a life here.

Even if you didn’t see or hear me,

I was here.

Plow to the Earth,

making a home,

and growing in abundance.

No hummus and pita plate! (An update, of sorts)

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I realize I’ve taken a bit of a jump from what I used to talk about.

Food has kept me more than alive these past few months. I don’t know if I would have been able to cope with my personal life if I wouldn’t have had a kitchen to cook in. The industry is funny like that. As stressful and demanding as it can be, it is a home for many. It’s been a home for me. Not just in a kitchen, but with other cooks and industry folk. They have held me tightly, given me space to create, and have fed me and let me frequent their barstools. If not to take the edge off, just a bit, but the company has been so important.

I wrote a long time ago that I had been given the task to start a dinner service at Woodlawn Coffee & Pastry, where I was once a barista, and now sous chef of a kitchen.

Well, in June, we started serving dinner hoping our liquor license would show up the next week. A lot of weird things happened and it was just taking too long, and we were being stretched too thin. So, I went back to doing breakfast, lunch and prep shifts until we got our liquor license straightened away. And so, a few weeks ago, we were officially given our liquor license. Woo!

So this Thursday, we will be having a sort of ‘grand opening’ harvest party to showcase some of the food we’ll be serving, and also as a way to have fun and welcome in the new season. It’s been a long time coming, for sure.

I’m stoked on my menu and am really proud of the way it looks.

I am, though, in the process of figuring out how to run a kitchen. Which means, thinking about food at least two weeks in advance and figuring out how to cook food with a kitchen staff that is pretty much just me, and the occasional runner, prep cook.

It’s a little scary, but I’m ready. And let’s be honest, when cooking in a kitchen, you will think you are ready, but it can change in a heartbeat. You just gotta power through it and hope to come out on the other side.

I’ve been learning a lot from other cooks. Learning to degrease as much as I can so our sink won’t back up. I’m always so amazed about how cooking relies so much on being clean, and cleaning. Always, cleaning. Haha. (I never write laughs in my blogs, but it’s so true…)

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Like I said, I’m super stoked on the menu. It’ll change quite often, considering I try hard to keep it seasonal.

This time, we are adding some house charcuterie on the menu. Pork rillettes, pate de campagne (country pate), and eventually, chicken liver mousse.

I suppose I am designing a menu on people drinking. Personally, I love rich, satisfying food when drinking a stiff cocktail or sake or wine.

No nachos. Not that I’m opposed to them, they’re just played out drinking food. No pita and hummus plate! Bah humbug! I always crack on this. I don’t know why. I just know whenever I go to a pub and see pita and hummus with raw veggies, I realize it’s easy and it’s filler, and honestly, it sells. I just can’t do it right now.

I’m excited to showcase pimiento cheese and house made crackers.  A killer meatloaf sandwich (which I’ve been told is better than most burgers on the block) and of course, since we’re a pastry shop, our desserts will be bangin’.

I’m excited, y’all. Feeding people, given its trials from time to time, really is meaningful to me.

If you do find yourself wondering about Portland, come by and say hi!

I’d love to feed ya.

Until next time, I raise my glass to those who have stuck with me during these hard, hard months. Thank you for reading and following and just being super wonderful people. It means so much to me.

-Josh

Josh Dreams of Pickle Juice

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“Pickle juice!”

I woke at 4am a few days ago, and this is what came out of my mouth.
I frantically typed it in the “notes” section of my phone, along with something that says, “beets with skin on, fennel and apple” and some flight confirmation code that I used to check-in to the airport last week.

If it’s any sign of things to come, sleep is not looking very promising.

Since I began cooking as a means of income, there are some truths that are important to always keep in the forefront.

Use everything you can.

Get the most out of a celery stalk.

Use potato skins.

Keep the peels of garlic, onions, carrots and celery leaves for stock. Yes, the peels have the most flavor, usually.

Corn cobs make great stock.

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I have become the master pickler at Woodlawn. It’s not something I was into before coming in to cook, but a mild interest. Mainly because I’m Southern and although pickles aren’t strictly Southern, they are important to the culture of preserving.
I used to can everything, but we went through them so fast, that I just decided to make big batches of quick pickles. Delicious, fast, easy. (And it’s Portland. We supposedly pickle everything. Fair enough.)

I say quick in the sense that you make a brine and let the veggies sit over night. But, you can also toss some radish with a little sugar and salt and get sort of the same effect.

At the end of the day, you’re left with lots of pickling juice. I’m a proponent of cider vinegar. I swear I could drink the stuff straight. Sometimes I do with a little honey, lemon and hot water. It’s good for you, so they say.

It’s sweet. It’s a little more pricey than straight distilled vinegar, but it’s good.

And since we are so close to getting our liquor license at the shop, I’ve been thinking of ways to use it.

Hence, the 4am epiphany where I thought, “Pickle juice! Bloody Mary! Yes!”
While this thought is obvious to most, my strong willed sub-conscious had obviously picked up on it before I could. Which is to say maybe id is a better cook than me. (Oh, see what I did there? Thank you C+ psychology degree.)

Then I began scouring the net for Bloody Mary recipes, coming along one that used pickled okra juice. And from then on, you can start building what it is you actually want.

If you do decide to start messin’ around with pickles, go crazy! Adding things like clove, anise, coriander and thai chiles — adds a whole new spectrum to your brine.

Give it a shot.

And maybe you too will be lucky enough to dream about the glories of pickle juice!

Happy picklin’, my friends.

 

meat (and moon)

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Sometimes, I’m afraid to look at this blog.

Really, there are a lot of things I’d like to say at this point in life. A lot of things involving choice words I know my momma would prefer me leaving out and ideas that are just a little over the top.

And there will be a time for that.

I’ve been writing (read:blogging) like this since high school. Granted, it was more about girls and God and whining about things I can’t even remember now. But I suppose that’s how life goes. Things get big, then they get smaller. Sometimes they even disappear. I suppose if we were to hold on to everything, it would be an awfully big world to carry.

But today, I’m feeling tired. Mostly in my back. A few burnt and chapped fingers. It comes with the gig.

I spent most of this past Sunday out at a berry farm assisting some of Portland’s finest cooks prepare a big family style meal for 115 patrons. My friend Erika created Plate & Pitchfork — which provides growers, farmers, vintners, brewers and chefs a day to collaborate on meals, while also raising awareness for local food movements and various organizations. It is a good thing. To be aware of one’s food and where it comes from. (I suggest if you make it to Oregon for a summer, consider one of her dinners. They are always so beautiful and her and her team are some hard working bad-asses.)

I worked with Erika as a server a couple of years back just as my foodie interests were peaking and had always loved being near the cooks. Only this time, I was on the other side. Standing among grills burning hot mesquite, breaking down huge cuts of meat and plating pretty desserts. There was a certain point where I took it all in, feeling deeply my desire to be among these kind of people. Crude humor aside, they are my family.

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The owner/farmer of Smith Berry barn went out and caught me some crawfish in his little irrigation creek. There were only about 12 — not nearly enough for anyone to be satisfied, but I certainly cooked them to the best of my ability while serving him mid course on a shiny white plate with four crawfish, tails tucked tightly, shining bright red. Beauty of a thing. He was so excited, mostly because he had never eaten them. It was a pleasure to give him a taste. And properly done, at that.

It was a warm sun. I watched as moms and dads taught their little ones to pick berries, “If they’re pink, they’re not ready okay?” As they look toward their bleach blonde babies with berry juice dripping down their chins.

“Eat them things up.” I say to myself.

A big moon came out and took the edge off the heat.

I took a short walk in between the lanes of blueberries and blackberries, letting the moon cool my sunburn.

Feeling it in my knees, I became aware of this journey.

I knew it deep down that I can’t be quiet about the things inside of me. A cage is no place for a voice to be heard. We all have important things to say.

I am glad, deep down, I can say them here.

And I’m thankful, at the end of the day,

that I have some people out there who listen.

hey pocky way!

Food

I moved to Oregon in 2009 from my Beloved South.

Upon doing so, I loaded my car with all of my belongings and 15 bags of Zapps potato chips.

They weren’t all for me, but for the people I was staying with along the way. Sort of like a, “Thanks for letting me crash! Here’s a little piece of my story!” I mean, Zapps are delicious! But they’re funny, ya know? That’s the whole idea.

This Saturday, (yikes, tomorrow!) I will be hosting my 5th Mardi Gras party right down the road.

I have very sentimental memories of my first Mardi Gras here. I didn’t know everyone that well. I was still meeting the people my wife knew and loved and was aching for something familiar.

I made fried chicken, hushpuppies, fried pickles and for good measure, (crab) boiled veggies with shrimp. Zapps were a part of it, as well as our favorite King Cake from Paul’s Pastry in Picayune, MS. — my hometown.

The gumbo I didn’t make until our second year. It wasn’t very good. I was up till 2am stirring the roux, not realizing how long it takes to make a proper gumbo. I used carrots instead of bell pepper for the Trinity — which was okay — but not the Trinity, ya know?

We had about 12 people in our tiny apartment.

A couple of years passed and now we’re nearing 40-45 people in a space not my own.

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Can’t say that it’s not a little over-whelming to know that, but I’m so excited. It’s so fun to pull something like that off — especially when it’s something that means so much to me. Having people experience that part of my culture and eat some good food along the way. It just does my heart good.

Not to mention it comes at a dreary time in the Northwest. It always lifts my spirit to get that twinge of excitement in the middle of January. Knowing that in a few weeks, we will be celebrating and eating and inevitably dancing with another year of Mardi Gras in Portland.

I’ll let y’all know how it goes. Until then,

I got a roux to make!

food cart update!

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I owe it to you who read this blog.

The ones who take a few minutes to keep up with Lagniappe and whatever the heck it is I’m cooking, with maybe a few small stories. It means so, so much to have you here.

I had been feeling a lot of stress with starting the food cart this next summer. I was rushing to complete a video (which is still in the works), raise money and start looking for a cart. And while I’m not exactly ‘not’ doing those things, I am taking space to do it right.

This means, we won’t be starting the cart until [fingers crossed] at least, summer of 2013 — which seems like such a long time to wait, but it doesn’t mean Lagniappe is on hold. It is still steadily being built in our imaginations and plates. We just needed more time.

We needed more space to dream and plant and cook. We’re at peace with this decision.

But, because I’ve pushed the date back does not mean I don’t need you. I need y’all now, more than ever. To spread this blog, to comment, to encourage and to try the things I try. Not only that, this little blog is such a bright part of my week. I’ve been thinking about posting twice a week, instead of the Tuesday/Wednesday blog. It might be too much for me, but I really enjoy doing it. Perhaps one narrative and one recipe. Let’s see if we can at least, get that rollin’.

We’ve chatted about the possibility of opening up a stand at our farmer’s market next summer to serve the food we’d like to offer at Lagniappe. It’d be an awesome way to build up a small following…if people decided to follow what we’re doing. Heh.

We’ve also been pondering up new food ideas. Just because it’s southern food, doesn’t mean we can’t deviate from the norm. After all, so much of life’s excitement comes from deviation, am I right Psychology/Statistic nerds??!!

Anyways, with all that being said, we are very much alive and well.

…and as always, ready to cook!