How to Make Sushi with a Friend

I remember writing a blog entry a few months back, and promising that this wouldn't become a food blog. I promise, that was not a lie. "Become" is a word that completely transfers and changes, you see, so I can honestly say that I'm sticking with that. Yes, perhaps 99% of my blogs are now just pictures of food, but hey! I like pictures of food. I like pictures of food so, so much. Also, I'm busy. And lazy. So with that eloquent and detailed explanation, I give you...more pictures of food. But since I like you so much, you lucky so-and-so, I'll tell you what's happening too. How's that for busy and lazy!

I've discussed with several people lately how much I love cooking, baking, and preparing food with friends. Good activity, amazing company, and a satisfying result at the end. When else am I this productive with friends, I ask you? Sarah and I threw together last year's Nude Year's party on a whim and had the best time putting together appetizers and Nutella-banana empanadas. Sara, Layla, and I always had a great time preparing the spread for the Halloween parties, even though it was hours and hours of work. And I'll always appreciate that some of my favorite dates have been making dinner with a charming young man. Or a not so charming young man...in fact, on a few occasions, I think I liked making the dinner a lot more than I liked the man. Whoops a daisy!

Last night was the perfect example of this. One of my best and dearest friends, Tara, came to town, and had the brilliant idea of making sushi at her parents' house, which I'd never done before. Don't worry, though; although I'm a crappy student, Tara is a wonderful teacher. We had a wonderful time, putting together the rolls and gossiping about work, men, the future, and The Glee Project. Yep, we sure did. I got a lot of avocado on my camera whilst obsessively documenting. That was grody. But, hey, sexy results below, right? This is, by no means, a recipe, but more so a step-by-step guide on how to have an awesome time while making sushi.

First, you need a lovely friend and a bright and well-equipped kitchen. Thanks, Linda and Clay!

Next, you cut up whatever vegetables you want to include. Try and make them thin and long, and somewhat uniform.

We used carrots, cucumber, avocado, and tofu.

Linda, Tara's mom, had made sticky rice the day before, which shortened the process. Though, it still took us over two hours. Wah wah!

Tara cooked the tofu - you just dry fry it in a nonstick pan until it browns.

Hay, ingredients!

Sometimes people look a little sexy when they cook.

And sometimes people need to buckle down and focus and get back to work. That's right, Tschillard. Tighten it up.

Tara and Linda.

The assembly: Separate the rice a bit in your fingers and spread a layer over a sheet of seaweed. Then include whatever ingredients you want in that roll. We used all of them in this one.

This was the green roll: just cucumber and avocado. Texture-wise, this was my favorite.

Once you've got all the ingredients in, you roll them up and seal the end of the seaweed with a little bit of water. We made eight rolls total.

You need a sharp knife to cut through the rolls, otherwise they fall apart, or as Tara, said "explode." Wow, Tara, how dramatic!

This is one end of a roll, which looks a bit uneven, but you get the idea.

This is how many pieces we had. I bet we could make some great food bets and challenges with these!

Carrot, cucumber, and avocado rolls.

On the table. Good presentation is important, you know.

On the plate with a little soy sauce and wasabi mixed in.

I have to say, making sushi is the perfect activity for somebody with slight touches of OCD: you get to cut up vegetables uniformly and tiny, you make a huge mess that you get to eventually roll up into a neat little seaweed package, you get to arrange the ingredients by color, texture, and food group, you get to wash your hands numerous times...seriously, it's perfect.

We had a lovely evening of cooking and preparing food, then sharing it with Tara's parents and their friend. Tara also made these delicious truffles for dessert, but obviously I forgot to take any pictures of that. None. Maybe it was because I was so distracted by making the sushi. Or, maybe it was the fact that Linda made me three or four of these and I sort of forgot about anything else that wasn't a margarita:
Don't you love it when your friend's mom gets you liquored up? Classy times!

P.S. There was a widespread rumor (started by myself and Linda), that sushi and margaritas don't go together well, but we were proven wrong last night! You just need to get in two to three margaritas you before you have any sushi to make it work. Don't worry, you'll be great.

This Is How We Do It (Kentucky Road Trip & Wedding in 48 Hours)

This is how we get our nails did. And this is how we pick out shoes to wear in the car.

This is how we pack the car. Fancy clothes and hats everywhere.

This is how my father sets up an office in the backseat and works for 6 hours of the 7 hour drive. Included: paper clips, manilla folders, and a stapler.

This is how I get through the morning - three cups of Bob Evans coffee.

This is how Dad manages to eat healthy even whilst on the open road.

This is how we have a late afternoon snack in the hotel bar once we arrive.

This is how we coordinate without planning and walk around intimidating all the men in the room.

This is how we turn the rehearsal dinner into a dance party.

This is how we...um...this is just how some of us are.

This is how we rock a rehearsal dinner after party.

This is how we eat breakfast the next morning. And this is how food can be helpful when some of us are feeling the effects of the after party.

This is how we run into dear old friends by chance.

This is how we put on our wedding makeup while still in the bed.

This is how we wear our shoes.

This is how lovely they are.

This is how we drink at a wedding. Plus fifty or more.

This is how we dance at a wedding.

This is how the Mother of the Groom brought enough bellydancing scarves for the whole crowd.

This is how he does it.

This is how she does it.

And this is how we end the night.
This is how we do it.

Italy #4: Gnocchi

I learned to pronounce it in Italian class in 2000. Domenic Vecchi was in that class, lovely Domenic. A shy, skinny, and modest Greek god-looking guy. I stared at him a lot. Vecchi means "old" in Italian; you pronounce the C twice and make a hard C sound, like a K, due to the "ch." VEK-KI. NYOK-KI. Double C. Chi.

On our first night in Florence, we have a long and confusing walk to the restaurant for dinner. Miscommunication and misdirection lead us to a much longer walk than necessary, as well as extreme hunger, which automatically brings about aggravation and short patience in my family. And we've been together for twelve days straight and have four more days together. In order to still like each other and enjoy one another's company in this beautiful city, we're gonna need to eat some food. Some delicious food. Now.

Long story short, we finally get to Buca Mario and I order the gnocchi. Hard C sound. The menu says that it's served with a gorgonzola sauce. That's it. No meat, no vegetables, no side, just a heavy, creamy sauce on top of small dumplings on a plate. That is what I want, so that is what I order. And this is what I receive:

The sauce coats every piece perfectly without being overbearing. And it's rich - so rich. Not overly cheesy, but plenty flavorful. I have no idea what this gnocchi is made of, whether potato, wheat flour, bread, or something else. It doesn't matter. What matters is that I can take one single gnocchi in my mouth and stretch it over my tongue like bubble gum, but softer and savory and more delicious than any stupid piece of gum could ever dream of being. And at the point at which the bubble should inflate, the gnocchi simply melts. This is how I eat each piece.

And I fall in love. With the gnocchi, the waiter, the restaurant, with Florence. In love with all of it.

So, I guess it's easier than I thought. Just catch me while I'm crabby and hungry, then serve me gorgonzola gnocchi, and I'll belong to you forever.

Well, it might help if we're in Florence. But it's probably worth a try.

Italy #1: How I Got Here

The first time I came to Italy, it was 1997 and I was 18 years old. My parents, Emil, and I were visiting Amu Jamil, one of Dad's oldest and best friends from Baghdad, and his family. They were, at the time, living in the south of France in a small town near Nice. Jamil and his family were very spontaneous; one morning one of them got it in their head that we should drive into Italy. So we did.

Our goal was to get to Florence, but we only got as far as Portofino and Santa Margherita (of the Pinot Grigio fame) that night. Point A is Nice, Point B is where we ended up, and Point C is where we were trying to go. Whoops a daisy!
We stayed in a hotel overlooking the sea and ate delicious food and drank chianti, and my father and Amu Jamil had their arms around each other at all times singing "Forget Domani" over and over and laughing and smiling. It was two days of pure letting go, forgetting anxiety and troubles, eating and drinking deliciously, and literally, not having a care in the world.


The second time I came to Italy, it was 2001 and I was 22. I'd just finished my undergrad and traveled to Urbino to do a 3-week long piano study. I hooked up with Lauren, a 19 year old classical pianist from Boulder, and Matt, and 18 year old composer from Janesville. The three of us were inseparable for those three weeks.

Every morning we woke up leisurely and walked the two miles into town. The town center was located at the top of an immense and steep hill; there was even the option of paying three euros to take an elevator - that was built into the side of the mountain - to the top. But we always walked. It was like an incredible reward every day, trekking along the busy street outside our dorms in a single-file line, climbing that giant hill, and as we approached the top, taking in the beautiful Renaissance architecture, smelling the espresso wafting from the cafés, and watching the well-dressed citizens go about their business. This is a cell phone picture of a printed picture - see if you can see the steepness of the path in the way back of the picture.

We had a pretty regular daily routine: we'd buy coffee and pastries at a little shop on the Piazza, and then head over to the University to practice and have lessons.
After a few hours, Matt and I usually stopped for a slice of pizza in town, eating it sitting on the curb or standing against a building. We'd then walk back to our dorm rooms, back down the hill, for siesta. Lauren and I were roommates, and we'd lay around talking about boyfriends and love and stuff for hours. After siesta, we'd walk back into town, get a gelato, and spend the rest of the afternoon and evening in our Master Class. We always had to wash our hands in this half-broken and I'm sure ancient fountain outside the school between gelato and class. Some nights after class, we'd go back to the University for dinner in their cafeteria where we sampled delicious gnocchi and fresh vegetables and cheese. Other nights, we splurged, staying in town and finding a little restaurant for dinner. Our standard order:

Una bottaglia di vino di casa rosso - tre bicchiere - e una prosciutto e melone, e una pizza margherita.

It's the only thing I still feel completely comfortable saying in Italian. We had long, slow meals and drank wine late into the night, talking and laughing and learning about each other. Occasionally, we'd head over to a table at the Piazza and sit and watch people, sipping on limoncello or cappuccino or more wine.

We took a day trip to Venice, where we spent a few hours walking over canals and flirting with beautiful men passing by. I remember watching a gondola float under a bridge I was standing on. In it was a man belting out a song I couldn't identify, but knew I'd heard out of the mouth of Pavarotti (via my parents' old records). I couldn't believe it was actually happening right in front of my eyes. The man in white in the first gondola is the singing man.
Leaving Italy, we flew out of the Rome airport at about 4 am. I remember looking longingly at the black sky and hoping some day to come back. It had been a 3-week journey through food, drink, music, and people. It was luxurious and lovely.

And I did come back. The third time I came to Italy was yesterday. It was another long and annoying journey, as has been the case on this current trip. We'd driven two hours from Fethard to Dublin, flown 2 1/2 hours from Dublin to Frankfort, then ran for over half a mile through the stupidly gigantic Frankfort airport in an attempt to make our connecting flight. Although I ran more and faster than I have in about 20 years, we missed our flight.

Thankfully, we rebooked and were in Rome about 3 hours later. But I was on edge; sick of traveling and flying anxiety, exhausted and hungry, desperately needing alone time and probably a shower. Rough start to this beautiful country I have come to love so much. But within about five minutes of being in Rome, we passed a man in the street playing an accordion and singing, and these other things just started to melt away. After about an hour of rest and some cold water splashed on faces, we ventured out for dinner. It was a small restaurant down the road from our hotel with tables crowded next to each other and signed pictures on the wall of all the famous people who had eaten there. Most of the pictures featured the owner of the restaurant kissing the famous ladies on the cheek - but I did spot one of him kissing Burt Reynolds as well.

We ate prosciutto and melon, caprese salad, and deliciously fried artichokes.

We each ordered a different pasta and sampled each others'.



Dad ordered gelato to split at the end of the meal. Ridiculously decadent. Today we toured parts of Rome and Vatican City, then ate pizza and a meat antipasto for lunch (eat your heart out, Delicious Food!). Now we're back at the hotel for siesta and the window is open to let in a slight breeze that gently moves the sheer curtains, as well as the voice of an invisible man singing somewhere outside. And somebody practicing their flute.

It all feels so unreal, even when right in front of me. This country that has me smiling all day, the people who somehow get by on spending their days leisurely drinking espresso on the street or eating the most delicious food that exists. Spontaneous singing and accordion playing. Not to get all Eat Pray Love on your ass or anything, but really, this country is unlike any other - it emphasizes pleasure, luxury, relaxation, happiness. It really seems too good to be true, but then you remember, no. We're right here, and it's real, and that guy is seriously singing O Solo Mio. Believe it.

Dearest Italy, are you for real? Regardless, thank you, and good timing. I needed a little fantasy world in my life right now. And I cannot wait to write about the fourth time I came to Italy. And the fifth. And so on.