My sister-in-law, who lives in the 'burbs, mentioned to me the other week that she had ventured into a local Middle Eastern market and been thrilled with what she discovered. Most towns have at least one ethnic market—Korean, Mexican, Greek—serving not only its immigrant community but anyone smart enough to take advantage of its wares. They present a fantastic opportunity to do a little armchair traveling, and to expand your cooking repertoire in the process. When I lived in L.A., I found the most amazing Thai market and, with the help of this extraordinary book, entered a whole new world of fish sauce, palm sugar, wild lime, sticky rice and green papaya. Of course New York City is like one big ethnic market, but when I want Japanese ingredients, I love to take a trip to Mitsuwa. I've mentioned this enormous Japanese superstore before—its aisles of rice, sake and bonito flakes, ramen stalls and red bean confections—but thought I would show you some of my bounty from a recent visit. The store is located in Edgewater, New Jersey, and well worth your time even if all you come away with is an automated rice cooker.
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I'm winding down from my juice fast. Three days seems like enough this time. My emotions were very front and center today. This can happen when you fast. You become a little vulnerable. Seriously, I'm not being a drama queen. (I'm no Saint Teresa of Ávila, performing devotions of ecstasy, but allow me my little musings, won't you?) I've been working hard on some advertising projects for Target and I may need a few more carbohydrates for brain power. But I have definitely noticed how easy it is to get by on a lot less food. A LOT less. I'm going to try and remember that the next time I'm packing in three squares. OK, yes, I am talking about calorie restriction. (Gasp!) Apparently, it helps you live longer. Not entirely sure that's what I'm striving for; I'll settle for fitting into some of my skinnier jeans. I've just made a pot of very simple vegetable soup: onion, cabbage, celery, carrot, spinach and parsley. Big hunks of everything simmered together in water with a little salt, until it all gets soft. This is the perfect way to break a fast and it's actually quite delicious, clean-tasting and a little sweet. (Also good for when you're sick as it delivers a lot of vital green nutrition and doesn't tax your system.) It's best to come off a fast gently, although I've also been known to cram a fried chicken drumstick doused with Tabasco sauce in my mouth. This time, I'll hopefully segue to a hot pot for tomorrow evening, using my new donabe and a bunch of ingredients G picked up at Mitsuwa, the mecca for Japanese cooking (and eating) in Edgewater, New Jersey.

 

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Seven years ago, I made a Christmas picnic on top of the bed where my then-husband lay dying of cancer. He was home for the holidays, having just been released from the hospital after undergoing major surgery to remove a part of his spinal column that was infested with tumor. He was grateful just to be able to lie in his own bed and wolf down some foie gras on toast. (He was quite possibly the original glutton for life.) My gift from him that year was a watch, and I remember being painfully aware of the irony. On its face, I would measure the last moments of his life. I could not have imagined then what my own life would become. That I would discover a new fulfillment and joy, that I would marry again, seemed impossible at the time. But we must find a way to forge ahead, to believe in possibility and renewal.
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