gabriella gershenson

I could glorify my birthday and pretend that I wasn't a nervous hostess, that I had the chance to have a relaxed conversation with each and every one of my guests, that the birthday girl could actually enjoy her birthday. I did have episodes of euphoria and pleasure, thank goodness. But one of the most fulfilling moments of the evening was seeing what the folks at the host restaurant put together for the party-goers. Leftover fried chicken from one hell of an exruciatingly, satisfyingly, goddammit-isn't-this-what-it-means-to-be-alive indulgent meal, to go. How it delighted the ambitious and control-loving hostess in me.

"And the following day, the guests thought of the revelry, the sparkling of unsober eyes and the crust of the chicken, which was just as crunchy, just as noisy in the mouth, the very next day."

Hello dear readers. My blog has lain dormant for an embarrassing three years. Yes, it is such a remarkable length of time that it almost feels like an achievement. I've done a lot of eating and a lot of writing since then (there are also technical issues with my publishing tool, so that's another issue, but hopefully I will soon get to post all of the fun stories I've been writing for Edible Manhattan and Brooklyn, Time Out and others). Because I can't share it in pictures or link to my work, I'll have to resort to the evocative spoken word. Let's see how I do with that. Stay tuned. 

Not so lost in translation

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Last Monday, I returned from a longish trip through central Europe.  I say "central" because I mistakenly referred to the Czech Republic as eastern Europe.  I was promptly corrected by my cousin, who is spending her semester abroad in Prague and has clearly been brainwashed by the culture police. In the name of sensitive tourism, I relented.   

On the food front: Above is a photo of smazheny seer (fried cheese in a white bun with mayonnaise, like a cheese po' boy), which was recommended to me by my New York Press editor, an ex-Prague ex-pat who advised (now I know why) that I get drunk before eating it.  Clearly I wasn't drunk enough, because the "smazheny" more closely resemebled deep fried chewing gum than a mozzarella patty.  In the name of culture, I ate most of it anyway.

I just returned from a weekend with my parents, sister, and her boyfriend in the Berkshires (Massachusetts side). NB: If I continue to blog about my "life" as opposed to impersonal subjects, you will begin to notice a trend: I will write a lot about my mother's cooking. Interpret this as you will: grown up mama's girl? Bacholerette lifestyle, i.e. fridge full of condiments, eats her best home-cooked meals when visiting the parents? Both are not as far from the truth as they ought to be at this stage in my life. Anyway... back to the food.

We went to Tanglewood this afternoon for a program that included Mahler and Joshua Bell on violin. I should have saved my senses for the music (it was lovely) but I had spoiled myself by gorging on pre-concert al fresco lunch on the lawn. We've been going to Tanglewood since I was less than a year old (as my mom sentimentally recalled today) but as a family, we only recently got our sh*t together on the picnic front, and now bring those perfect meals I used to envy others for having.

Of course, it was my indefatigable mother (a cook) who threw it all together. Grilled marinated boneless chicken thighs, a salad (avocado, cucumber, radish, snow peas, parsely, feta and about a dozen other ingredients), roasted red peppers and eggplant, goat gouda and a perfect French bleu whose name eludes me (sorry) with baguette and some sauvignon blanc. (Although I still return home for food and pampering, I am old enough to drink with the folks and not have it be "cool".)

For dessert? A cold peach crostada, and half-nap under the rustling Lenox leaves. And yes, the music.