Life on My Own Terms

Lately, I haven’t been writing as much as I want to. Since I moved, I’ve been spending my time unpacking, painting, and finding all the right things I need for my new/old home. I also go to the gym, hang out with my friends, work from 9 to 5, freelance after hours, and try to follow my favorite blogs, catch the news, and read at least a few pages of good fiction before bed.

It feels like I’m always busy. To maximize my time, I haven’t been cooking in my usual style. I buy the same few things from Seward co-op and cook simply, almost sparely, with no fanfare and rarely a picture taken. No dinnertime Tweets. No facebook updates again declaring my love for beets. Just the simple act of making myself something to eat.

The other thing I haven’t been doing lately is dating, which puts a cramp in my favorite habit, going to restaurants. As I describe in my tagline, I love writing about how the city, dating, and food come together in amusing ways. For the last two years, I filled many posts with my little renderings of boy meets girl and they go out to eat. But somewhere in the middle of my extended experiment with sociability, something inside me shifted and I pretty much lost all interest.

Do I want to find someone to spend my time with? Of course I do. In so many ways, I think I’m meant to be in a relationship. But at this point, it’s been so long and the possibility feels so remote that I can only look at other people’s relationships and marriages with “bemused incomprehension,” to use a phrase from Tim Kreider’s wonderful post at the New York Times. He calls marriage and parenthood “an entire dimension of human experience undetectable to [his] senses.” When I think about relationships, I imagine a vast foreign country I may never get to visit, usually somewhere near Morocco, with beautiful, distant horizons, rare luxuries, exotic spices, roasted flatbreads, and a mutual love so sweet that even the hardships are painfully romantic. But if I close my eyes, I can almost feel it.

In some ways, I’m not concerned about the sizing-up, reckoning-day thing Kreider calls “the referendum,” where the personal choices we make in life are discreetly judged by the people we know. If I were, I’d be actively hunting for my ever-elusive partner and trying to construct four happy walls around us both. I’d also be checking the dial on my biological clock and wondering why I seem to be immune to its ticking.

In other ways, though, the referendum has come to visit. Hell, it’s set up shop in my heart and I rarely think about anything else. For me, the referendum is about finding the resolve to confront a bewildering abstraction that lives smack-dab in the middle of my life. Some people realize themselves through marriage and children. Some through buying property. Some through making a dent in the corporate world. I’ve learned that I will realize myself only through the act of creativity. For me, before anything else, I’ll be satisfied only after I find my personal expression and get it out there in the world.

I just need to figure out imprecisely what that is. I see a manuscript, a menu, and neatly folded napkins. Some white plates. Flowers flirt together in a small glass vase on the table. I’m writing at my own desk, promoting books, and cooking in a big kitchen. I’m downtown. There’s open windows and exposed bricks. There’s also an exhilarating sense of freedom because I know that the life I’m jealously peering into is my own.

In Case Anyone Asks

Although I can see how the conclusion might be drawn, I certainly didn’t grow up in the kitchen. I didn’t eat long, lavishly home-cooked meals at the table with my family. We ate things like meat, potatoes, corn, and peas and seasoned our meals with salt, pepper, mustard, and ketchup. The division of labor in the kitchen was just as simple as our food. My mom cooked every one of our meals. My dad’s only job was to show up, mash the potatoes, and eat.

It wasn’t until I was in my first relationship that food naturally became a major part of my life. Unlike my parents, my partner and I discovered each other through food. We subscribed to a CSA and experimented with cooking based on whatever vegetables the farm sent our way. We’d reference our favorite cookbooks (primarily Deborah Madison’s Vegetarian Cooking for Everyone), write down our original recipes, and play Beatles records while we perfected the sauté.

One day, his mom asked me where I learned how to cook so well. I was so surprised she asked this question that I didn’t know how to answer. Somewhere along the line, I had learned how to cook.

I often ask myself why I like cooking so much–and every time I come up with at least 12 answers. Here’s one of them. Cooking is something I can commit myself to. I think about that fantastic scene in Julie and Julia when Julia Child, played so joyfully by Meryl Streep, and her husband first arrive in Paris. Over an impossibly charming dinner, she emphatically poses a question to her diplomat husband about how she will spend her time in France: “But what will I doooo?” she implores. All she knew was that she loved to eat.

The rest is history, I suppose. Child committed herself to cooking, transformed her life, and fundamentally changed American kitchens.

So in case anyone asks, that’s why I love cooking. Creativity, passion, and determination all come together when you set out to cook a wonderful meal. It’s also something wonderful to doooo.

Will You Be My Rafaelo?

It is Valentine’s Day, and me being me, I could not NOT cook, bake, or otherwise play with ingredients in some way to commemorate this holiday, which speaks to my deepest motivations when it comes to food.

As it goes, I also might confess that I have quite a crush on this fellow named R, who I talked with until 6 a.m. in that baroque East Village cafe a few weeks back as if we had known each other for years, eating and drinking over a hundred dollars of food and wine before the night was through.

As R and I were chatting this week, he casually pointed out these fluffy little things online called Rafaelo. Being the curious type, I confirmed if he likes coconut (he does), so I fancied myself a confectioner for a change and spent a night packing these fluffy balls of coconut snow.

They were delightful! I made a large batch. I brought the majority to work and had a parade of people stop by my desk with praise. My boss told me that he saw the recipe on the printer at least five times throughout the day.

A select batch of the finest Rafaelo were sent to R for delivery today accompanied a note that simply said, “I had to.”

I didn’t take any pictures of the process, but I do have one lone Rafaelo remaining here at work, taunting me to eat it and go about my afternoon. I hope dear Palachinka doesn’t mind that I am borrowing her picture, below, for comparison purposes.

Palachinka’s Rafaelo

My Rafaelo, taken on my iPhone, which completely lacks the ability to capture things up close.

You’ll have to go along with me when I say they were adorable.

It Was the Best Meal I Never Had

Oh, my. Where in the world have I been? I took a trip to Gotham, it’s true, but I didn’t mean for it make me as mute as a batgirl for nearly three weeks. Add on the mounds of work I faced when I got back and the nasty cold I acquired just as I was getting on top of things, and you can see why I had to hit the pause button and go underground for awhile. I’m better now and doing a little dance, not only because it’s Friday, but also because Edible Cities just creaked over the 5,000 viewer mark. Who are all of you interesting people? Are you all in love with food too, or are you just looking for Cafe Boy as much as the next girl and guy are?

It’s with a satisfied sigh that I report back about my trip to New York City. If you would let me, I might talk your ear off for a few hours, with well over 200 photos to illustrate where I went, who I saw, and what I consumed. Let’s start with the basics.

One of my authors was invited to be on the Today Show, of all things, and since her travel partner couldn’t make it, I tagged along as both paparazzi and porter. This is Ronelle Coburn, a master hand analyst who uses the unique markings on your hands to peer deeper into your soul than your mother, grandmother, or best friend can. It’s true. She peered into mine and now she knows more about me than I do.

Truth be told, I didn’t expect to be all that involved with the Today Show experience. I was looking forward to updating my facebook status while eating a free bagel in the green room, and that’s about it.

I was surprised when the page invited me to join them in prep, but off I went to see what there was to see. The hair and makeup stylists converged on Ronelle and spruced her up for TV in what seemed like a few minutes.

I waited in the wings, taking pictures whenever it seemed appropriate.

Next, I was invited by Danielle, the producer, to hang out on the set while the segment went live. The whole thing was surprisingly fun and casual. Ronelle was mic’ed and built up a bit of a rapport with Lester Holt before they went on air…

…while I nosed around the kitchen-set…

…discovering what cook books the Today Show people deem worthy enough to keep in the kitchen.

Someone yelled, waved, or grunted, I’m not sure which, and suddenly the cameramen snapped into formation, the segment was taped, and we were quickly congratulating Ronelle on handling her first national TV spot with such grace and skill. Way to go, my friend, and thank you for allowing me to be a part of such an important experience.

During the rest of the trip, I also reconnected with three of my closest friends, saw Jamie’s new apartment in Park Slope, danced to some top-shelf music way too late with Shawn on a Sunday night, and smoked a hookah loaded with Double Apple hash.

I stumbled into a literary reverie in the West Village and got lost in world class art at MoMA and the Met. I walked for hours at a time without a subway map, doing my flaneurian thing, capturing moments as I love to do.

I ate oysters for the first time at Angel’s Share with Earl-Grey-infused grape vodka to wash it down.

I walked 20 minutes out of my way for a killer cup of coffee at 9th Street Espresso.

I ate a cheese puff (or two) from Murray’s.

I ate a cheeseburger at Market Table.

I ate a long-awaited tagine at Le Souk with Shawn. This place was so fantastic I can’t even get into it here.

I ate a 17-dollar architectural appetizer at Brassiere 8 1/2.

I ate a mushroom fritter at the Met.

I ate a mezze plate at Kashkaval with Kallie.

There’s more, of course, but you probably understand what I’m saying. I was anxious to see the somber face of Manhattan again, which always makes me feel an exhilarating sense of homelessness. The stories that led me there ten years ago welcome me back to that place where my mind feels free.

Despite all of this eating, there was one important meal that I never had. Before going to New York, I connected with a guy, a cute one, a sharp one, one who wrote me effortlessly lovely emails and decided that my nickname would be Mrs. Dalloway.

He got to know me and said, very sweetly, “I quickly discovered that food was one of the major gateways into your heart.”

So what did he do? He invited me over for dinner. An afternoon dinner. We would meet for the first time at his place, over a meal that he would make just for us. He called it the Carrie Extravaganza. I know it might sound crazy, but when it feels right, life is all about taking chances, and this was one I was willing to take.

To whet my appetite, he emailed me his grocery list the night before we were to meet…

1 large piece of Parmesano
1 ball Fresh Buffalo Mozzarella
2 cups of Ricotta Cheese
3 Rosemary Sprigs
2 bundles of Fresh, Flat-Leaf Parsley
1 cups fresh Cumin
2 tsp Saffron
4 tsp Cinnamon
1/2 cup Red Pepper Flakes
1/4 Black Pepper
4 tsp Kosher Sea Salt
2 bulbs, Garlic
1 lime
1 lemon
2 cups Fresh Blueberries
1 cup dried Cranberries
1 small container of Fresh, Kalamata Olives
1 small container of Fresh, Frantoio and/or Leccino Olives
2 cucumbers (1 English)
2 large, Red Onions
1 large, White Onions
2 large Red Bell Peppers
10 baby Jerusalem Artichokes
1 Jalapeno Pepper
5 Large, Whole Ripened Tomatoes
2 Small, Plum Tomatoes
1 container, Organic Baby Spinach
1 pound of flower
2 dozen eggs
1 container of corn starch
1 box Sugar
1 cup of Heavy Cream
1/2 cup Pine Nuts
4 whole, soft shell crabs
1 12 to 18-long sourdough baguette
1 cup Marsala Wine
2 cups Organic, No-Chicken Broth

Oh… Dear… Oh… My…

Can you tell how speechless this evocative list must have left me? I couldn’t believe that someone was doing this for me, all based on the charming letters and calls we had shared so far.

Unfortunately, fate intervened and my afternoon date had a family health emergency. The extravaganza would have to be postponed.

Instead, we met at the last minute at an atmospheric cafe in the Village, as soon as he could get there, which was 12:30 in the morning. We sat in a booth by the front window next to this charming lady, and we stayed until 6 a.m. Eventually, we ended up on the same side of the booth, and I got on my return flight later in the morning thinking that the best meal in New York was the one I never got to eat.

W.A. Frost and the First Snow Fall

In one of his short stories called Winter Dreams, Fitzgerald perfectly describes the scene that fell on his hometown of St. Paul this weekend. “The days have become crisp and gray, and the long Minnesota winter has shut down like the white lid of a box.”

Intrepid gal that I am, I didn’t let the first big snow fall of the year box me in. This weekend, I hung out with friends at 20.21, The Craftsman, and Riverview Wine Bar. I caught the British Advertising Awards (tell me please, what’s the big deal?) and the new Woody Allen movie. I walked to Nina’s twice, once to meet Nathan for breakfast and book-shopping at Common Good. The second time to meet a new gal named R, who proved to be a fast friend with a considerable interest in the city. I also went to the gym, made soup, did lots of freelance work, and bought a new sweater at Macy’s. (Remember, there’s always free parking on Sunday!)

As if that wasn’t enough for one weekend, I also had a second date with PS. Last week, we met at Eli’s and had a nice time chatting at the front table by the window. On Sunday, he called to ask me out again. Rather than the usual back-and-forth that can be so characteristic of these situations, this guy simply said, “Hey, I made a reservation for us at W.A. Frost at 7.” Now that, I love. No asking. No dalliance. Just good, old-fashioned datemaking. I graciously accepted.

But Frost? Truth be told, I was hesitant to go to there on a second date, given that it is fabled to be the epitome of romance. But when the dating gets tough, I suppose the tough get dating. I flipped up my hair, put on the new sweater and my snow boots, and crunched my way there in the snow.

I know that W.A. Frost has won many awards for its food. I know it used to be one of those creepy old pharmacies. I know Fitzgerald probably stopped by for an ice cream and a bottle of Coke, and that perhaps Nina herself used the corner of Western and Selby to pick up some of her brothel’s clientele. But as beautiful as that patio, high ceiling, and lovingly restored interior is, when I’m at Frost, I just don’t feel like I belong there. Maybe I’m a little too much like Fitzgerald, living in flat after flat, moving from town to town, not so sure whether to accept or reject the landed gentry living it up in all those prestigious Summit Avenue homes. Or maybe I just need to spend more time at the bar rather than the dining room.

I finally confided in my date. “It feels kind of . . . pre-theatre in here, if you know what I mean.”

“Of course I do. We’re the hippest people here,” he said, not missing a beat.

And so it goes. To date well is to be a curator of moments, collecting those that stand out and tell a story about an individual. I liked this particular moment. It said he understood.

I ordered pan-roasted Norwegian salmon with goat cheese risotto, bloody mary consomme, and petite herb salad. Everything about this entree came together nicely, especially the moat of consomme around the meal. PS ordered braised Fischer Farms pork belly with sauteed brussels sprouts petals, Vine Valley Farms butternut squash and miso broth, bacon-braised grits, and pickled pear. He also spoke highly of the bright rim of orange squashy stuff that surrounded his meal. The thing I like about Frost’s traditional plating is the always unexpected line-up of ingredients that accompany it. Bloody mary consomme? Pickled pear with a squash miso broth? Having a meal at Frost is a little like finding a wild outfit in your grandmother’s stately closet.

The entrees, though, were mere appetizers to the extraordinary dessert that followed. We shared a Meyer lemon cheesecake with gingersnap crumb crust, toasted pine nuts, Ames Farm honey, and candied Meyer lemon zest. Woo boy. I’m a lover of all things savory, and this dessert was almost like a third entree that was satisfying on so many levels. “Make sure you get a pine nut,” PS said. No problem.

I think I’ll be returning to Frost to sit on the patio in the summer or to meet the bartender, who seems to have a good reputation. I’ll be using it as a wine bar that has a most impressive list from around the world. I’ll be sitting by the big bar windows to watch the snow fall in such a lovely part of town. It’s a perfect winter spot, which also reminds me why I like the snow. It’s fun to say goodbye in. PS and I parted gracefully on the street corner as I donned my hat and walked back home.

Girl Meets Cafe. Boy Meets Girl.

If I were in pursuit of a cafe that resonates with me on many levels, it might go like this.

SWF, 33, seeks cafe that works hard by day and dresses up well at night. Friends consider me a discriminating cafe-goer, so I hope you are an open-minded, comfortable place to spend hours on end, have free Wi-Fi and ample electrical outlets, and don’t look at me funny when I come to the counter three times in one afternoon.

I get along best with cafes that have a reverence for dark coffee, substantial deserts, and vegetarian-friendly meals for those cases in which I overcaffeinate myself and need to eat something before I pass out. I consider myself aesthetically driven, so please offer a civilized respite from my busy day. Major bonus points if you have an appreciation for wine and art.

If Gigi’s Cafe in south Minneapolis were to reply to my ad, I would fall in love with it on almost all accounts. Except for one. Gigi’s does not have free Wi-Fi. It’s such a bummer, I know, but as we single gals know, you can’t hold out for absolutely everything in your soulmate. Major two-way compatibility is key, and beyond that you need to look into your heart and accept the other for who they are. In this case, Gigi’s is a wonderful cafe that’s versatile enough to sling your morning coffee, support your mid-day freelance work, or offer a flirtatious backdrop for a romantic date. And there ain’t a thing wrong with that.

I showed up at Gigi’s at 7:30 earlier this week to meet RP, a fellow with whom I was having a first date. I got there a minute early and placed my cold-weather accoutrements on a chair to get organized. When I looked up, he was coming in the front door. We recognized each other and shared one of those implicit flashes of relief that quietly says you are interested in this person you just discovered before you.

He got a chickpea spinach salad and a chocolate brownie, I got a peach three-berry cobbler, and we both ordered a glass of Malbec from the satisfying wine list. I chatted up the girl behind the counter who let me know that Gigi’s is the name of the owner’s grandmother. The owner also runs her own coffee distribution company that keeps a number of local businesses well caffeinated. RP then joined in and said he knows the woman who manages the kitchen. I was intrigued. He paid for our food and drink, which we lined up on our arms like good servers and went to find a seat.

It turns out that RP used to work as a bartender and server, so he had plenty to say about food and local restaurants. He is also studying to be an urban planner, so we spoke at length about the Twin Cities, the built environment, and things like the flâneur (“a gentleman stroller of city streets”) and psychogeography. This common ground offered many twists and turns in a long conversation full of digressions and regressions, like a long walk through the winding back streets of St. Paul and up the hill again.

Before we knew it, the house lights came on, the chairs were turned onto the tabletops, and we had to gather our things. I said that it didn’t feel like a Tuesday night. He said, “No, it feels like a Saturday.” What a surprise to find a cafe and conversation good enough to make even a humble weeknight feel like weekend. On the street outside the cafe, I shook his hand by holding it in both of my hands like I was lightly patting a snowball.

Hot Buttered Pretzels

The name is humble, yet sexy. Elisabeth calls them one of the best things she has ever eaten. The recipe refers to them as ethereal. I have to tell you, there was a lot of preemptory build-up involved when I decided to make these hot buttered pretzels. But they were worth every accolade they received. What other food do you get to tie up, bathe in hot butter, and slowly untwist and eat?

When I saw Elisabeth’s post about making the King Arthur flour Hot Buttered Pretzels recipe . . . well, I wanted one. Badly. I also wanted to serve them with chili. About a week later, I got an invitation to Angela’s chili dinner party, so my hot buttered pretzels and I would be there. Angela is famous for making chili, soup, and stew, loading them up as she does with potato, jalapeno, vegetables, and fresh herbs from her backyard garden, and she has never met a dry bean she doesn’t like. That a girl. I whipped up two batches of pretzel dough and headed to her place.

The recipe is so easy. Using the food processor, I mixed in the flour, salt, sugar, yeast, and water and pulsed as directed. The dough quickly came together as it should, as if by its own intelligence, to make me feel like quite the smug pretzelmaker. I had both Gold Medal white flour and King Arthur whole wheat flour on hand, so I made a batch of each. Unfortunately, I got only this awkward picture of a whole wheat pretzel, so you have to trust me when I say that the white pretzels were gems – a pillow on the inside with a slight crunch on the outside. Don’t even mess around with whole wheat flour. Eating the whole wheat pretzel was like sleeping on one of those cumbersome buckwheat pillows rather than on a light cloud of down. You can get used to it, but why bother?

We ate too much for our own good, including the bakery Stefanie is known for, this time with whiskey cream. (Hey Stef, can we get that cake recipe? I don’t remember if it was pumpkin or carrot.)

Next, we went to The Triple Rock to see DW, my no-longer date, rock out as lead guitar in Shit Sandwich, his Spinal Tap cover band, all clad in leopard print, red pleather pants, wild wigs, and headbands. Given the stories I had heard of these guys’ indiscretions, barely practicing, losing drummers, and gaining them again, the last thing I expected was this:

Which of the guys do you suppose Martha-ed out before the show and bought 12 identical pumpkins in which to carve their name and place glowing votive candles?

As for the rest of it, DW was obviously the star of the show, playing with a raw Jimi Hendrix style of communion, which of course traveled straight from his guitar and into my heart – despite my common sense. It’s a cautionary tale, I suppose, as I was warned about the inherent perils by DW from the start. But being the good protagonist I am, I disregarded the warnings, which led to the unpleasant denouement – standing around a dive bar at 2 am falling under the influence of a lead guitar whose new girlfriend was all but a few feet away. And what a hot buttered shit sandwich that is.

Almost-Vegan Date with a Side of Mixed Emotions

Level: Intermediate

Active time: 6 hours

Servings: Two

Ingredients: 1 man. 1 woman. Many good intentions and a healthy dash of ego.

Directions: Mix everything together and hope for the best.

Ten minutes ahead of schedule, DW called and said “I’m standing outside by a beautiful cathedral.” That meant he had arrived, so I went downstairs to let him in. We hadn’t seen each other in awhile, and with the prospect of this dinner date, there was a good spark in the air that continued throughout the evening . . . or at least most of it.

Given that our connection was new and we weren’t eager to define anything, we never put any terms to our relationship. I knew he had a date earlier in the week, so I was planning my playful inquisition to get some of the details. I would wait until the end of the meal.

For the night’s menu, I instinctually decided to use figs as my guide. They’re so sweet and sensual, and on some level I thought their history as a sacred fruit might appeal to a literary bohemian who doesn’t eat meat or cheese. And I was right. He even got nostalgic when he saw the package. He said he used to eat figs all the time, but considered them empty calories and decided to eat nuts instead. Go figure. He also eats eggs raw because it is faster and healthier than cooking them. (And with that disclosure, he suspiciously seems like a guy who has no need for a chef-girl in his life, don’t you think?)

One of my favorite food combinations is white beans and sage, so to start, I made pan-fried white bean fritters. I mixed a batter of flour and cornmeal with cannellini beans, peppadew peppers (I love those things), and sage. I pan-fried it by the tablespoon on high heat. With a dusting of salt, I had a flirty fall appetizer. Share, dip, repeat.

To dress up the sacred fruit, I made fig and fennel pizza starting with a creme fraiche base that included lemon zest, cinnamon, cayenne, and a little sugar. On top of this base, I added fennel (sliced thinly and caramelized in balsamic), steamed spinach, figs, garlic, and rosemary. This combination proves strange enough to get anyone’s attention but satisfying enough to be eaten indiscriminately.

Toward the end of dinner at what seemed like an appropriate juncture, I decided to say, “So? How was your date?”

He paused. “Do we have to talk about that now? I think we should just enjoy the moment,” he said, diving back into his meal.

Uh oh.

Nutritional information: On a short-term basis, the undefined Almost-Vegan Date is very good for you. Long-term potential should be defined in traditional terms for maximum health benefits.

Planning an Appropriate Dinner

I had a long and productive late-night conversation with DW last night, and at the end of things, we decided we’re happy to continue seeing each other. “You know what this means,” I said. “I’ll have to make dinner for you.” The connection between us has been fun and carefree. We’ve gone for walks and attended book events, but not once have we been to a restaurant or shared a one-on-one meal. If he could, he might live on literature alone, with a big side of guitar.

One night at his place, he decided that he wanted to fix us a snack. In a few minutes, he showed up in the living room of his apartment with hummus (“Egyptian homos,” he said like an American, pointing to the package and laughing, imagining a group of gay men from Egypt), pita, and a few stalks of raw asparagus poking out of each of his clenched fists. This was an endearing moment, standing next to his canon of serious books like a happy kid with something to share. He gave us three stalks each.

“I’ve never really ate raw asparagus,” I said, more surprised than anything. He enthused about its virtues, telling me to chew it for a long time for better enzyme action, and apologizing that he accidentally bought white pita. What a curious guy, I thought. He’s not all that interested in food (and doesn’t eat cheese or much meat), but he is concerned about whole grains and discussing the finer points of digestion.

So back to last night, as I tried to fall asleep, mostly wide awake and disoriented from the late call, I put aside the bigger questions of the evening and wondered what this guy might want for dinner.

Maybe what I made tonight, but fancier? There’s nothing flirtatious about a practical one-bowl meal, but I was awfully impressed with this humorous concoction of Italian-Asian fusion. I mixed the Italian elements of broccoli rabe, basil, chickpeas, lemon, and white wine together with the Asian elements of coconut milk, bamboo rice, ginger, and cayenne. And it worked! There was no fighting and no culture shock. In fact, all parties joined hands and came together into a harmonious meal, no unilateralism in the abundant spices, and no preemptive measures amongst the vegetables and legumes. I hope my orecchiette still love me in the morning.

How to Make a City Love You

How long do you think it takes for a city to get you with its charms? When I lived in Manhattan, it happened the moment I walked out of my apartment and realized that Bleecker Street, Washington Square, and two-dollar falafel sandwiches were just around the corner. I was so excited. It was so easy to live at large.

When I lived in Chicago, it took longer to feel that connection. My job was located in the deep burbs (equally as inhospitable as the “deep south”) and I spent way too much time in my car. It wasn’t until I got to know a particular urbanist, Joseph DuciBella, that I was let in on the secrets of the city and started to feel truly at home.

If we created a simple list of charms, the Twin Cities wouldn’t easily stack up to the rest of my geographical resume. But still. After three years of living in St. Paul, I feel an almost surreal sense of having been here a long time. When I went to Manhattan, it was about a degree. When I went to Chicago, it was about a relationship. This town has been all about me. And that, of course, is an education unto itself. I feel like cultivator, layering people, stories, and experiences together in a way that makes sense to me. It helps that I have a cool job and great friends, and also that I am single. A few bars, neighborhoods, and restaurants have quickly become classic, and both cities feel like a foundation on which we all can do most anything we please. I often see people I know, and the baristas serve me without asking what I’d like. In MSP, everything always overlaps. I feel like I’m starting to live at large again, but this time in a totally personalized sort of way.

To make a city love you, you must first fall in love with something it offers. I started with those things that seemed special about MSP: coffee shops, co-ops, and Magers & Quinn. I’ve discovered some of my favorite books at Magers & Quinn as though they were shelved there specifically for me, and as an editor, I’ve attended a number of my author’s readings, including my Tantric sex authors, Mark and Patricia (which led my friend Stefanie to put me on her Almost Famous list, at the bottom, but on it nonetheless).

Last week, I went to Magers & Quinn to see Steve Lerach read from his new book Fried: Surviving Two Centuries in Restaurants. I also brought a date, which is another way to make a city love you. See a lot of people. My date asked the best questions during the Q&A, and after the reading, he introduced me to three or four of his friends who happened to be in the crowd. There was the quirky academic he used to work with at the Black Forest Inn, and they told some hilarious server stories. There was also the cool duo Beryl Greenberg and Charles Brin who co-host the Wednesday Spoken Word show at KFAI (where my date is a DJ). Charles is a charming, especially wizened actor who told us about his role in the Coen brothers’ upcoming movie “A Serious Man” and his experience as a part in “Grumpy Old Men.”

For me, the whole night became a reflection of the book we went to hear about. Part of why Steve Lerach is credentialed to write Fried is that he has lived and cooked in Minneapolis for thirty years. Thirty years! He told us how his book started out as a master’s thesis on the history of restaurants as far back as the French revolution. But the more he dug into the past, the more he saw parallels to the people he has worked with throughout his career, and this cast of cooks and sous chefs took over the focus of his writing. Eventually, his story became their story instead. Their story demanded to be told.

And that’s another way to make a city love you. Let the story of its people become your story, too, whether you have lived there for three or for thirty years.