Sharing stories of food stories we love.
As it turns out, there’s a very fine line between striving for your best and perfectionism, between pushing yourself and being hard on yourself.
I’ve spent most of my twenties walking that line, often finding myself on the wrong side of it.
Have you felt that dogged determination to succeed? Has it brought you good things? For me it has, at times. If you’re settling for the attainable, how can you soar to unexpected heights?
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On Friday night, I went to dinner at a little Italian restaurant in the West Village. It’s an old favorite, just a few blocks from a cozy apartment where I used to live. The restaurant is warm and inviting, with worn wood floors and a long mirrored bar. It’s lit with vintage-y lightbulbs that glow amber above the tables.
The menu is filled with the sort of food I imagine real Italians eat. Somewhere in Naples, in a quiet cool kitchen, someone’s nonna is setting out simple dishes like thinly sliced rib-eye, served cold, over lemony arugula and shaved Brussel sprouts studded with salty bits of Castelrosso cheese.
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The snow is still coming down. It shows no sign of abating. It swirls in speckled eddies high above the buildings, pelts sideways against my skin, tap tap taps quietly at our windows. Piles of snow are pushed up against the glass windowpanes. This is wet, slippery snow: the sort made of fat, heavy flakes, that sort that goes smoosh and swoosh under your feet, sending your boots sliding every which way.
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I woke up early this morning. I took a run in the park, breathing in gulps of cold fresh air. Sweating it out feels extra good in winter weather; leaving the warm cocoon of my bed for a bracing chill is like conquering a battle.
Then there’s a hot shower waiting. Comfortable clothes – fleeced pants and a soft, oversized sweater – and a walk to get a big milky latte. I pick up some groceries. Back in my kitchen, I fire off a few work emails, feeling sharp and witty and organized.
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Stepping into the bakery, you're met with a gust of warm air. The parking lot is covered in ice and the snow is coming down fast and hard in heavy, wet flakes. In the twenty seconds it takes to sprint from your car to the building, you're pelted with icy droplets. You stamp the snow from your boots and shake the wetness from your hair.
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