I wake before the sun. This isn't new for me, but I'm much more at peace with it these days. My apartment is quiet in the mornings. I walk her walls in silence as my arms brush her corners. As my bare feet learn the grooves of the floor. My eyes come into focus as they begin to understand the way the light falls through the glass. As they memorize the shapes and curves of this new furniture. We're still introducing ourselves to each other and I'm in love with the slow pace of our courtship.

My evenings are just as quiet. They simply exist in different light. When my day is finished I walk the short distance until my feet reach the sand. The beach is wide, and I savor every footstep; my eyes greedily taking in the horizon as I close in on the sea. I stop at the edge of the surf and setup my chair. Sometimes I read. Sometimes I revisit the words I've been writing for the last few months but haven't published. Because they're not ready yet. Because they're still mine. But mostly I watch the water. And the birds gliding across its surface. I watch the steady rhythm of each inhale and exhale of the ocean. The white crash as the waves spray salt upon my face. It feels good to be home.

My happiest moments as a girl were on these beaches. Swimming in these waters. The first time I met the sea was standing on the coast of California. Back when my sister still smiled. When my mother's love was undoubted. Our skin was dark from the sun. Our curls were wild and unruly and highlighted blond from long days on the water. This was back when we still laughed. This was back when every weekend was an adventure of how little money we could spend factored by how much fun we could have. We'd climb the roof of our apartment building until we could just barely see the drive-in movie screen in the distance. We'd tune the transistor radio to the AM station playing the audio as we unwrapped trophy bags of Sour Patch Kids and Twizzlers. I'd laugh at the wrong time of every punchline - too young to understand but desperate to belong. My mother and sister would soften their eyes and smile at each other during the sweet parts. I will never stop trying to return to those warm rooftops.

This city and this new apartment are my refuge. I was ready to come full circle. Perhaps back to where I always belonged despite all the seeking I've done. Despite all the living. Despite all the loving. Because he told me he loved me and I left anyways. I left anyways. So instead I'm living through the things that bring me life. Like fresh cut roses on my coffee table. And loose-leaf tea steeping in the morning. Sandalwood incense and singing bowls as the sun rises. Reading novel after novel as the day comes to an end. I am in love - I am obsessed - with these small moments. These little punctuations of life that make me whole. And if I ever lose those I know that I can return. I know that it will always be there. I know I will always have the sea.

I stand in the kitchen. My feet bare against the cool tile floor. The windows are opened wide, and a subtle breeze skims my skin with every sporadic movement of the wind. I remove the lid and the steam meets my face; my nostrils flare wide. I bring the soiled spoon to my lips to taste. Acid from the tomatoes. Fat and salt from the blend of beef and pork. Sofrito that has been cooked down to nothing and everything. The complexity of the wine that hasn’t fully cooked off yet.

I’ve been standing in this kitchen for 5 hours, slowly stirring. Gently swaying to the earthy rhythm of bossa nova while watching my dough rise before shaping it in my big, strong hands and rolling it out in long, careful gestures. The sneaky dusting of flour on every surface. The elegance of a french rolling pin. My weekends are often spent right here making things from scratch. Discovering new techniques and things about myself I never knew the previous day. I read. I study. I watch videos, but it’s not the same when you’re standing barefoot in the kitchen and let your instincts take over. Adding spices because it feels good, and because you have a longstanding love affair with a little heat. When you decide on different herbs simply because they make you smile that day. Adding the extra hunk of butter. Subbing water for stock or that dry cabernet. Always the extra garlic. Always.

I love to tell people that cooking for others is my love language. And it’s true, I promise. But the first love I nourish each day is my own. I don’t need a full Sunday. Every day is a celebration of life - and love - through eggs, through potatoes, through roasted vegetables, freshly baked bread, and ripe blackberries to sweeten the palette with dessert. Every day I write a love letter to myself, or if I’m lucky, to the friends and family who make it to my table. We sit in a circle with knife and fork and feed our bodies with everything we didn’t know we needed, and everything we did.

The last time I held a rolling pin in my hands was in her kitchen. The small space heated by the oven. Our bare feet on the linoleum despite the snow falling gently outside. Fingers sticky with butter and flour that lodged between every crack and wrinkle. My mother’s hands. Pushing and pulling and rolling into place. My mother’s hands. Thin like paper yet indestructible. Smiles on our faces. Her skin scented sweet with musk. My movements clumsy but learning. That would be the last time we would ever stand together and make this pie.

I come from a long line of women who bake. Women who have secrets not written down. Women who love through Sunday suppers and pie dough. The role this Apple Crumb Pie had in my childhood seems ridiculous when I think about it, but it was important. This pie was a big deal for all of us. Today I made it for the first time. Today, my home smells like that home. It’s amazing what some sliced apples and sugar and cinnamon can do to your soul.

Ginza District - Tokyo, Japan. September 2018. I walked the streets dodging in and out of the hurried and aloof shoppers. I passed large windows with expensive purses and summer dresses of the season without even raising my head to give them a second glance. I turned a corner and the buzz calmed around me, finally finding the narrow unmarked alleyway I'd been searching for. The street was unwelcoming but the white banner with black and red Japanese kanji told me I was precisely where I needed to be. I pushed the thin cloth aside and entered, the smell of miso broth and pork roasted over fire immediately assaulting my senses, welcoming me in with open arms.

***

Siete Lagos - Patagonia, Argentina. April 2015. Chilled to the bone after a 4 hour horse ride through the Patagonian mountains, we shuffled into the tiny cafe and claimed a small table next to the wood stove. The heat was more than welcome through our thin socks and cold-induced arthritic fingers as we desperately waited for the blood flow to return. Suddenly our orders were placed down on the uneven table before us. I picked up my utensil and swirled it through the steaming bowl of wild boar stew. I played with the huge hunks of meat, thick-cut carrots, potatoes and parsnips as I waited for the large spoonful to cool, enjoying the earthy aromas as they wafted around my nose. I brought the life-giving liquid to my lips and closed my eyes as that first bite filled my mouth. Suddenly everything was right again in the world.

***

Dundee, Scotland. August 2007.  We sauntered through the door, pausing briefly to assess the scene, and found our place at the long, cold wooden bar. We ordered a scotch with a single, thick cube and swirled the mahogany spirit around and around before toasting with a smile. The spicy intoxicant hit our throats and the backs of our skulls all at once. We made a face. We laughed almost immediately. We weren't ready for the deep woody aromas; the peaty finish that twitched our tongues. But we remained at that bar, making friends with everyone around us, ordering scotch after scotch until we fell fully and utterly in love with this cold, Scottish summer night.   

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Florence, Italy. September 2011. I brought the Sangiovese to my lips and held it in my mouth - allowing each sense to pass its judgement. I placed my fork in the center of the plate, piercing plump pipes of spaghetti painted in raw egg yolks, parmesan, guanciale and black pepper. I paused as the final rays of sun set over the duomo and a gentle shadow overtook my place on this earth.

***

El Nido - Palawan, The Philippines. November 2018. The boat carved its way through the blue-green waters of Bacuit Bay. The setting sun left a cotton candy sky of pinks and purples as the sun fell slowly behind the mountains. My belly full of local sea bass and mud crabs, I sat on the highest point of the boat as the wind dried my curls and the sun warmed the last chilled fragments of my skin. I smiled. I turned my music up. I exhaled. I was home.

***

Manhattan - New York, USA. June 2019.  Tuesday, David Chang's Noodle Bar - We sat on the narrow chairs eating seared shrimp buns with spicy mayo and pickled red onions. Next came pork belly buns with cucumber and scallion, followed by a steaming bowl of smoked pork ramen in a white porcelain bowl. I took the hard plastic spoon and greedily dipped it into the soup, sampling the hot broth and savoring every sip as it rolled across my tongue. Wednesday, Thomas Keller's Per Se - I sat down at a plush corner table overlooking Columbus Circle. A fire burned in the center of the room, the flames flirtatious and drawing my eye away from my plate every few moments. But the Oysters and Pearls yearned for my attention. The raw sea scallop and bread with whipped lardo brought me back to reality. I sipped a dry champagne as cold as snow while sampling the hand cut tagliatelle with black winter truffles. I flirted with the waiters and learned the sommelier's story as I settled in to my 3 hour journey of everything classic yet exciting about this world. Thursday, David Chang's Momofuku Ko - My best friend arrived and greeted me with a long, slow, deep hug. We climbed into our chairs. They poured the first glass of our pairing and we toasted to 3 months too many since the last time we saw each other. The onslaught of courses began. Spot prawn fried in cornmeal. Razor clam with pineapple and basil. Fois with lychee, pine nuts, and riesling. The lights drawn low. David Choe's artwork sparking the space around us. Sharing the world with the best person in your life. These are your favorite moments. These are the best parts.

This is my life. This is my religion. While I've been practicing Buddhism for over 3 years now, this is what I think about more than anything - what guides my view of the world and my understanding of the people in it. Travel. Culture. Food. Life. And Tony Bourdain has been my mentor - my messiah - in all of it. It's been a year since he passed, and I still can't talk about him without crying. I still consume over 1000 hours of his voice every year. Through his books, his articles, his memoirs on tape. I watch his shows every time I book a trip (which is often) and every time I pack my suitcase (which seems to be every month these days). I look to him as my mentor and guide. Always just a few steps behind him. Always just slightly in his shadow.

It's like that scene in Fight Club when you arrive just a little too late, existing only in the shadows of what once was. Perhaps the walls are still sweating. Maybe you kneel down and place the awkward skin of your knee onto the floor and the heavy concrete is still warm to the touch. The energy is stale but you know you're on the right path - you simply came a little too late.

We're not meant to know our heroes. It keeps them divine. And maybe that's the whole point. Yet still, I can't travel without consulting him. With every new country I seek out the secrets that he shared so freely: sitting on a plastic stool in a back alley of Hanoi. Riding a boat along the Cuban coast eating shrimp with your hands. Walking the streets of Santa Teresa as the sun goes down. But these lessons came at a cost, the levied taxes knocked him to his knees. How do you become the true, honest, vulnerable voice we love so much? How does it not break you? It does, is the answer. To get to this point, to be all these things requires something that many will never recover from. Year after year he gave us everything he had and then just a few miles more. Anthony, our beloved Tony Bourdain, gave it everything he could. Every drop and leftover ounce inside of him. He never saved anything for the swim back.