Let me eat cake!

I live in the regular world, full of regular things, but I know that there is magic to be found. And of everywhere in the world I’ve been, I know Paris to be where  the most magic is found. The simplest thing can make me nearly tear up with joy, or at the least smile till I think my face will split; an entire shop dedicated just to pistachios, a crunchy baguette stuffed with oozing camembert and slathered with salted butter, a caramel ice cream cone from Berthillon, savored in a bit of pale winter sunshine on the Ile St. Louis. These are small pleasures, but memorable ones, and everyone can enjoy them.

But there is another world, one where the magic whisks you away to a place of opulence and blissful luxury, where every care is tended to, every need foreseen. I’ve said before I like nice hotels when I travel, but there is one that is perhaps the grand dame of all luxury hotels in Paris, perhaps the world. I’d never even so much strolled past the Hôtel Plaza Athénée but of course knew about it. I knew it as place a world away from the simple and charming places within my budget where I like to stay. So when I was invited to stay at their treat, as media, I flew directly to cloud nine.

We were scheduled to stay there on our last night of a 16-day trip,a trip that included an overnight trip by camel in the Sahara desert with no facilities – a euphemism by the agency that helped book the expedition for no toilet, no water, no electric, no heat. Our bed was a mattress in a pigeon feather-filled tent. Not to say I didn’t love it! The endless stars in the blackest of skies was possibly the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen. But roughing it is decidedly not my style, and the thought that kept me smiling through some travel “discomforts” was that of the Plaza, awaiting me in Paris like a beacon of luxury.

All the daydreaming, and speaking of the hotel in verbal italics – “we’re staying at the Plaza,” we’d say – still couldn’t prepare me for sweeping into into the lobby – literally, it was wildly windy – just after sunset on a December night. Leaving the taxi, rumpled and disheveled from a day of travel from Morocco, we were folded into the fantasy of the Plaza, ushered by a dapper doorman to the reception desk in the intimate but grand lobby, where we needn’t trouble ourselves with giving our names to the desk – he handled that bothersome detail. The clerk presented our door keys in an elegant red folder and Aude, the press contact, directed us to our room through amber-perfumed hallways. The first sign that it would be even more special than I had dreamed was the door number: it had two. Aude opened the door and we stepped in. The room – the suite – lay before us. No power on earth could have prevented my mouth from dropping open at the sight. All crystal, plush seating, mirrors, gilt, heavy silk draperies and flowers, and yes, that was a bottle of champagne chilling alongside a platter of chocolate cake. I had walked out of Arabian Nights flying in from Fes that morning, and into a Marie Antoinette dream.

I couldn’t decide where to look first, eyes darting to take it all in as I tried to not sound too much like a girl from Kentucky presented with the most extravagantly luxurious living quarters I’d ever seen. A desk and library, a fireplace with ceiling-high mirror – with flat screen tv built in – two couches and two chairs, and we were still just in the living room. Aude showed us to the bedroom, past an open bathroom door, and the crystal chandelier elegance continued in there. She welcomed us and left us to our joy in the Prestige Suite.

I skipped around the room like a child on the most splendid of all Christmas mornings, taking in the chocolate cake on the table, the Alain Ducasse champagne, and then I lost Brian. “Do we have this wing, too?” he called from down a hall where he’d found a dressing room and another bathroom, all marble and mirror with Dior – DIOR – toiletries arrayed on the counter. The bellman presently arrived with our bags. “Shall I have housekeeping come unpack for you?” he asked. It was all I could do to not giggle – our bags contained nothing but dirty laundry and souvenirs at this point. “No, we can take care of it,” I replied.

Left to our own devices we spent a few wild moments running around looking at everything, marveling at the delicious decadence. “Should stay in the room?” we wondered aloud – we’d planned to go to dinner for a final celebration of the trip. If the concierge could get us into l’Atelier Joël Robuchon we would go out, we decided. If not, we would stay in. Meanwhile Brian popped the champagne and filled our glasses. We were almost too dazed to toast. While the concierge worked his magic calling the restaurant I ran around the suite – the size of our entire home – giggling madly, and jumped on the bed for good measure before drawing a white-tea scented foamy bath in the deep tub. I emerged after a good soak, and ensconced in my heavy Plaza robe, feet tucked into cushy Plaza slippers, tried out the Dior skin crème supplied with the toiletries, although surely I needed nothing else to make me glow at this point.

We reluctantly left the room to stroll to our dinner, and though the tasting menu was one of the most amazing meals of our life, we couldn’t wait to leave to return to our own little Versailles. The room had been cleaned and bed turned down while we were out, soft lights welcoming us back. I perused the pillow menu, thought about ordering a beauty pillow, but the lure of the soft bed was too great and dove promptly in.

I awoke early, sad that it was the last day of our trip, but excited to check out the bicycles the hotel offered guests. A luxuriously long shower under the rainfall showerhead, a brief time lounging in the robe while Brian got ready, and we left our private palace for the lobby where the concierges were only too happy to arrange the bicycle loans for us. Les velos were ready promptly outside, darling red bicycles with tiny headlights and bells, and we hopped straight on to head out for Angelina’s for breakfast. We rode down the Champs Elysees, made our way through the Place de la Concorde and down Rue de Rivoli, where we left our bikes with the Plaza’s sister hotel, Le Meurice, next door to Angelina’s. After our wickedly decadent hot chocolate and breakfast, we pedaled over to the Eiffel Tower to say goodbye to Paris for this time. The only thing that could have drawn me away was our suite and the waning time left before our 12:30 checkout for our flight home.

We sadly finished our packing – I suppose we could have called for help – and rang downstairs for the bellman. One last look around our all-too-brief home, and we left the Plaza, and Paris. Tears welled up in my eyes as the taxi pulled away. “The next time we come back,” Brian said, trying to cheer me up, “we’ll be looking for an apartment.” If only it could be in the Plaza!

See more photos

Motherload

Look what I found!

When I was a kid I found a lot of four-leaf clovers. My mom thought that made me lucky. I hoped that luck would carry over into my first morel-hunting expedition Saturday when my mom took Brian and me out into the woods behind ——— —- —— (you know I can’t tell you where).  She had seen one earlier in the week and left it, hoping to return to find more. That was the trial run, spotting one where I knew one existed. I was still a bit giddy when it appeared, magically popping out of the sodden leaves and greenery.

My eyes swept the ground, hoping another morel would materialize. I covered a lot of ground before the first one showed itself to me. That’s morel hunting — long stretches of frustration, then sheer jubilation. An hour or so of traipsing yielded a handful of the mushrooms, just enough to sautee and top an egg with.

After a good downpour, we went back out Sunday, starting in the part of the woods where we’d found the few the day before. Brian and my mom each found one on the trail right away so I had high hopes.

A good while later I was pretty dejected. Brian, with his eagle eyes, had found several. I’d bagged one — one I think he had stepped on; they’re that invisible. Following all the lore around the mushrooms, I’d peered along fallen logs, under May Apples, and had scoured a ridge. Then, as is my fashion, I’d been distracted. I heard a cat meow. What was a cat doing back in these woods? I’d wandered toward the sound until I saw the cat, who promptly disappeared. I’d lost my fellow hunters, and pushed my way through a briar patch to work my way back to where they continued their search under the dripping green canopy.

Wow!

Then. I swear, it was like a scene where the heavens part and the angels sing and the sun beams down. A single morel the size of my hand glowed 10 feet away. “WHOAH!” I bellowed. My mom heard me and started making her way to me. And then. Then, in the blink of an eye, the waiting treasure revealed itself to me. I was standing in the midst of the motherload. They were everywhere, the illuminated mushrooms so big some of them had fallen under their own weight. I fell into a sort of raptured fit, squealing, clapping, laughing, jumping, tears streaming down my face until I sunk down, fearing I’d literally wet my pants with glee. “LOOOOOOOK,” I shrieked, “there are so many!!!! They’re so big!” I was mad with my discovery, unable and uninterested in containing my delight. I couldn’t believe my eyes — it had to be a morel mirage.

Brian and my mom had arrived by now and we joined in a primitive jubilant rejoicing. “Don’t move!” we cautioned one another, “you’ll step on one!”

We gathered up the bounty, nearly hysterical with laughter and excitement. My hands quivered as I broke morel after morel off at the stem. How much of this adrenaline is evolutionary from finding an abundance of food, and how much is the thrill of the hunt? I don’t know, but if I could bottle and sell the euphoria that bubbled up when that motherload appeared, I’d make a bloody fortune. There were so many we even grew picky, leaving behind those that seemed past their prime, or were smashed. On and on the bounty went, along with our calls of  “bring the bag, here are two more,” “here’s another one!”

The loot!

We took careful mental note of where the magical mystery spot was, counting off paces from landmarks (it’s 20 paces from —– and another 30 from ——, then look for the split tree with all the dead bark at the bottom, next to the rivulet). Then with our mesh bag full to bursting (mesh so that you disperse the spores) we triumphantly emerged from our spot, bound for home and a kitchen.

Victory!

The loot weighed in at 2.3 pounds, almost unimaginable the previous day when we’d gleaned so few. The glee lasted throughout the day, sending little shivers of excitement every time I recalled the moment I entered that vision. After divvying up our shares, Brian and I headed for home, enjoying a most pleasurable discussion along the way about how to prepare them. We fell upon the idea of crepes with asparagus, gruyere, caramelized red onions and the morels.  I’ve had the good fortune (maybe all those four-leaf clovers) to have some staggeringly good meals in my life, but let me tell you. That dish, heaped as it was with the morels that I’d found ,was one of the most amazing things I’ve ever eaten.

Can’t wait for morel season next year!

Asapragus, gruyere and morel crepe

Get off the bus

For three years we’ve lived an experiment — being a one-car family in America. I’d like to say I did it to be green, but really I just didn’t want to spend the money on a car. When Brian lost the privilege of a company car, we did the math on buying a new car, balanced that against being able to take our amazing trips, and travel won. I bought a bus pass and spent the last three years taking the #2 bus. Sometimes it was ok, sometimes it was not.

I expected to continue on indefinitely. Not that I especially enjoy waiting at the bus stop when it’s zero or 100 or raining, or prevailing on friends for a lift to the doctor, or paying 20 bucks for a taxi when I absolutely had to get across town (TARC is fine for getting downtown. not so much across the city). But it worked most of the time.

Then an exciting development. I took on another freelance job — editing Food & Dining magazine. Suddenly my time would be a lot scarcer.  There’s no magical way to put more hours in the day (and I love sleep too much to give that up) but there was one big time-suck besides Facebook. And that’s the bus. 45 minutes from my office door to my front door. Or 15 minutes by car. I made the decision in about a minute.

So I picked out a 10=year-old Volvo wagon (a car with 210,000 miles can fit in a traveller’s budget!) and I’ll take what’s likely my last bus ride home tomorrow. So long, TARC.

I like nice hotels and will not lie

At the Leinster Inn hostel in London on our first trip

So I’m starting to look at our next trip and am poking around online and have already encountered the exchange I hear over and over. Person A on a travel forum asks: “what do you know about this [nice] hotel?” and person B responds, “Well, I’ve never stayed there. I prefer more authenticity.”

This theme pops up over and over among travelers, the idea that the cheaper your room, the more cred you have as a real traveller. It’s more authentic, people say, closer to real life, a truer experience, not so sterile.

Well, I’ve stayed in my share of hostels, guesthouses with concrete beds and paper walls, and other budget lodgings lacking anything from hot water to AC to heat. And  I’ve stayed (via Hotwire, points, or any other means I can rummage up) in posh hotels. And I have to say. When I’m far from home, figuring out my way around a foreign city, feet aching, and brain a bit tired at the end of a day, there is nothing like returning to a cushy bed, soft towels, and a shower with hot water and good pressure. And sound-proof windows. Without a halfway decent night’s sleep while traveling, nothing else matters. All the sights I came thousands of miles and spent thousands of dollars to see will blur together into a foggy string of places where I look for a place to sit down.

In a suite at Le Meridien, Bangkok (a free upgrade!)

Yes, the guest house owners of some places we’ve stayed have been among the highlights of our travels. But others were just as anonymous as the concierge behind the desk in the sparkling lobby of the name brand hotel. Either way, I’m paying to stay in a lodging full of other people from elsewhere, staffed by locals paid to tend to me.

Unless you’re staying with friends or family (which we’ve also done!), you’re a customer. And customers in a fancy hotel who step out the door and plunge into adventure are no less of a traveller than those who toss and turn in a budget inn, kept awake all night by fire alarms and banging doors (like our stay at the Leinster Inn hostel in London nine years ago).

In the end, I’m not in a city for the room. I’m there for the full experience – to see, taste, smell and otherwise immerse myself in the life of another world. A robe and slippers at the end of the day is just icing.

Bangkok traffic

I heard a lot about the infamous Bangkok traffic before we went.  And indeed, it is like its own character in the story of our trip. Tuk tuks hurtling down the impossibly congested streets compete with careening motorbikes carrying entire families complete with the dog as well as bright pink taxis, private cars, buses belching black exhaust, street vendors trundling along with their food carts, and of course, millions of people.

For the first five days I wouldn’t cross the street until a local went first. I’d cling to their shadow, marveling at how they simply put their palm towards traffic to part the oncoming sea.  After building my street-crossing confidence in Chiang Mai, I tried the palm trick myself when we returned to Bangkok, and was thrilled to find it worked.

One night we were meant to go out for a dinner cruise with our friend Mai, who sent her driver from a spot across town an hour before he was to pick us up at our hotel. We languished in our lobby for an hour waiting and finally went back to our room. An hour and a half later he arrived. He explained that in the two and a half hours it took to travel the few kilometers he didn’t move an inch for one hour.We walked to dinner that night.

On our final night we planned to have drinks at the Vertigo Moon bar atop the Banyan Tree in one part of the city and dinner at a traditional Thai restaurant just a couple kilometers and across the river an hour after drinks. Ha. We got into the  the taxi, pulled into traffic. And stopped. That glittering string of headlights  we’d admired as part of the metropolis from the 59th floor rooftop bar was sitting stock still. We moved about half a block in five minutes. The entrance to the expressway we needed was at a standstill. “Bad, bad traffic jam,” said the driver, shaking his head. “Very bad.” It was clear we weren’t going to make it to the restaurant in an hour, or probably even in three.

So we did what any traveler to Bangkok has to be willing to do. We cast aside our plans, got out of the taxi (watch for motorbikes! says the driver), and walked back to the Banyan Tree, where, as if by fate, their Japanese restaurant was having an unlimited sushi special. Bangkok always finds a way to redeem itself.

Muay Thai!

I often think of things from the comfort of home that sound like they’d be exciting and adventurous in far-flung lands. They tend to be slightly different in reality than in the imagination. Like finding myself wringing in sweat, a muscle-bound Thai boxer pouring ice water over me and rubbing ice down my battered legs and knees. And a little trip later to Surawongse Medical Center (in Patpong, a clinic that specializes in “erectile dysfunction” but had a perfectly nice and helpful doctor that charged about $12 to see me).

When I decided that because I couldn’t keep up my CrossFit workouts while traveling I should find something just as challenging in Bangkok, Muay Thai — Thai kickboxing — sounded perfect. Of course it did. A bloody, violent sport practiced by powerfully strong, lean fighters who begin training as children is a great idea for a lightweight 30-something American female tourist who can, barely, do one pull-up, and eek out a few jump ropes.

So sign me up! I booked a private lesson with a Thai kickboxer at Sor Vorapin #1, much to the amusement of the hotel staff, my guide earlier in the week, and the taxi  driver who drove us to the gym.

The open air gym made Derby City CrossFit look like a country club. A ring and four punching bags. And some jump ropes. I changed (into my own workout clothes, not the loaner boxing shorts Phol offered me) and off we went. With a jump rope. 9,000 miles I’d come, excited for my kickboxing class, and I start with a jump rope. Which I hate. Immediately sweating, I huffed through them until Phol told me I could stop.

He bound up my wrists, I kicked off my shoes and we climbed into the ring. And I learned what his English included. Jab, left, right, knee, elbow, kick, block, up, power, good and break (“blake”). For an hour and a half, I battered my legs, elbows, knees and hands against this powerhouse. Sweat poured off me, almost comical in its quantity. I jabbed, the force of the impact against his iron stance reverberating through me. I slammed my elbows into his hands, jarring my skull. I kicked, trying to mimic the natural grace and elegance with which Phol moved about the ring, wincing at the slam of my shin against him every time. But “power!” he said so I slammed with all my might, thrilled when I got a “good!”. I drove my knees at his stomach, stopped short by his hands — something like being stopped by a brick wall. Over and over and over until “blake,” at which I swigged water greedily as possible handling the bottle with boxing gloves.

We moved to the bags for a while and despite my clumsiness at the work, slammed my elbows, knees, hands and shins into it over and over and over. Displaying my utter lack of a natural fighter’s grace was humbling. During one particularly pulverizing move that seemed would never end  — holding the bag, driving left knee in, hopping straight to right knee, repeating — I called on all my willpower not to stop, not to fail. Dying to hear ‘blake” I pounded, hopped, pounded, far longer than any CrossFit work I’ve ever done, more determination than actual strength or endurance getting me through.

Seeing the condition of my knees and shins, Phol took me to the ice bucket, put my foot on a bench, and dumped freezing water and ice cubes on my poor leg. He rubbed the ice in and I could have swooned with relief. Both legs done, back to the ring and round after round we went. I’d arrived early, but Phol didn’t seem to mind that we were going into overtime. An hour and a half of the most insanely difficult workout I’ve ever subjected myself to and at last we stopped for stretches and a cool-down set of sit-ups.

I emerged from the ring as drenched as if I’d come from a swim, and was intrigued to see how furiously my hands shook after he unbound them. I’d done it. I’d survived a Thai kickboxing lesson and lived to tell about it, with an immense new respect for the work and skill of the fighters. Never mind that a few hours later Brian had to ask me to stop screaming as he helped me with an ice bath, I’m slicked with an exotic ointment I bought for “bruises” and my legs, arms and knuckles are rapidly turning some interesting shades of purple, red and blue. I went into the ring with a fighter and I didn’t fail, cry, or otherwise disgrace myself.

(The stop in Surawongese Medical Center was to treat my souvenir from the lesson — a sprained wrist. I may not be the badass I wish I were, but I didn’t pull any punches.)

 

I often think of things from the comfort of home that sound like they’d be exciting and adventurous in far-flung lands. They tend to be slightly

different in reality than in the imagination. Like finding myself wringing in sweat, a muscle-bound Thai boxer pouring ice water over me and

rubbing ice down my battered legs and knees. And a little trip later to Surawongse Medical Center (in PatPhol, a clinic that specializes in “erectile

dysfunction” but had a perfectly nice and helpful doctor that charged about $12 to see me).

When I decided that because I couldn’t keep up my CrossFit workouts while traveling I should find something just as challenging in Bangkok, Muay

Thai — Thai kickboxing — sounded perfect. Of course it did. A bloody, violent sport practiced by powerfully strong, lean fighters who begin training

as children is a great idea for a lightweight 30-something American female tourist who can, barely, do one pull-up, and eek out a few jump ropes.

So sign me up! I booked a private lesson with a Thai kickboxer at Sor Vorapin #1, much to the amusement of the hotel staff, my guide earlier in

the week, and the taxi  driver who drove us to the gym.

The open air gym made Derby City CrossFit look like a country club. A ring and four punching bags. And some jump ropes. I changed (into my own

workout clothes, not the loaner boxing shorts Phol offered me) and off we went. With a jump rope. 9,000 miles I’d come, excited for my

kickboxing class, and I start with a jump rope. Which I hate. Immediately sweating, I huffed through them until Phol told me I could stop.

He bound up my wrists, I kicked off my shoes and we climbed into the ring. And I learned what his English included. Jab, left, right, knee, elbow,

kick, block, up, power, good and break (“blake”). For an hour and a half, I battered my legs, elbows, knees and hands against this powerhouse.

Sweat poured off me, almost comical in its quantity. I jabbed, the force of the impact against his iron stance reverberating through me. I slammed

my elbows into his hands, jarring my skull. I kicked, trying to mimic the natural grace and elegance with which Phol moved about the ring, wincing

at the slam of my shin against him every time. But “power!” he said so I slammed with all my might, thrilled when I got a “good!”. I drove my knees

at his stomach, stopped short by his hands — something like being stopped by a brick wall. Over and over and over until “blake,” at which I swigged

water greedily as possible handling the bottle with boxing gloves.

We moved to the bags for a while and despite my clumsiness at the work, slammed my elbows, knees, hands and shins into it over and over and

over. Displaying my utter lack of a natural fighter’s grace was humbling. During one particularly pulverizing move that seemed would never end  –

holding the bag, driving left knee in, hopping straight to right knee, repeating — I called on all my willpower not to stop, not to fail. Dying to hear

‘blake” I pounded, hopped, pounded, far longer than any CrossFit work I’ve ever done, more determination than actual strength or endurance

getting me through.

Seeing the condition of my knees and shins, Phol took me to the ice bucket, put my foot on a bench, and dumped freezing water and ice cubes on

my poor leg. He rubbed the ice in and I could have swooned with relief. Both legs done, back to the ring and round after round we went. I’d arrived

early, but Phol didn’t seem to mind that we were going into overtime. An hour and a half of the most insanley difficult workout I’ve ever subjected

myself to and at last we stopped for stretches and a cool-down set of sit-ups.

I emerged from the ring as drenched as if I’d come from a swim, and was intrigued to see how furiously my hands shook after he unbound them. I’d

done it. I’d survived a Thai kickboxing lesson and lived to tell about it, with an immense new respect for the work and skill of the fighters. Never

mind that a few hours later Brian had to ask me to stop screaming as he helped me with an ice bath, I’m slicked with an exotic ointment I bought

for “bruises” and my legs, arms and knuckles are rapidly turning some interesting shades of purple, red and blue. I went into the ring with a fighter

and I didn’t fail, cry, or otherwise disgrace myself.

(The stop in Surawongese Medical Center was to treat my souvenir from the lesson — a sprained wrist. I may not be the badass I wish I were, but I

didn’t pull any punches.)

Live from Bangkok

I’m drinking yet another coconut water and trying to gear up for the day ahead which begins with a Thai kickboxing lesson (or rather with getting across this vast and wild city to get to the gym). I seriously underestimated the effect a 12 hour time change would have and am sleeping very, very little. But. Let’s talk about Bangkok!

I can’t begin to assembly any sort of coherent narrative about this experience yet, so just some observations.

You don’t ‘see’ Bangkok. It thrashes all your senses and leaves you slicked in sweat, wild-haired and vibrantly alive.

The smells of Bangkok are utterly unique, and if I caught a whiff 50 years from now I’d know right away it was this city. It’s coconut, frying garlic, bubbling soup, the automobiles of 10 million people, and so many more unidentifiable smells that make up the unmistakable scent identity of Bangkok.

You feel it too, the steamy air, the exhaust-tinged and blessed breezes, the burn of a curry, the broiling sun, the adrenaline rush of hurtling breakneck down a street in a tuk-tuk.

You hear the rush of endless traffic, the whistle of the traffic police, the rumbling Sky Train, the clatter of the food vendors’ carts, the voices of millions of people talking, singing, selling, laughing.

It all comes together so that you’re not absorbing Bangkok — it’s absorbing you, enveloping you in a pulsing, frustrating, enchanting tempest.

Hello world. (I got a tattoo)

My map of the world

My obsession with travel has reached new heights — I’ve had a map of the world tattooed across my back.

It took over a year to work up the nerve, but I did it. It hurt like I would never have believed, but I’d do it again — I love it. Maybe I’ll add to it as I travel, maybe not.  I rather like it just as it is.

Who would have thought? I actually like working out

I'm hooked on the feeling of adding more weights to the bar!

A few weeks ago I decided not to let matters slide any further vis-a-vis my lack of fitness and upward bound dress size. Sometimes I get on kicks and think I’m going to do something and it lasts about a minute (I won’t embarrass myself by cataloging all my well-intentioned efforts here). But this time, I’m totally hooked on my new thing — CrossFit.

In the past I’ve equated exercise with a transaction I use to counter food. I heaping bowl of risotto equals untold minutes (hours?) of boring drudgery like a treadmill or horrid exercise video. Exercise was boring, something I had to get through to mark off my list. And rarely did I do it.

Now though, it’s a little like the adventure of travel. Each new session I discover something new — about my own self! That I can complete squats with weights, that each time I get closer to being able to do an unassisted pull-up, that even when I think I have nothing left I can keep going. Nobody (and by nobody I mean me) has pushed me physically before. Working with a coach (a guy who can do things like this and who expects me to do waaaay more than I’d have expected of myself) forces me to really put all my effort into it.

When it was just me, nobody cared if I turned off the exercise tape halfway through because it was boring. I’m *never* bored at CrossFit. The workout is different every time, and it’s enough like a Rocky training montage that I look forward (yes, look forward!) to my gym days, just to see what I’m going to do that day.

Stay tuned for that pull-up! And check out the coach’s blog where I’m chronicling my gym adventures.

It’s time for professional help

Food I cook and eat in the interest of pleasing readers ;)

It seems like my life revolves around food. I think about it, write about it, concoct recipes for enjoying it, talk about it, sometimes dream about it, and of course — eat it!

That’s all fine and good.  But it’s bound to catch up with me. Not only the eating, but the sitting — I sit when I eat, I sit when I write. Even cooking isn’t exactly vigorous exercise. In fits and starts I exercise — I had my wii phase, the bellydance phase, the yoga phase. But generally, give me a comfy seat and a cookbook or a movie over self-initiated exercise any day. I don’t really want to focus on an arbitrary number like weight, but I would  like to feel like I’m burning off some of the bacon I eat in the name of my craft. And before a trip I always get an urge to “get in shape.” And wouldn’t it be nice to be strong enough to lift my suitcase over my head in the train without hurting for two days?

But I’ve come to know myself well enough to know I need a bit of good old-fashioned arse-kicking. I need an Apollo Creed to unearth my inner Rocky. So, on the same day my story came out on eating Lexington, I’ve signed, maybe not a pact with the devil, but something I suspect I’ll be crying about in a couple days. I’m going to blog for Derby City CrossFit in exchange for them whipping me into shape.

I start my first session Saturday and will be posting weekly about the experience of a lard-loving food writer who hits a hard-core gym. Come along for the ride, and cheer me along — I’ll need the moral support according to my mom who advised I take some Aleve before *and* after my first session.