A dedicated chicken nuggets button? I don’t really know what to say.

But reading it triggered some strange responses.

One of those is that I just went down to eat some of the cold leftover Japanese pork with ginger from the fridge, and when I saw the can of sweetened condensed milk next to it, I wondered how the two would taste together. Not too terrible, it turns out.

The other, deeper response was just plain regret. Between this and another book I’m almost done with (the salacious and smartly written Cooking Dirty, by Jason Sheehan), I’m getting a lot of input on the professional cook’s life.

Seven years ago (!!), I was thinking that’s what I’d do. I had talked myself into a very part-time slot on the line at Prune. I was soaking up as much cooking knowledge as I could get without paying for it. I was cooking ridiculous, elaborate dinners for friends just to practice.

And yet, I didn’t fully commit. Gabrielle Hamilton could’ve thrown a couple more shifts my way, but I felt like I couldn’t quit my money-making job (freelance copy editing), so I could only work weekends.

I was too rational. And at 30, I was also already over the hill, really, and I already knew from bartending how grueling a full-time on-your-feet job can be, how all-absorbing restaurant life is, how crappy the pay can be. That kind of knowledge makes you a little more hesitant than someone just coming up, entranced by the heat and the knives.

Plus, in a side note of regret, I said one of the most stupid things of my entire life when I first started working there: “Well, I don’t really care much about making a perfect omelet, for instance.” This, to Gabrielle Hamilton, after she put me on the brunch line. What? Why would I have said that? I cannot fathom. The next couple of months I worked were probably just charity on her part.

So. The David Chang book talks a lot about the intensity of restaurant cooking. And the absolute, pure striving for perfection. This is not a world of relativism, of softy liberal “do what you like.” No. You do it right.

See, I am a horrible perfectionist. But I was raised by hippies. The tension tears me up inside. I know, intellectually, that it’s not cool to be this way (which is why I must’ve made that dumb omelet comment), and it’s a terrible burden to place on others. But restaurant kitchens are perfectionist heaven. They are about the only realm in which you can let your anal flag fly, and actually get rewarded. (The other realm, incidentally, is copy editing.)

When I was having my just-turned-30 identity crisis, I really did think about all this methodically. In the “pros” column of restaurant work, I noted the fact that it’s still perfectly acceptable in a restaurant kitchen to have a screaming tantrum. You can finally just fucking go to town on all the people who are disappointing you and not doing shit that’s up to your standards.

This is not so acceptable in a magazine office. Or really anywhere else that I had access to, career-wise.

The other great perk of line cooking, when you do it well, is that it’s pure flow. Pure body function, without interference from the brain. I have never been an athlete—this is the closest I’ll ever come, I imagine.

Writing and editing aren’t physical at all (unless you count what it does to your back and hands), but they do have the potential to be just as completely absorbing. Unfortunately, though, your brain makes up any excuse to get out of the zone and interfere, and you just happen to be sitting at an Internet-enabled computer, so all day you’re in a nasty little battle with yourself, and you just don’t get the adrenaline high and inner peace you have after a 10-hour restaurant shift.

But. Well. So. I didn’t make the leap. After I got gently booted from Prune, I worked somewhere else much crappier, and just lost the fire. It’s entirely possible I would’ve really sucked—never nailed a flawless perfect omelet, never gelled with a crew, always been the one, ironically, not doing it perfectly and getting yelled at.

Now I’m a home cook (and cookbook author promoting same), but home cooking is the opposite of perfectionist restaurant work. You work with what you’ve got, and if it doesn’t turn out, fuck it. Tomorrow is another three meals.

On the best nights, home cooking does get me into that state of flow. But it’s not working toward one perfect anything. And I still have no real constructive outlet for my screaming rage when other people fuck up completely simple things, and don’t seem to even give a shit that they’re doing so. Which some people might think calls for therapy. But I think maybe just calls for a different job. I’m still looking.

+++

PS: Oh, an added layer of regret: Our book was supposed to be called “F-ing Delicious,” but the sales team panicked (even though there was no actual true profanity on the cover) and we had to change it. And since it got changed to “Forking Fantastic!” (some ladies in Philly have dibs on Forking Delicious), we also changed the words “Is it fucking delicious?” in the text to “Is it fucking fantastic?”, for consistency. OK–it was all me, changing it–because, you know, I’m a copy editor and things have to be consistent.

And now look–through this book, David Chang has basically put dibs on “fucking delicious.”

Actually, he even says “fucking dericious” in the book too, which is eight million times funnier, and even though we say that all the time, we never would’ve had the balls to actually write it. So really, this is a game we never could’ve won.

This is basically a big shout-out post. But since there’s so little community among travel writers (we’re always, um, traveling), it’s nice to wallow in it a bit.

Great night! Although I was rather long-winded, as I’d gotten accustomed to entertaining bookstore crowds for 30 minutes, while riffing only off one other person. At Word, we had a panel of me, AnneLise Sorensen (who was my editor at RG for a bit) and Sarah Hull (who I can’t find a link for, but I don’t think is a Hawaiian Tropic swimsuit model on the side–but maybe?).

All moderated by the ever-delightful and sharp-dressed Katy Ball, who gets mad props for steering the discussion off the usual rocks of freebies-or-not, local-or-not and wow-your-job-is-awesome that ring the island of guidebook writing.

Aaand it was all sponsored by Jauntsetter, a website/email newsletter/blog that is so up my alley (I’m a woman; I live in New York; I travel) that I’m embarrassed I didn’t know about it until a couple of months ago, when Katy put this whole thing together. It’s great to see something allegedly for the ladies that is not pink and decorated with silhouettes of handbags and high heels. In fact, it would not horrify a man to read the site either.

In other travel news, I went into the corner 7-11 for the first time ever (WTF–why do we need 7-11 in NYC, the capital of corner bodegas?), just to look at the little Domo coffee cups. I wandered around the place like I was in another country, ogling all the weird food products in there. Did you know they make Sour Gummi Bright Octopuses now? Also, I’ve seen squirt cheese before, but never squirt chili. There were two little paper plates under the pump dispensers to catch the drips. There were many obscene-looking drips.

But the real kicker: cheeseburgers shaped like hot dogs! Sitting there in the little rolling hot-dog grill! I couldn’t actually see any cheese, so I assume it’s in the center and squirts out when you bite in. Shudder.

I was so shocked by it all that I didn’t even buy my Domo coffee.

“ I love to hear that I’m not the only one spending my commute home thinking about how to best use what’s sitting in the bin of my fridge. I’ve thought about that as a form of culinary sudoku.”

First of all, Skank Ham. Met the auteur in St. Louis last night at our Left Bank Books event. I love the Internet.

As I’ve mentioned in posts about guidebook research trips, it’s easy to get burned out on restaurant food, on hotels (no matter how glam) and on the glamour of air travel. On the flip side, any moment of non-business-travel experience can be mind-blowingly delightful.

For instance, last night in St. Louis, I was just delighted to ride as a passenger in a car driven by people who knew their way around the city and could tell us fascinating facts about it along the way. No offense to Tamara, who was great at the wheel of our rental cars in three cities, but that’s just not the same.

And when we arrived at Third Place Books for our first Seattle gig, we were served our very own food from the cookbook–a home-cooked meal we were totally not expecting. At that point, Tamara had blown her wad early, so to speak, gorging herself on fancy, vegetable-less, high-butter-fat dinners for the first few days of the trip, so she nearly wept with gratitude.

That’s not to say we didn’t eat some sensational food. At the beginning, it was the Trip of Righted Wrongs. In Portland, I finally got to go to Pok-Pok, after missing it last visit due to its inconveniently being closed the one night we had time. Holy shit, it was delicious. I cannot wait for our January Thailand trip. Ain’t no thing like a fish-sauce-marinated chicken wing.

Also had a fine dinner at Biwa, a Japanese-y joint. Deep-fried kimchi, people. Not so different from deep-fried pickles at your local pub. And a pleasure to dine with the lovely and talented Naomi Pomeroy, who I expect is wiping the floor with her competitor at Iron Chef even as we speak.

But the real bliss of Portland is that you can walk in nearly any old place and get a great meal. The day I arrived, with only a couple of hours before our event at fab Land, I only had time to stagger down to the hotel dining room. Where I ate oysters, deviled eggs three ways and a “salad” that was one big giant roasted bear, some velvety goat cheese and some berries. It was like the whole Pacific Northwest saying, “Look at what WE got!” I found out later that the Heathman Hotel’s restaurant is generally very reputable, so this wasn’t a fluke. But still.

In Seattle, I also righted some wrongs: ate at Salumi twice (to make up for the TWO times it was closed on previous visits), and went to the Rem Koolhaas library, which I’d missed on my last visit. This time, it was unmissable, kitty-corner from my hotel. By sheer coincidence, then had dinner at newly opened Ventana with the same man who’d sold me a $30 finocchiona at Salumi at lunch. I’ve got some crazy flavored salts in my suitcase from Ventana, and a strong memory of oxtail with chard, before the dessert wines blotted everything else out–all thanks to the brilliant social engineering of Seattle Tall Poppy. (Have I mentioned–I love the Internet?)

And I had a totally blissed out morning sitting at counter and eating Swedish almond-cardamom bread, drinking very milky coffee, reading the paper and listening to Mission of Burma from the doughnut stand next to my perch. It was gray and rainy out and just perfect. The day before, I’d eaten a pork sandwich from Maximus/Minimus, a bus shaped like a pig. I was wandering around hungry, and saw a flood of people walking down the street carrying some mighty fine sandwiches. Such good fortune to find the source of the sammies on the very next corner. And just hilarious that the pig bus sells vegan stuff too. Everything you expect from Seattle, really. (Also, buskers playing Nirvana on accordions.)

After all that, I took a weekend break in Albuquerque, where unfortunately I didn’t get to eat green-chile stew at the Frontier until a few hours before my flight out, but the 48-hour trip was nonetheless worth it. Just to be home and recharge, even if there was also some book signing and a great interview with the hilarious Gwyneth Doland, formerly of the Albuquerque Alibi, and Susan Loubet, the host of the show.

Back in Phoenix, I ate at Schlotzsky’s.

….

OK. I was going to skip on to the next topic, and make it seem like Phoenix was a desolate hole. But actually, I like Schlotzsky’s for some reason, and they aren’t really here in NYC. Am I crazy to think the original-style Schlotzsky’s sandwich is some kind of riff on a muffuletta? As I was walking down the block (after nearly getting run over, because no one walks in Phoenix), I found myself actually craving the boiled black olives and the cheese that weirdly melts into the cellular bread.

For dinner, we once again got to eat our very own food, made by the crazy-enthusiastic chef at Duck & Decanter, a wine bar I wish I had around the corner from me. Tamara’s boss from the IHOP showed up, in his IHOP jacket. Awesome.

And that brings us all back to St. Louis, which I’ve had the pleasure of visiting before, but hot damn, why did no one tell me about the doughnuts?! Also, those oatmeal cookies from Dad’s. Dangalang. All my teeth could fall out and my legs would fall off from diabetes, but I think I could live happily in St. Louis.

And now, just a few hours from now (three, to be exact–just enough time to think I have plenty of time, and then manage to be late), I’m off to Word Brooklyn, basically where it all began at the beginning of the month. Tonight, though, I’m talking about the rigors of writing guidebooks. And I will certainly mention how book tour was a total cakewalk compared with my usual guidebook gig.

And after that, I’ll more closely read a job offer for yet another guidebook gig that I just received yesterday. I think I’ll take it. Am I crazy?

(More pics at Flickr.)

Anyway, fixed that. Will arrive in Portland tomorrow (lord willin’) and put on a show at Land gallery, which I am very much looking forward to. And there will be plenty of eating in Portland, of course. Finally, Pok-pok!

And, as I’ve said on shorter-form communication media, it dawned on me that working as a guidebook writer has made me exceptionally well trained for a book tour. All those pansy writers who complain about having to fly to a new city every two days–big deal! Try driving to a new city every two days, in 90-degree heat, in a car with no a/c or power steering. And overscheduling–I invented that the first time I tried to visit all of New Mexico in three weeks.

Also, I’m very good at getting names spelled right. So I won’t be doing what Jeffrey Steingarten did to me when he inscribed a book to “Dora.” (Bad bookstore karma, but I sliced that page out with a razor blade and returned the book. It’s not like I shoplifted books and then returned them, like some deadbeat writers I’ve met.)

Anyhooooo… This is all to say I probably will be too harried to communicate clearly in this forum for the next couple of weeks. (Sad state of affairs when blogging seems to be too long-form.) I will, as ever, be on Facebook, where we also have a page for the cookbook. And this newfangled Twitter thing. I’m at zoraoneill and forkyeah. (And Cooking in Real Time is continuing–not to worry. Also on Twitter at cookrealtime.)

Oh! And I’m still a guidebook writer, you know. I’ll be appearing at WORD! (the best-named bookstore ever) on October 29 to talk about it. I will be totally fried. It will be awesome, and hopefully somewhat coherent.

I think I was meant for radio. I can’t seem to keep my eyes open when I talk. If that’s not really a symptom of autism, it probably should be.

Behind-the-scenes gossip: We spent five hours taping this. Who knows how long they spent editing it. Result: two minutes. It makes me feel much better about the rate at which I write.

Here’s the segment page.

Now Lars von Triers’s devilish little setup has finally been applied to the Brooklyn cook-off sensibility, in an event called The Food Obstructions. I face the five obstructions (at least) nearly every night in my kitchen, and I’m not one for competition, but this does look like fun. I’ll be out of town on the book hustle, though. Perhaps I can recreate the hilarious scene where Jorgen Leth is lying on his hotel-room bed in Cuba, sweating and panicking about his ridiculous challenge…

I feel obliged to write something and get excited. And get you all excited. And honestly, I am excited. I’m proud of this book–it’s up there with my Moon guide to New Mexico in accuracy and cleverness and so on, but not cluttered up with a lot of telephone numbers and opening hours. Oh, and it’s funnier.

But, alas, very much like the day I got married, my previous obligations have somehow expanded monstrously, so as to render me exhausted and still slogging along under the weight of missed deadlines, and thus unable to fully live in the moment. (You should see the pics of me at city hall with Peter in 2005. The bags under my eyes were epic.)

Suspiciously, the culprit in both cases has been a guidebook job. Six years of doing this work, and I still cannot accurately assess how much time it will take me to finish? I just can’t face the awful truth of how much painstaking grunt work it is. Or perhaps the real truth is that I positively suck at multitasking.

Anyway, I’d type more, but…I’ve got to get back to work. I’m hyperventilating slightly just thinking about it.

You’ll love the book, honest. Even if you don’t like swearing. And if you email me to tell me how much you like it (I hope), I’ll get back to you next week. When I’m out from under my current job.

Like the last bite of summer: Our neighbor Marina gave us a second bag of the tiny sweet-tart figs from her tree. Squished with my thumb, and drizzled over a little honey from the Yucatan. And Greek yogurt, naturally. (Hazelnuts were a bonus, just hanging out, already toasted, in the freezer.)

Look at This Fucking Bacon, the blog.

First entry could be this.

Except, of course, I really like MEM’s blog. And I think I would be very happy to eat bacon jam. (I realize it’s not his original idea, but I am too lazy to track down the source. But the photo is very pretty. Which makes it perfect LATFB material.)

Another problem: my very own cookbook has a recipe for candied bacon. To be put on top of a cake, even.

I do wonder if people will look back and think of bacon as a food fad, like sun-dried tomatoes….

PS: Someone I know said the first time she looked at LATFH, she scrolled down and saw her ex-boyfriend. In a love connection, no less. Oh, and wielding a knife.

Me, here.

Forking Fantastic! here.

Not that I’ve tweeted anything. But when I do–watch out, kids! It’s gonna be trenchant.

But one of those tasks was trawling the tubes for like-minded bloggers. What fun! I found some bitchin’ gals in St. Louis and a charming fellow traveler in Seattle, among others.

And then I found Cook to Bang. Recipes to get you laid! Duh! Of course! I mean, that’s really the whole point, on a Darwinian level, no? And the best part is: the food is great! This is not your standard bachelor angle, talking down to you and telling you how to transform Doritos.

I had the pleasure of meeting Spencer while he was visiting New York. While I sucked down a Bistro burger, he told me about his upcoming book (spring, St. Martin’s!) and his plans for world domination. Totally wunderbar. Trust me, come spring, you will be thinking what a fabulous coolhunter I am, already knowing about this guy. (Except, er, his blog has been going for quite some time…)

Very much looking forward to meeting other bloggers as we traipse around the country in October!

Check it out for funny photos, more about the book and our events schedule in October. And you can even download the introduction to the book!

Oct 6, kids. Oct 6. Getting closer…

I’ve been preaching this pleasure for years, but since I am not the queen of cookbook editors, I haven’t had quite the same impact this book will likely have. But truly, truly, truly, take mine and Judith’s word for it: cooking for yourself is one of the simplest ways of improving your day.

And you’re probably thinking, “But you’re married! It doesn’t count!”

Oh, but it does. Yes, there is someone else in my house, who often eats what I cook. And, to be honest, I have never lived completely alone. But I have enjoyed many, many solitary dinners, where I’ve had the satisfaction of cooking just exactly what I was hungry for. Developing the ability, and the inclination, to do this has been one of my great accomplishments. A good meal gives a perfect calm point to my day, and I suspect my life would be a shambles without it.

If you’re not sold on the book, you can listen to the eminently sensible Ms. Jones in a podcast here, at The City Cook. She shares a bunch of good tips for setting up a solo kitchen and the like.

An actual review from an actual stranger! I feel so proud! And relieved that more of “our kind of people” really exist out there, and get our jokes.

Seriously, I was faintly worried that we were writing for an audience that we had just conjured up in our imaginations. “Who’s coming to dinner? Well, Mr. Fox–he loves to swear. And Barney Squidgems–he loves ham. And Miss Violet–she lives in a tiny apartment, but actually does want to cook for people, even though she doesn’t know it yet.”

(I think I had an imaginary friend who was a fox when I was little–the others, I just made up on the spot. I swear.)

Read:My:Back: Fear Not the Slow Cooker

(PS: I do not have a slow-cooker. Does this worry me? Not in the least.)

Go to the Rizzo’s website, wait for it to load (be patient!), click on “staff” and scroll to “Sal.”

(Thanks, Peter, my pizza-researching dear.)