She Wrote, He Wrote

On the 4th of July, Greg and I held a yoga party brunch on our spacious back deck. This idea was born one year earlier when I met yoga instructor and cranio-sacral therapist, Cat Kabira on an Independence Day flight from Los Angeles to Boston. Cat, with her wild hair and bright smile, was on her way back from Bali and, along with a row of seats, we shared a long conversation about yoga and traveling and how our pasts had led us to the very moment in which we found ourselves. It was one of the easiest friendships I’ve ever formed.

Frequently in Chicago to visit her dad, Cat was over for dinner a month or so ago and we (Greg included) got to talking about how perfect our deck was for yoga and how fun it might be to host a little yoga class. And because I’m always thinking about food, I threw in the idea of a brunch to go with it. At the time it seemed like a whimsical wine-induced idea that probably wouldn’t end up happening…

…Lo and behold, July 4th found Greg and myself perched on our yoga mats and surrounded by close to twenty people who had responded to our invite. As Cat asked us all to close our eyes and sit up a little straighter, I listened to the wind in the trees up above us and ran through a mental checklist of brunch items I had prepared.

The poblano chile and cheddar quiches were cooling on the counter. All the fruit for the fruit salad had been perfectly chopped by Greg’s lovely cousin Mandy and was chilling in the refrigerator. The fresh-baked carrot-zucchini bread had been cut into squares and arranged on a platter. The orange juice and Champagne were cold and waiting to be combined. Everything was ready. I breathed in deeply and let out a slow exhale, letting myself tune into what Cat was saying.

I thought about how hard it is to let go of the things that swim through our heads all day. Last year in Los Angeles I took about 6 weeks of private meditation instruction and it was one of the most profound experiences I’ve ever had. I never became very good at it – meditation is hard – but I was afforded a glimpse in to the purpose of it and that’s kept me coming back, kept me always trying to get to that space of nothingness and of peace. Until I started meditating, I had no idea that the constant chattering narrative in my head isn’t mandatory, that it can be quieted and quelled…but only with practice and persistence.

So, sitting there on our deck surround by at least a dozen people I’d never met, I tried my best to let go of all the swirling thoughts in my head. Cat is a Forrest Yoga teacher, which means that she works to help students hold intense poses for longer periods of time, helping them to work through physical and emotional stresses through the poses themselves. Finally allowing myself to really tune in to Cat, I moved through the sequence of poses she instructed us on, remembering what it is that I love about yoga – that centered-ness it brings me and the way it practically forces me to be present to my body and my feelings in the moment.

Lying there afterwards in sivasana, I took a moment to appreciate all that my life is right now and I felt the most intense sense of gratitude.

And later over bites of quiche and fruit salad, Cat and I looked around the deck at our friends – all of them exhibiting that healthy yoga glow that comes only after a good class – and we smiled at each other. Hard to believe that exactly a year ago we were just getting to know each other on an airplane. Maybe next summer we’ll offer a weekly prix fixe yoga bruch, we joked. Maybe.

(Photos by John Sheehan)

I’ve been a fan of Bloody Marys since long before it was legal for me to drink them. I can still remember the summer after my junior year of high school when my best friend Liz and I would make a giant thermos of them, sneaking the vodka from my father’s wet bar, and carefully mixing in a hefty portion of Mr. & Mrs. T’s. We’d spend the whole day at the neighborhood pool subtly drinking from our plastic thermos cups while we tipsily waved at moms we sometimes babysat for.

And the history of Bloody Marys in my family goes back farther than that. Back to June of 1975 actually, when my father, who’d been stood up by my mother on a blind date the night before, persistently rang her Manhattan buzzer at 10AM the next morning. “Who dares ring anyone before noon on a Sunday in New York,” my mother famously wrote in a detailed story of their courtship. “It had to be you, as they say, and I answered the door with wet hair asking if you wanted a Bloody Mary, which thank god, you did.”

So even more than the briny taste of cold tomato juice spiked with pepper and spices and cool, clear vodka, it’s the essence of the drink that I’m in love with, the self-validating morning juice tinged with enough alcohol to at once wake you up and mellow you out.

Needless to say that when I heard about the Bloody Mary flights at Bin 36 Cafe in Wicker Park, I became mildly obsessed with the idea of holding in my hands, each of those four-different flavored Marys. I even heard rumors of an Asian-inspired choice and I knew, having been to Bin Wine Cafe and Bin 36 already, that it would be good.

Now, the best Bloody Mary I’ve ever had was in an old courtyard hotel in the French Quarter of New Orleans. I’ve never forgotten that perfect blend of horseradish and pepper, the zing of Worcestershire, the bobbing olive and even the pickled green bean nestled in against the stalk of celery. That particular Bloody Mary has grown and grown in my head until I’m not sure that I’ll ever encounter its likeness again.

BUT….the Bloody Marys at Bin are spectacular in that there are four of them all at once. Included are the Bucktown Mary (original style with horseradish, Tabasco & celery), the Italian Mary (with balsamic vinegar, fresh basil and parmesan), the Asian Mary (with pickled ginger and wasabi) and the Consuela Mary (extra-spicy, Chipoltle flavors with a choice of tequila or vodka). They arrived in stemless Reidel glasses laid out neatly with the name of each version written on Bin’s signature flight mat.

I tried them one at a time all in a row. Before I tasted them I was betting that my favorite would be the Italian Mary. But it wasn’t. I was imaging my own homemade tomato sauce, bright and popping with basil and garlic, but Bin’s actually wasn’t as flavorful. The original Mary was fantastic — classic and spicy — and the Asian Mary was interesting, the ginger adding a layer of unexpected depth. But it was the Consuelo Mary, oh the Consuelo Mary — smoky with chipotle peppers and so deeply spicy and rich, that I had no choice but to favor it above all the rest.

I may not have been 16 and tipsy at the pool with Liz but sitting before my four glorious Marys, I felt just as giddy.