The Farm (featuring Asparagoats in Blankets)

Here’s what I’ll admit… I wondered what his morning routine was because he smelled clean and expensive when I shook his hand. I wondered did he make coffee and then take a shower or shower first? Did he go to the gym and then have breakfast? Did he use expensive toothpaste or mouthwash? Is there special stuff for people this successful or do they just go to CVS like we do? I wasn’t interested in his personality and certainly not interested in him romantically or sexually, but I was fascinated by what the personal rituals are when you’re that prosperous.

“Wow, nice view!” I made the understatement of all time as I followed him into his office. The building was in the center of Times Square and the law firm’s suite was on a top floor.

He nodded dispassionately.

His jacket embraced the back of his desk chair like a long-lost friend and his starchy shirtsleeves were rolled more casually than I bet most of his clients saw. He had a belly as round as Santa’s, suspenders holding up his pants, and that tract of short hair under a bald patch that always reminds me of shrubbery. I wondered if he had taken his jacket off to make me feel more comfortable. I was out of my league here. Even 45-year-olds need their parent’s law firm connections to handle their real estate transactions. Even 45 year olds.

From what felt like the pinnacle of New York, I was suddenly thinking about New Year’s Eve. About what kind of party you could throw in this guy’s office since the “ball” dropped from what seemed a stone’s throw from his desk. About all the people on the street level staring up in this direction, mouths agape, waiting with frenzied anticipation for something symbolic to create something new.

Wearing dungarees and the only button-down shirt I hadn’t yet packed, I sat in the oiled leather seat across from him and signed my name again and again. Threads dangled from a band-aid on my right index finger, which released its grasp on my paper cut as the pen swirled my autograph.

“And here,” the lawyer said, pointing to another X’d spot. “And here.”

Trying to stay as cool as possible, I looked at his bookcase for distraction, yanked the band-aid from my finger, and stuffed it in my jeans pocket. He was busy with the next stack of papers. “And here.”

“Yup, umhmm,” I signed and signed. Buhbye apartment. Buhbye New York.

If I’m telling the story to a crowd, I might say that it was all impulse. That I was madly in love and leaping headstrong into my future. That I never looked back or even side to side. Standing 100 feet tall, intrepid superhero cape flapping in the wind, I brazenly lit a match the size of New York City and threw it over my shoulder.

And a lot of that is true. I am impulsive for big life decisions the way some people are for dinner plans. “Ooooh! What about Indian food tonight?!?” is my “Oooh! How’s about I uproot my successful business, marry someone I’ve never lived with, and move all the way across the country!?!”

Sitting there signing paper after paper, relinquishing the ownership of my Morningside Heights apartment and the life I’d created in New York, my doubts started creeping in. New York is my favorite place on the planet. It’s where I feel like me. I can’t just up and leave…

And then he said,

“So what are you gonna do? Go live on a farm?”

You know that New Yorker cover from the 70s that’s a map of the world from a high rise on 9^th Avenue and you can see 10^th Avenue clearly and then the river and then Jersey, Kansas City, Chicago, Japan, China, Russia like they’re all inconsequential landmasses? Like New York is the only place that matters? Like a location and its residents can have a combined solipsism that obliterates the rest of the world? I’ve never identified so clearly with a piece of art than in that moment. I squinted out the lawyer’s window at his literal view of the world. Maybe I could see the inconsequential landmass of Portland, Oregon if I focused real hard.

I wonder if he had reductive queries about me like I’d had about him when we shook hands 20 minutes earlier. Did he wonder if I only peed outside? Or used a hose for a shower? Or brushed my teeth with cow dung? I wanted to yell that I had grown up on the upper west side! That there were provocative locations beyond this metropolis! In my head, I jumped onto his desk vehemently stomping and bellowing about the wide range of food and vistas and opportunities for life beyond this place!

But it was unnecessary. He’d proved my point. For many years my love of the city blinded me to my inability to survive there happily. I was leaving New York because the dichotomy of extreme haves and have-nots had become impossible for me to navigate. If you weren’t a millionaire you were a pauper.

At the very moment that I was coming to terms with many of New York’s non-negotiable flaws, a path out became clear. Eight years later, I’m still grateful.

I don’t live on a farm. I live in a house in the Alberta Arts district of Portland with a dog and a cat and my husband. I have a booming catering business and friends and family close by. And you know what? New York is still there. It’s still my favorite place in the whole wide world. It’s just not where I live.

And every once in a while, I’ll come home from a walk with the dog or in from the backyard and Francis, my husband, will say, “So what, are you gonna live on a farm??” and we’ll collapse in laughter.

Here’s a recipe I created for an appearance on KATU’s Afternoon Live, a TV show that I cook on once a month (you’ll see the link to this episode below the recipe). I wanted to create a vegetarian alternative to Pigs in Blankets so I created an asparagus/ goat cheese/ fresh mint wrap that I’m calling asparagoats in Blankets. It’s almost like living on a farm. But not.

Asparagoats in Blankets

I use Pepperidge Farm Puff Pastry sheets, which come with 2 puff pastry sheets per box which are folded into thirds. When you cut along the folds, you get 3 strips of puff pastry that are 3 inches by 9 inches. Each of those strips will give you 10 rollups.

Ingredients

• 1 frozen puff pastry sheet cut into thirds (see above)
• 1 pound asparagus (you’ll want 1 asparagus spear for every rollup)
• olive oil for drizzling
• salt
• Approximately 2 ounces of goat cheese (I use 1 teaspoon of goat cheese per rollup)
• Fresh mint, cut into a chiffonade
• 1 egg yolk

1. Preheat the oven to 375 degrees. Place a piece of parchment paper on a sheet pan.
2. On a cutting board, lay out the 3”x9” strip of puff pastry (see above) and cut it into triangles that have a 1 inch base. They do not need to be exact, but you should get 10 triangles from one strip.
3. Toss the cut 3-inch asparagus pieces in a bowl with a drizzle (seriously, not a lot of oil please) of olive oil and a sprinkling of salt.
4. One at a time spread 1 teaspoon of goat cheese over the triangle of puff pastry. Sprinkle some fresh mint on top of the goat cheese and then lay 2 pieces of asparagus on the bottom edge of the triangle.
5. Roll it up from the bottom edge covering the asparagus. Place the roll onto the parchment-lined baking sheet and continue to fill and roll the rest.
6. Brush the rollups with the egg yolk and bake for 15 minutes.
7. Serve hot or cold.