The Post-90: Gluten-Free Bialys

I ran into a friend at the gym.  She was kicking a habit she no longer felt served her. "I'm at Day 56."


"Wait, didn't they say it was 21 days to lose a habit?  Now they've upped it to 56?!"  I'm always the last one to receive the memo.

"Actually, it's been increased to 90 days.  They say it takes 90 days for us to see something differently."

They say.  They say.  I guess one ought to really do than accept what they say sometimes.  So what did I do in terms of giving up things?  I'd given up TV over a year ago.  Or maybe it's been two.  Now,  I don't miss it.  My approach to passive viewing has changed.  I derive much more pleasure from TV because it's occasional, conscious, and more social.  I have to watch it at other people's homes.

And the same thing seems to apply to food.  I believe it's been over 90 days since I had a bialy or a bagel.  My long work commute had ended and there was no routine to go into Grand Central to grab one. 

And living in an area with no deli to roll out of bed to (if you're in the 60's between Mad and Fifth, you know what I mean), getting a morning bagel or bialy takes focus and planning.  I need to channel my morning focus for other things so bagel/bialy fell out of routine.

So how did I find myself approaching the bialy differently after 90 days?  I wanted to make a homemade bialy.  I upped the ante.  I wanted it homemade and gluten-free.

I don't have Celiac's but seeing a friend not be able to eat a baked good because it wasn't gluten-free made me realize this holiday baking would have to include GF items to my sleeve of tricks.  It just seems to be necessary to stay relevant in the kitchen.

An amazing find was Bob's Red Mill Xanthan Gum.  Plant-derived, it replaces gluten's job of giving a dough its elasticity and rise.  

Loving the onions in the middle of the bialy, I decided to raise the bar again and make it an onion/potato/leek bialy with mango chutney.  Hot out of the oven, I took a bite and I don't think I'll ever be the same again.  It was that good.  It was worth the 90 days of doing without.

The Post-90  Gluten-Free Bialy Recipe

You will need:

6 three-inch diameter tartlet pans  (can be found at Williams - Sonoma)

1 cup of Bob's Red Mill Gluten Free (wheat free, dairy free) All Purpose Baking Flour 

2 teaspoons of  Bob's Red Mill Xanthan Gum

1 teaspoon of Aluminum-free baking powder (can be had at Whole Foods)

1 cup of lukewarm water

2 tablespoons of olive oil (and a little more for greasing the tartlet pans)

1/2 an Idaho potato

1/2 cup of chopped leeks (some from the base and some from the top)

1/4 cup of chopped onions

2 cloves of garlic

olive oil - q.s. (quantity sufficient) to sauté the vegetables

Himalayan pink salt - q.s. to make it tasty but not salty

optional - a little mango chutney to dab on your bialy

Instructions:

1)  Chop up the potato, leeks, onions, and garlic.  If you have a mandolin slicer with a wide tooth, it's easier to run the potato through it as if you were making latkes.  I prefer to smash my garlic through a press.  But you can easily get by without these gadgets if you just stick to chopping finely.

2)  Sauté the vegetables with olive oil until the onions become translucent.

3)  Put the flour, the xanthan gum, the baking powder, lukewarm water, and 2 tablespoons of olive oil into a Vitamix.  Turn the dial slowly to 10 and keep it there until you feel resistance from the blades.  There should be a small, smooth ball if you look into your Vitamix.  If not, set the dial back to zero and swish around the lumpy things with the tamper and turn the dial back up.  The end result of Vitamix effort should look like this:

 

The dough feels a little gummy.  And that's okay.  It's supposed to feel gummy.

4)  Pre-heat the oven to 400 degrees Fahrenheit.

5)  Grease the tartlet pans with olive oil.

6)  Using a spatula, fill and spread the gummy paste of dough into the tartlet pans.  If the tartlet pans look like the outer paper mold of a large Reese's Peanut Butter Cup, fill and smooth the dough so that the top of the paste looks as even as the top of the chocolate cup confection.

7)  Add a little bit of the potato / leek mix in the middle of each "tart".

8)  Bake for 25 minutes.

9)  They will rise like popovers but once out of the oven, they will fall again.  Out of the oven and a bit cooled, they are ready to flip out of the pans.  Using a metal spatula or a knife, gently separate the bread from the edges of the tartlet pans.  Turn it upside down and have the bialy gently fall off.

10)  Dab a bit of mango chutney onto the center and you have an incredible bialy.  This is fabulous. 

And what was more fabulous was how easily I digested this bialy.  This is the bialy that'll love you back.

Happy Post-90! ~e

Life is a Tabaré

There are so many undiscovered food places in Brooklyn, I feel like Ferdinand Magellan when I'm in this borough.  The natives are friendly so I just hop on a train and ask one where I should eat.

"Go to Tabaré.  It's a Uruguayan place."

"What should I order?"

"The empanadas."

Really?  I wasn't too keen on this local's advice.  The last time I had an empanada, my stomach felt like there were sandbags inside.  From then on, I dismissed empanadas as gut-bombs.  Every culture seems to have one.

In Korean tradition, one would have super glutinous rice cakes piled high on festive occasions.  One piece of rice cake is probably equivalent to 10 compressed bowls of rice.  Unless your stomach is made of iron, you will suffer.  This is one tradition from my heritage I'm not sure I'd keep.  

In Lebanese culture, there is the fried lamb kibbe.  A friend's aunt who is Lebanese kept insisting I eat her lamb kibbe.  To be polite while trying to catch a flight, I slammed that kibbe and regretted it soon after.  On the plane, I thought about pulling out the oxygen mask.

And then there was my first empanada.  It was at a potluck years ago at work.  A colleague urged me to try it.  The pastry looked thick.  Not wanting to offend, I ate it and almost died.
 
I asked the local, "Can you recommend anything else?"

"No.  Get the empanadas."

Something in his tone was quite compelling.  So I went to Tabaré and ordered what I'd silently used to refer to as the Hot-Pockets of Death.  Empanadas caseras.  Caseras, que sera.  Let's hope for the best.

I took a bite and it was so divine, I was smitten.  I never even thought to take photos of them.    There are no empanada photos to share.  Nada.  So you will have to go there to see these light purses of gold nuggets for yourself.  Order the caramelized onions, gruyere, & fontina cheese empanada if you are somewhat vegetarian.  If you're an omnivore, make sure to have the free-range chicken empanada in the mix. 

Unbelievably light and airy.   I was lost in enjoying these empanadas.   I even want to learn how to make them!  And perhaps this will have me re-examine the whole rice cake / kibbe situation.  Maybe there are better ways to make them...

Anyway, I dipped these empanadas caseras into a chimichurri that blew all chimichurris out of the water.  Actually, all of Tabaré's dipping sauces and herbed oils were sensational.  I told Bruno (co-owner), if they bottled their condiments, I would stock up on the chimichurri.  He said I wasn't the only one who's told him this.

Here was something else that is a must-try.  The hostess brought over a complimentary dessert.  It was flan.  I like flan but the last time I had one was years ago - the one packaged in Goya.

Goya's is good.  But it's Tabaré's twist on the flan that will have you gasp, "Oh boy-a."  This was an incredible dessert.  I usually don't take dessert because I rarely like to end a fabulous meal with something sweet, especially if it's dry like pies, cakes, or cookies.  But I would have cried if I'd missed out on this one.  It was topped with bitter coffee or espresso.  So each bite was moist, just the right sweet, with bitter, and silky.  Heaven.

If I'm not mistaken, Tabaré was named in honor of Tabaré Aguerre.  An agronomist, he is Uruguay's Minister of Stockbreeding, Agriculture, and Fisheries. 

I am pretty sure he is the Tabaré who inspired the place from reading a bit of their philosophy on the menu.  The namesake restaurant supports sustainable fishing practices.  It acknowledges our responsibility in animal stewardship.  The restaurant also believes good food comes from strong relationships with their suppliers.  "We like to know where our food comes from - farmers, ranchers, artisans."

The ambience is just as perfect.  There is a very relaxed, cozy vibe.  Dimly lit with great music (perfect volume) from all parts of South America, it is really a cozy place to go alone or with a date.  I was utterly content to eat my empanadas with a glass of Malbec and listen to the music.

The hostess, Lorena, adds a great deal of personality to the place.  Her stunning beauty is matched with a very charming, gracious, and easygoing manner.  If reincarnation is possible in this world, I'd love to come back as a beautiful Latina from South America. 

Tabaré Co-owner Bruno (left) and Hostess Lorena (right)

Tabaré Restaurant

221 South 1st Street

Brooklyn, NY 11211

ph: 347.335.0187

Advanced Banana

Back in September, an imessage came in from a friend in Holland telling me to go see Advanced Style.

I looked up the movie listings and saw that it was at Quad Cinema (my old neighborhood).  Living now on the UES, the West Village seems like another state.  I'll get around to it I thought, and put it off.  When I finally found the time, the only place it was playing in was Floral Park. If the WV was another state, Floral Park was another country.

And to make matters more complex, it was the last day before Advanced Style was to advance on to Massachusetts.  Yes, I could have gotten the DVD but this film seemed too important not to watch in cinema for the first time.  So I googled how to take a bus from 57th and Mad all the way to Floral Park.

I hadn't taken an MTA bus in years.  As a teen, I'd witnessed such an unpleasant exchange between a bus driver and a girl my age, that I later preferred subways, railroads, and taxis.  She boarded and asked him what time it was.  He was astonishingly surly and snapped that drivers weren't allowed to talk to passengers.  Yes, I'd seen Ralph Kramden as a child, but his misanthrope ways were confined to the television screen.

Well, the girl - before hopping off the bus - told him to "go get a life."  And he yelled, "go get a watch!"  Had I been older, I would have roared with laughter.  But back then, I was very sheltered and the event left me with a phobia.  The omnibus is ominous.  The omnibus is ominous.

With a copy of my mass transit directions, printed and stapled (incorrigible nerd), I waited nervously at the bus stop.  I would have been more at ease waiting for a flight to Italy than this.

If I could affect a foreign accent, I would pass off as a tourist and be free to ask the most ridiculous questions without embarrassment...Is this the correct side of the street to stand going outbound?  Does the bus make every stop?  And what if I don't have enough for the fare on my Metrocard?  I only have cash.  Wait, I have a silver dollar.  Can you take a look at this coin - is it a dollar?  Will that fit in the coin slot?  The girl standing in front of me answered all my tedious inquiries with so much kindness, I was touched.

My stop was "Little Neck Pkwy / Grand Central Pkwy".  It just didn't seem right when I read the walking part of the directions.  But I figured if Hotstop dot com tells me it's my stop, it has to be okay.

Well, it wasn't okay.  Especially in the dark.  I put on my google GPS navigator and started walking along what seemed like a service road with tall hedges on the right.  Perfect opening scene for a tragic, heavy, and dramatic NBC Monday night special from the 80's.  (You know, M.A.D.D.: The Cindy Lightner Story, The Burning Bed, etc).  Mondays are bad enough.  I never understood why they aired them on that night of the week.

Looking at the moving GPS dot, I realized I'd somehow passed the path to the right.  Of course I did. It was a locked service gate to a hamlet / golf course.  Trying to go around the compound would further jeopardize my personal safety as well as arriving on time.  So I decided to climb over the 10-ft gate in my Prada high-riders.

Abduction on a service road vs. scrapes from fence-climbing was a no-brainer.  Like a jewelry sleuth, I did remarkably well.  One heel on the lock, hoist self up, swing one leg over at a time, and crawl like Spider-Man.

Further along, I asked a security guard where the theater was.  I hoped he hadn't seen me climb over the gate.  He guided me to an elevator and I went underground to find the biggest joke waiting for me.  After this extraordinary sojourn, the projection man leads me to a sign that read something like this: "We will not be showing the last movie if there are less than 5 people." The sign might just as well have said:  "It's not about the movie.  It's all about the journey to the movie you won't get to see."

"I'm sorry.  You're the only one here for this.  Why don't you just go in there to see the ending of A Trip to Italy?"

This was truly a Seinfeldian moment.  "No, no, no.  I did not come here to see A Trip to Italy.  I just did A Trip to Floral Park on a bus from 57th and Madison.   I need to see Advanced Style.  Please.  I'll run the projector.  I'll lock up after it's over.  Anything.  Please."

"Well you'll miss the last express bus back to Manhattan.  How will you get home?"

"I don't know.  I'll figure something out."  He let me watch the film. 

this was my day's quest

It was one of the most amazing documentaries I'd ever seen.  Based on Ari Seth Cohen's homage to New York's stylish older women, it brought up so many wonderful things about being a woman in her 60s, her 70s, her 80, 90s, and so on.  Instead of being placed in ads for Boniva in AARP,  these women are finally taking to the stage of style, front and center.   Be it a face for Lanvin (Apollo Dance Theater Legend Jacquie Murdock), Karen Walker or Vogue, the possibilities seemed to be infinite for these icons who are opening our eyes about a set of demographics grossly under-represented.

The one I took to immediately was Ilona Smithkin.  I love her voice and how she cut her hair to make a matching set of eyelashes.  How she felt content to just be.  At 91, she said it best about living in the present and not thinking too much about the future.  "I just don't buy green bananas anymore." 

It made me laugh because it's so true.  Even as a non-nonagenarian, while you may look and plan ahead for some things in life, you should never buy very unripe bananas.

Who has time to wait around for green bananas?  It's not so much the ironic possibility of dying before they ripen.

The real tragedy lies in buying premature bananas, having them stare at you, and eating them before it's time.  Because nothing is worse to the palate than a stiff banana with its dry, astringent, pasty taste lingering in your mouth.

And they shouldn't be just yellow either.  They should be speckled, mottled, and moled with beautiful brown age spots.  Like people, bananas get better with age.

So how did I get back to Manhattan?  Someone who watched A Trip to Italy was so intrigued I had made this sojourn to see a movie, he decided to watch it as well.  So in the end, I wasn't the only one.  He offered a ride on his motorcycle - with an extra helmet of course - to Jamaica Station.  Normally, I would have declined.  But I felt somewhat transformed by the film.  One could live up to a hundred and it would still feel like a blink of an eye.  That, and he seemed rather safe.

Zipping along the L.I.E on a motorcycle for the first time, I thought, "This is my life.  And I am so thrilled living it to the fullest.  At least for today." 

Man fully alive is the glory of God    ~St. Irenaeus

Red Red Wren

Another lifetime ago I was with Voice-Over Guy.  We met at a UB40 concert in Irving Plaza.  Between "Red Red Wine" and the noisy crowd, all I heard him say was "voice-over" in describing his occupation.  And the rest that flowed out of his mouth was a river of velvety Bordeaux.  

Months into dating him, I realized he was actually a voice-over engineer.  But with his lovely warble, he could have easily been a voice-over actor.

He was a redhead and I was surprised at the chemistry.  Let's call him Red.  Red was the first and so far, the only person who has made me believe that Howard Roark (The Fountainhead) could be a redhead.  Gary Cooper doesn't count.  Even if they did dye his hair, the film was black and white.

Red had a best friend who was also a carrot top.  I'll refer to him as Rusty since his hair was well... more rust in shade.  And Rusty had a partner I'll call Wren.  They had a brownstone in Brooklyn and a newly purchased country home in Connecticut.  That Fall, when the leaves were ablaze in all shades of red, Rusty invited us out to their bucolic haven for the weekend. 

It was just before sunset.  Outside, Red and Rusty were having cocktails and cracking more inside jokes than I cared for.  I left and went back into the house.  The sole entrance being the kitchen, it was easy to catch Wren making dinner.  He was a House Wren. 

So fastidious was his attention to the meal prep, I perched on a wooden stool to look on.  He periodically referred to a tome of a cookbook propped on a counter stand to make his fabulous quinoa.  This was long before gluten-free became a household name.

When he gave me a taste, it was so divine, I knew I had to add it to my grain repertoire.  And it has never failed to delight and provide quick solutions in entertaining.

So today, I share with you this recipe.  It is easy and elegant.  Compatible with anything - fish, poultry, meat, tempeh...  And because quinoa is a complete source of protein, it is just as perfect going solo.  A complete source means it has all 9 essential amino acids.  Essential, because our body cannot produce these building blocks for protein. 

Whether you're a meticulous little house wren or just a rusty old bird in the kitchen, you will love this quinoa.

Wren Quinoa, the Recipe

You will need:

1 cup of quinoa

2 cups of water

1/4 cup of roughly chopped cilantro

1/3 cup of roughly chopped salted pistachios

1/3 cup of roughly chopped dried cranberries

A small drizzle of olive oil

Instructions:

1)  Pour the quinoa and water into a 1¹/₂ quart saucepan.

2)  Bring to a boil.  Then lowering the heat to simmer, place the lid on the saucepan and cook for about 15 minutes - or until all the water is absorbed.  The quinoa should look fluffy with little tails.

3)  Add the chopped pistachios and dried cranberries.

4)  Drizzle just enough olive oil and toss so that there is a glistening effect.  We do not want to drench this beautiful mixture in oil. 

5)  Add the cilantro and toss once more.

Servings: 2

Enjoy! ~e

Zucchini Gets Inspiralized

Passing through the post office, I spied a neighbor of mine.  His face was unusually shiny and radiating youth.

"Paul,  you are positively glowing.  What have you done with yourself?"

He smiled and said he'd been eating raw zucchini "pasta".  He had purchased a spiralizer and made all the raw, vegan "spaghetti" with olive oil and garlic because the commercial ones were just too costly.  And he was quite happy as he found himself losing some weight in the process.

A solution came to mind.  I knew what to do with all that zucchini in my dad's garden.  They always grow so abundantly and it's almost as if one can't eat them fast enough.   

a real beauty

I congratulated him on his new program and made my way to Williams - Sonoma to buy my own.  I mused how this thing that used to be such an odd item made its way to mainstream cookery - or uncookery, shall I call it.  When beauty is at stake, raw cuisine is the prescription.

The Paderno Spiralizer was light and easy to assemble.  Minutes, later, I was cranking out the squash noodles.

And it was quite fun, seeing how long and wavy this angel's hair was flowing through the blade.  I hadn't had this much fun since my Play-Doh Factory days.

Now I needed to dress my "pasta".  Pesto was on my mind.  I went to a 24-hr deli to look for fresh basil.  No basil.  They were out.  How could they be out of basil?  I could have easily dropped the project but being a bit ambitious, I started to look for an alternative.

Arugula made eye contact.  I love greens who are bold and direct.  Arugula will be in my pesto.  Arugula also makes for a good aphrodisiac.  According to a cab driver from Cairo, some Egyptians would sleep with a bunch of Arugula under the pillows.

I pulled out the mini KitchenAid and whipped up a recipe for Arugula Pesto.

You will need:

1 bunch of Arugula (a small handful is fine)
juice from 1 whole lemon
2 cloves of garlic, pressed
1/3 cup of pine nuts
1/3 cup of cold-pressed olive oil
1/3 cup of filtered water
1 teaspoon of fermented bean paste (miso)

Now, a word about the miso.  One of my favorites is South River's Sweet White.  It is creamy and not as overpowering as the other brands.  If I were to make a cheese analogy, the Sweet White is the brie of miso.  I want creamy here because the Arugula is sharp already.

Sweet White is made with organic brown rice, organic soybeans, sun-dried sea salt, organic sea vegetables, and koji culture.  There is no gluten ingredient in this product.   It is also unpasteurized so I am keeping in form with the rigors of raw cuisine.  Excellent.  I am delighted when I find myself consistent on occasion.

Now, throw and mix all these ingredients into the mini KitchenAid.

So whiz, whiz, whiz, until you are sure there will be no Arugula piece big enough to get stuck in between your teeth.  If you're looking to get social with this dinner, that smile with greens wedged between your central incisors just might ruin the moment.  Don't ruin the moment.

And don't worry about the garlic.  He'll have some, you'll have some - it's okay.  Garlic is also an aphrodisiac.  Tibetan monks were not allowed to eat them because they made them a little too excited for monastic living.  Gosh, with everyone doing a lifestyle magazine these days, I wouldn't be too surprised if there was one called Monastic Living.

But back to the pesto... The mixture should have this sort of smooth consistency.

Go ahead.  Stick your finger in there (after you pull out the electrical cord) and try a taste.  I don't add salt because there is sea salt in the miso paste.  And the acidity from the lemon juice makes one think it's saltier than it is.  But if you'd like, do add a pinch of Himalayan pink salt to suit your taste.

Not only is this stuff gorgeous, it will, in turn, make you gorgeous.  This is a good way to hydrate the skin (after Summer, your body is badly in need of rehydrating - note the lack of turgor in the bonier parts of your flesh).  The zucchini also has a lot of collagen which aids in rebuilding skin - elasticity, tone, texture.  Hence, my neighbor's glow.

It's full of Vitamins A and C to keep your hair shiny and the hair follicles strong.  Not many know this, but it has a vitamin that is infused in some shampoos -  Pantothenic Acid.  This is extremely important to ward off hair loss.  Known as Vitamin B5, it is also essential for reducing stress.

In community pharmacy, I'd once had a patient walk in and tell me she would never work in the fashion industry again because the stress caused her to lose her hair.  So if you are losing an inexplicable amount of hair and attribute it to stress - this may likely be the truth.  Either find a way to manage the stress - or avoid it altogether - or eat a ton of zucchini.

In addition to Vitamin B5, the zucchini, on the whole, provides a good B-complex profile (B1, B2, B3, B6) to regulate sugar metabolism.  Highly recommended for those with Diabetes Type II.

So make the best of Autumn's harvest and get inspiralized with zucchini spaghetti.  Truly, it's the Pasta Courgette you won't ever regret. ~e

Tomato Kisses

                                                   
Eating a tomato is a bit like kissing.   There's quite a variety.  And this year's crop had no misses.  They were all pretty good.

Some were eager at the start like the Earlirouge.  Ready and willing for snogging season to begin, these guys nearly burst with anticipation.

Then there's the quick brush from a discreet Plum.  No fool for public displays of affection, this tomato maintains a prim and proper peck.  But don't let his sense of decorum mislead you.  Skewered on the grill, he smooches irresistibly!

 
Looking for an unmistakable wild streak?   Try a lip-lock with the Zebra.  Could he ever change his untamed ways?  Maybe.  But I ask, Why?  A mouthful of his salty, tangy, crazy goodness, and you would agree those stripes were well-earned.

Care for something a little more responsible?   One can surely find peace of mind from the Mortgage Lifter.   His kiss is a seal of trust.

Sounds too heavy?  Then blow air kisses with Baby Tomatillos.  They're light, fun, and full of caprice.  Just tiny bubbles of bliss to keep your cares at bay.

But be careful, they just might lead you to the racy, wet ones from Beefsteak Country.  The kind you get early September nights on a prairie.  Or in the back of Back Forty.

Beefsteak Heirlooms from Back Forty, NYC

So get those lips ready.  Nightshades have never been more alluring. ~e

Super Swami Pizza Love

It was time for Constance to see Super Swami. "Bring your Heart Vibration Scores," said the guru.  Constance faithfully slid them into her briefcase - along with a copy of her financial statement.  This document was not to be reviewed with Swami.  Its presence served like a string around one's pinky.  A post-it reminder for, "Don't forget to be solvent - and soon."

Constance had quit her job to obey her inner voice.  But today, she started to worry more about the state of her financial health than that of her heart.  She saw Swami at the top of the hill and quickly slid the bank statement back into her briefcase.

"Come, we must look for a tree to sit under."  Constance scanned tree after tree in true Goldilocks fashion.  This tree is too skinny.  This tree is too ugly.  This tree is surrounded by filth.  

And this tree with the rest of this seedy little park, is filled with nothing but eyesores.  Constance sighed.  Why Swami chose to live in this neighborhood - when she had a growing clientele of highly paid, utterly dissatisfied urban professionals - was beyond her.

Swami wasn't so picky and settled under a firm oak.  Constance randomly picked a meditation.  It was on Love.  As it would, she mused.  Her heart scored the lowest in the Love Category.  This, on top of her money concerns, could pose much distraction.

"Here, put this over your eyes," Swami pulled out two tattered pairs of eye masks embossed with a Virgin Airways logo.  Cross-legged, eye shades drawn, both meditated for 5 minutes.  It ended with a Buddha bowl's ding or Deepak Chopra's voice.  Constance couldn't remember which one after opening her eyes.  Swami looked at her expectantly, "Well, what image came up for you during this love meditation."

Constance was hesitant.  "Nothing.  Nothing other than I was hungry.  When I closed my eyes, I felt ravenous.  I mean I could devour a horse.  Perhaps, Swami, my new love will arrive on a horse."

"Stop such nonsense," Swami snapped.  "No one is coming on a horse.  Your hunger came up because you have been starving for love."

Constance wasn't impressed.  Swami continued, "People who starve for love are afraid to be seen as they are.  Why do you not show yourself as you are?" she demanded.

"How could I possibly show myself as I am without edit...to...everyone?  Imagine, the very idea!  There are risks, you know."

"And they would be?"

"There are so many unseemly things that we all should take great pains to conceal.  Without this, well, people might not care for the package and walk away."

"So you are merely a package... and what's inside, some disposable product?  The outside with the right claims and clever design like one of those brands you peddle?  And how does your inner self feel about this?"

"Oh, Swami, my inner self is never to be seen."

"Then you will never feel loved.  You do not find it, so you cannot give it.  The greatest thing in this life is to love and be loved.  You have denied yourself this by denying the desires of your heart.  When you must choose, do not think what you should do, do what your heart desires.  What is it that you want?"

Swami gravely pulled out her clarity stones.  "This is a source of great detriment to your happiness and success.  I will give you a key to tune up this energy field in your heart."

She motioned for Constance to place these colored pebbles to her head and heart.  Then she chanted a mantra to operate from a place of love.  That this would ensure the universe to sort things out for her higher good. 

"Alright, you do this exercise on your own, I need to call another client."

"Swami, I'm still famished.  Is there anything to eat around here?"

"There's a pizzeria down the hill.  It'll be a quick call," she pulled out her Blackberry.

Feeling somewhat disoriented, Constance made her descent towards a deserted, seedy looking street.  Why doesn't Swami just move to Manhattan, she wondered.

The pizza sounded delicious, but Constance feared it would ruin her no wheat, no dairy, all raw, just plant food diet.  It was her All-Restrictions-Systems-in-Place for times of great fear and uncertainties in her life.

But her inner voice - the one wanting love - gently reminded, "Swami said choose what your heart desires."

Constance was relieved for this voice and walked right into the pizzeria.  She inhaled the aromas with gusto.  Rows and rows of pie, each one made her mouth water.

A ridiculously cheerful man behind the counter asked what he could bring.  So strangely happy for such plebeian food, location, traffic... She shrugged it off and opened up to his bright presence.  Constance rather enjoyed herself.  She smiled while trying to decide between the lemonade and iced-tea.  It had been another white-hot summer day.

This bizarre ambassador of pizza went out of his way to fill her cup with half lemonade and half iced-tea.  All worries on lack, lack, lack, uncertainty, and the weight of the world on her birdlike shoulders melted away.  Constance laughed at all his silly lovely gestures.

In anticipation of a feast, she ordered not one tiny piece as she would, but two of the largest slices.  The man could not have been more enthusiastic in his service.  Constance mused, who is this person - this pizza giver.  She imagined him announcing he was Michael, the Archangel of Heavenly Pies.

He swiftly took the slices out of the oven and wrapped them up with great care.  Constance smiled in gratitude.  Pizza angel said it was one of the most beautiful smiles he had ever seen as she glided out the door.

"Oh, can I have a piece!" shrieked a hapless woman on the street.  "Yes, yes, here you go."  Constance was without her usual display of repulsion for such occasions.

Back to the top of the hill, Swami was still on her call.  Constance took another bite while watching the sun start to set.  She sat and chewed leisurely, until she made a realization.  The lemonade/iced-tea, the whole communion of garlic, extra cheese, tomato sauce, spinach, mushrooms, and much much oregano - they had not been paid for.

In that short beatific trance at the pizzeria, there was no accounting of any kind.  At a time when she would have been acutely aware of money - bank statement burning in her briefcase - Constance hadn't thought of pulling out her wallet.  And the man hadn't thought of ringing up his register.  She couldn't even recall feeling for a Mastercard.  The whole exchange failed in epic proportions as a mercantile encounter.

Swami, finished with her call, sat by her side.  Constance offered what was left of the last slice.  Then she revealed what took place.  Swami nodded, "The guided meditation on love not only led you to feed your stomach but also your heart."

Be open to the gestures of love and you begin to taste the food of the gods. ~e