Stories

There’s a certain sort of woman for whom Tina Fey is their spirit animal. In the words of Jack Donaghy of “30 Rock,”: “New York. Third wave feminist. College educated. Single and pretending to be happy about it. Over-scheduled, under-sexed. You buy any magazine that says ‘healthy body image’ on the cover. And… Every two years you take up knitting for… a week.” Of course this is Alec Baldwin describing Liz Lemon, Tina Fey’s television alter-ego, but it could describe any number of women (that I know).

To say “Bossypants,” the new memoir out now from Little, Brown, by the former head writer of SNL and creator of the criminally under-watched “30 Rock” is funny seems like a given – you don’t become the top writer at the most renowned institution of American comedy by being merely chuckle-worthy. But it is surprising to find Fey funny when she’s talking about her hopes for her daughter, (“O Lord, break the Internet forever, That she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers, and the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed,”) and what she describes as when her “face was slashed.” (“My whole life, people who ask about my scar within one week of knowing me have invariably turned out be egomaniacs of average intelligence or less. And egomaniacs of average intelligence or less often end up in the field of TV journalism.”)

“I wasn’t as happy as I could be, and my life wasn’t going to change unless I made it change. In that single moment, with that realization, I decided to dedicate a year to trying to be happier.”-Gretchen Rubin, The Happiness Project

On Friday night, my co-worker joked that I had to take my glass half-full outlook and check it at the door. Then on Saturday afternoon, while wearing my yellow sunglasses, I purchased a pair of yellow pants, blue running shoes, an orange cardigan, and pink Bermuda shorts. That’s what I call optimism—but we can always have more—and we can always be happier.

In fact, when Gretchen Rubin took her bus ride and had her great epiphany on her yearlong quest for happiness—she was already happy—she just knew she could be happier.

Selfishly, I had picked up Rubin’s #1 New York Times Bestseller, THE HAPPINESS PROJECT, from Barnes and Noble just a few weeks ago because I was looking for inspiration and tips in regards to my own book project: one that also involves a yearlong quest—to become a professional amateur.

Last year I traveled quite a lot and had memorable meals in Houston, Providence, Block Island, Bristol (Rhode Island), and Los Angeles.  When it comes to food, America seems on fire.  Locavore is the new black.  Eating seasonally keeps us connected with nature and ourselves.  "Flavor profile" is now used in ordinary conversation. It's all good.

One of my favorite eating moments last year was, in the scheme of things, a small one, but it made a lasting impression on me.  At Jose Andres' Bazaar, I had his Rojo Canary Island Potatoes.  They are simply prepared.  Small potatoes are boiled in heavily salted water until the water boils away and the potatoes are coated in salt.  Served with a cilantro-parsley dip, they are simple, elegant, and delicious.

What made the dish so memorable was that I could duplicate it at home with excellent results.  Andres goes to great lengths to import his potatoes from the Canary Islands.  I stay closer to home and buy mine at the Palisades and Santa Monica Farmers' Markets.  I discovered that any small-sized potato will do.  To the eye the little salt dusted potatoes look very unimpressive, which makes a first-time eater's response all that more fun to watch.  Their eyes go wide when they taste the salty-sweetness of the potato and they marvel that something so ordinary looking could have such an extraordinary flavor.

A few days before my birthday, a picnic table arrived in our yard, carted down the driveway in Roy’s truck. Roy held out for as long as he could, swearing he was not going to pay money for a picnic table when he could build one for much less, or better yet, build us a really lovely outdoor dining table. I know he was disappointed not to have the time to do it this summer, but at least he didn’t leave us without something to sit around for the birthday gathering.

We positioned the table under the shade of the giant maple, which just happens to be about halfway between the back door and the garden gate—the path we travel most often. We intended to move the table after the party, since it’s in the way of the rope swing. But it seems to be settling in, letting us know it’s happy where it is—and happy to do for us whatever we need. Oddly enough, it’s as if the table was always meant to be here, as if the backyard beckoned it to come complete our outdoor living room. (The grill is right nearby, too.)