I started this blog four years ago. I spent a long time trying to come up with the name, and chose Fresh Era for two reasons: because I was invigorated about big life changes and because I was really learning how to cook.
I’m pleased to realize that even though I’ve jostled through three apartments and three jobs to a place where I’m tethered by a mortgage, a boyfriend and (the biggest surprise) a kid, I still feel like the title applies.
My house was built in 1900 (in a neighborhood that’s seen hard times I didn’t weather) but I’ve never lived so wholly in a place, or experienced such depth of humanity. Last weekend I ate El Salvadorean food with former peace corps members to my right and Hells Angels to my left. The next morning I waved a paper fan from the back of a local Baptist church I should have been embarassed to even enter; African drums playing just outside the door. I can only comprehend a tiny fraction of Baltimore: past, present and future. But even on its worst day, I still feel a warmth and light that is new and hopeful.
Questionable advice from someone who met their boyfriend on Tinder: You can’t always get what you want, and the internet might not be helping you find what you need. I got lucky and fell into someone who fits that bill (honest, eternally patient, not afraid to dance in public)… in a package I could easily I have refused. My plans did not include former-delinquent racecar drivers and their rambunctious 5 year olds. In the last 18 months I have been to a three racetracks, a gymnastics party and PTA meetings: on purpose! Luckily, I love a meaty challenge. Dig in.
My first month in France I had one pot, one knife, a few plastic utensils and some leftover yogurt cups. I miscooked chanterelles (it was fun!), learned how to cook anything on a stovetop, ate an unidentified cheese every weekend, and came back to the States with my own cooking style and some snobby ideas about the price of wine. You can expect light, veggie-heavy, fresh and spicy when eating at my house. Unless I’m tired–then you can expect egg and cheese sandwiches.
This time four years ago I was living on my friend’s basement futon. I miss that. I miss the costume parties, the poorly conceptualized booze parties, and the total inappropriateness of being 25 and single in America.
But we’ve already been there and all of this—weddings, promotions, family vacations, ailing grandparents, creakier joints and sensible shoes—keeps us guessing, and keeps us fresh.