In Which I Reflect on 2019
We’ve reached a new decade.
And thank fucking Christ, as I had been anxiously awaiting the turn of the calendar year (read: counting down the days) for at least the entirety of December, if not longer.
I spent the final two weeks of the year in North Carolina, splitting my time between Raleigh and Wilmington. And during those quiet moments between hanging with my family and painting the town red with my friends, I did some reflecting—and a lot of it.
The truth is, I’ve somehow managed to have a rough go at the start (or end) of a new decade. In 2000, my friends and I lost one of our own at the age of 15, and it was the first death I ever experienced. In 2010, I went through a (very) gnarly breakup followed by the death of my boss and mentor. At the time, I thought I had experienced my lowest point.
And then 2019 came in and simultaneously shit all over 2010 and my 25-year-old self and said, “hold my beer.”
I’ll be very clear in saying that last year was brutal—positively vile, even—and proving to be quite possibly the hardest year of my life. I turned my entire world completely upside down, referring to my state as “le grand upheav.”
Over the holiday, I asked one of my high school best gal pals if we should all reflect on “peaks and pits” of 2019. She looked at me and poignantly said, “Nope. We don’t need to relive your pits. Let’s focus on the positives.”
So I’ll spare you all the bad shit—or at least, most of it. (As my friend Jason so eloquently puts it, I’m simultaneously fresh out of fucks to give, and chockfull of emotions.)
The truth is, there were so many high points last year—and they deserve further reflection.
And so, here we go.
I Ate Extremely Well
When I set #legrandupheav in motion, I dove head first into my job, more so that I already did, filling up any free time with any and all work by RSVPing to events and writing a ton.
And with that, I had some really good meals, eating at both events and at restaurants that have been on my New York City (and beyond) bucket list. In January, I (finally!) ate at Ryan Ratino’s Bresca in D.C., and partook in both the Rohan duck à la presse (what he’s known for) and the foie gras and waffles—aka, a GEM OF ALL GEMS.
In March, I traveled to Sacramento (aka, #thesac) for work, and had a lunch of all lunches featuring one of the best dishes I’ve ever eaten—and thus laughed out loud because of it—Michael Tusk’s Fresh Run Farm vegetables and herbs topped with golden osetra caviar.
Look how pretty!
Thankfully, I had the opportunity to eat at Pierre Bistro Lapin a few times before it sadly closed, eating a passionfruit pavlova dessert twice—and I HATE passionfruit (as does my NYC bestie, who was in tow). Julia Grossman is a pastry chef wizard. (And Harold Moore knows how to make a bomb-ass croque madame.)
In June, I went back to California for work. My high school friend Rachael had been itching to go to Kato, so we went, and it was sublime. And after our (large) work event, Aaron and I went to Curtis Stone’s Maude in Hollywood. I ate meringue mushrooms for dessert, something that my mom typically makes during the holiday season. There was also nasturtium yogurt and a bread course to end all bread courses, to which I looked at the server and said, “Wait, what?”
I traveled to the very remote Sperryville, Virginia—again, for work—where wifi is certainly not allowed and thus wildly enjoyable. I ate at The Three Blacksmiths, owned by John and Diane MacPherson, who are truly living the dream in rural Northern Virginia. I also had the opportunity of dining at The Inn at Little Washington, where I would honestly like to move into. Even Patrick O’Connell’s chicken coop is dressed to the nines and bedecked with a disco ball. (I’d pay rent to live in this space, honestly.)
Then I had the best meal of my life in August: Ellia and JP Park and Kyle and Katina Connaughton’s collab dinner here in NYC at Atomix. I was brought to tears twice. (Once by the tomato course, the other by the plum course.)
I finally—finally—hosted my first ever nacho crawl for my birthday celebration, hitting up Calexico, Empellón Al Pastor (the OG East Village location), The Commodore (the best of the day, IMO, sorry, Alex), and El Vez to finish. Susan and I sported our “if you don’t like tacos, I’m nacho type” tees, while BH sported 1984 apparel. Libra season is the best season.
Other notable mentions include Chef’s Club takeovers, Frank Fat's (Sacramento), Violet (NYC) and Kith/Kin (D.C.) for hot chicken sandwiches, Kawi (NYC, and I must return), Pok Pok (PDX), Cosme (NYC), Death & Taxes (Raleigh), Per Se and Jean-Georges (NYC, don’t hate, appreciate), Kikkō (Chicago), Doi Moi (D.C.), The Four Horsemen, Miss Ada, Le Bernardin (all NYC), Martin’s BBQ (Nashville!), Poole'side Pies (Raleigh), The Musket Room (NYC), and last, but not least, The Loyalist in Chicago, which serves the GREATEST BURGER IN EXISTENCE, and thus why I must go every time I visit the Windy City.
It’s my job to eat, and for that I’m thankful for. I know that social media makes everyone’s lives look like sunshine and rainbows—I know this. But hear me when I say that when I ate, I ate well, and damn it, they were some good times.
I Ran A Lot—And PR’d in Almost Every Distance
Regardless of all that happened last year, the one thing that remained constant was running. As I previously stated, I qualified for Boston in Eugene. I had a great training season leading up to the Lehigh Valley Marathon, getting faster every weekend. (And I may or may not have broken my friend’s foot in the process.) The strange part is that, during the summer months, I was purely fueling—and surviving on—wine, SunChips, and the occasional platter of nachos. (Thank GOD for those aforementioned tasting menus—and for my colleague showing up at my hotel room at 8:00 a.m. with a yogurt cup for breakfast saying, “you need to eat.”)
After Lehigh Valley, I had a boatload of races on the docket to secure my 9+1 for the 2020 New York City Marathon. First up was the New Balance Bronx 10-Miler, a race I hadn’t run in six years. Even though the race was sandwiched between two Guide launches—and the morning after a glorious birthday party in Brooklyn—I wasn’t stressed. Instead, I told myself to just “see what happens” and “take it mile by mile.” (So cliché, I know.)
I was wildly unprepared—I didn’t have my pre-race breakfast that I normally have OR my typical race day gear, which was still at the cleaners, and I didn’t have my coffee accoutrements. So to the Bronx I went, telling myself to start out at a 7:45, hold it for three miles, and then reassess.
I hit mile 1 in 7:30. And that seemed to seal the deal.
I PR’d by eight minutes.
Next up: Grete’s Great Gallop 10K in Central Park. As the day prior to said race was not only an anniversary date of sorts but also the start of my birthday weekend, I treated myself to sandwiches al fresco with Danika as well as a very overdue and necessary haircut.
This time, on race morning, I was much more prepared with a proper breakfast, half-and-half for my coffee, and had my favorite race attire. The weather was admittedly perfect, so I told myself to go for it.
10K PR achieved by three minutes. (And then I went on that nacho crawl. #balance)
The Staten Island Half Marathon was on lock the following weekend. Thinking the course was fairly flat—it is most certainly not—I thought about gunning for the sub-1:40, in which my Committee (aka, The Dorados) would finally give me the ticker tape parade that I very much deserve.
“Hey, you know what would be fun? Instead of playing conservative, why don’t you just go balls out right out the gate and see what happens,” coach EK said to me on the phone. So that was my plan of attack.
Pre-race fuel was had at L’Artusi with Susan and I was successfully in bed by 9:00 p.m.
Race day was bright, sunny, and cold. (Definitely brought a checked bag for that sucker.) I went out, manually lapping each split as per usual. But, my watch died at the finish, so I cannot tell you what any of my mile splits are. What I can tell you is that I completely died by mile 8, walked up two hills, and truly worked for a finish time of 1:41:47. PR hat trick achieved.
Then there was the Abbot Dash to the Finish Line 5K, the unofficial start of NYCM weekend, in which I drank bottles (upon bottles) of wine with Susan on my couch the night prior.
I rolled up to the start, jumped in my corral, and was immediately welcomed by a familiar face—Ali Feller.
I truly had zero business being at that start line, and promptly told her I was still drunk from the night before. The gun went off and away we went, meandering through that shitshow funnel of a start, and, somehow, I managed a PR, becoming adept at running on zero fuel.
Splendid!
(The Wrightsville Beach Turkey Trot that I partook in a few weeks later proved even better—and I was much more prepared.)
Personal records achieved in the 5K, 10K, 10-miler, half and full marathon distances—it ended up being a good running year.
There Was Ample Beach Time
During #legrandupheav, my colleague asked if I would like to take a sabbatical, or, at the very least, retreat to my family’s house in NC for some much-needed time away from NYC.
Though I didn’t do that (nor could I, for that matter), I did manage to escape to the beach quite a few times.
Saturday trips to Rockaway became the norm (that ferry, tho!), and I spent Fourth of July, a week in August, and New Year’s Eve down in NC. I never missed a sunrise, friends popped in and out, and I had a (short-lived) run with my “niece,” which was arguably the happiest day of my life.
I Also Partook In the Polar Opposite of a Bachelorette Party
Greetings from Nashville where it is quite possibly Las Vegas on steroids, where everyone drinks in the streets, does karaoke at all hours of the day, and there is a fuckton of fried chicken.
My gal pals and I—one of which, my college roommate, was going through a shockingly similar situation to my own—traveled to Nashville in November. There were just a few of us in attendance and it was honestly a perfect weekend: we ate dynamite food, had our own version of carpool karaoke (thank you, William!), a botched ghost tour, a high school-esque dance team performance brought to you by yours truly and LK, and loads of wine around the firepit conveniently located on our Airbnb’s roof deck.
And Then There Was #Sweetloaf
After I put up my last blog post, Claire Walsh Gallagher was quick to point out that there were some pretty awesome things that happened in 2019: the fact that we started FaceTiming (she moved to Westchester, after all, and thus not located across the Park from myself), and the fact that she made her family quite possibly the worst version of meatloaf in history.
Behold, I present to you to what we refer to as #sweetloaf, that is both discolored and not meatloaf, and to this day brings me great joy.
Walsh, I don’t really know why you have passed along the recipe to the next generation, as I fear that this is a meal only fitting for your cat, Dorito.
In Which I Realized How Fucking Lucky I Am
I need to be very clear about something: if there was one thing that last year taught me, it was how lucky I am to be anchored by such a tremendous support group. I had been very hum-drum about my personal life in recent years, and when things came to a head, it was as if none of my friends batted an eye. I kept continually hearing, “Okay. I’ve got you—we’ve got you.”
My friends in New York, North Carolina, and beyond have been nothing short of supportive, helping me in every direction. In fact, it was aforementioned high school bestie who said, “You always take care of everyone else—let us take care of you for a change.” (And then she made me dinner and I felt super awkward and weird about it.)
I gave a speech to my comrades in Nash Vegas, and there’s a reason for it. I am completely taken aback by the love that I experienced in 2019. And every time I think about it, it brings tears to my eyes. (And I’ll take this moment to talk about how awesome my family is, because they truly, truly are.)
Last year was a lot—more so than I ever anticipated in my entire life. 2020 isn’t exactly off to a rocking start—and I don’t know what it holds—but to quote the great Hansel McDonald of Zoolander fame, “I’m here, and I’m gonna give it my best shot.”