Domo Arigato, Mr Gelato

I must give thanks (or "mad props") to my friend Hanson for my new blog's title, "Heartbreak and Hotsauce". I had been circling 'round the idea of writing a blog for quite sometime (mostly because of certain notable goings-on in my singlehood in the great city of Los Angeles) and it was late one evening while toodling around Hollywood in Hanson's Mini-Cooper that it dawned on me, somewhere between Hollywood and Fountain, that "Heartbreak and Hotsauce" was the right title for me. Others had been bandied about ("Foodgasm"-sadly, already taken and even more sadly not exploited for its all-too-obvious double entendre, and "Eatin' Out" being notable suggestions...) but all seemed either too trite or too crass (sorry, Dave.) Because although I can get down with the best of them...at its core this is intended to be a stream of consciousness and a river of hope for great meals and even greater lovers, and for believing in the healing power of a home-cooked meal (or really good take-out, when one is truly dog-tired) to warm the lonely heart...my point being, this isn't about just food and sex, it's about food, and sex, and hope.

And after being single for a good, solid 3 years in the great cities of New York and Los Angeles, being hopeful is nothing short of a small miracle. A few notable "postings" from past episodes of my single life:



"Domo Arigato, Mr. Gelato"



Synopsis: what's even better than delectably smooth, cool, melty gelato on a hot day? Answer: delectably smooth, cool, melty gelato handed to you by one blue-eyed, adorable, smiling, elf of a man who reads the New Yorker and hands you free lattes with little designs in the foam! Long and short of it--in order to get to know said Mr. Gelato, I ate more of that stuff than reasonable, and certainly more than recommended by the FDA. Over the course of about 6 weeks, I had it a minimum of 4 times a week (if only this weren't gelato I am writing about). It was a lot, even for me (or should I say, for my thighs.) I was just about to throw in the towel (even I have my limits) when he finally asked me out! I thought to myself, "THIS IS THE BEST DAY OF MY LIFE" only to discover, over the course of the evening, that...well, underneath that adorably elfin exterior beat a heart of darkness. That he is a deeply embittered man, a man who wears his sunniness as a shield to blind a girl like me, and deceive her into thinking he doesn't have...a shitload of baggage. He had been married, for a substantial period of time, to a very famous actress almost twenty years his senior. He had been portrayed in reputable media as a cheater, a heartbreaker, a cowboy. CHECK, PLEASE! And, I'm out. As one of my girlfriends wisely said..."It's like sometimes you see a thread on your sweater and you pull on it, and it's just a thread. And sometimes you pull it, and the whole sweater unravels." My friends, the evening ended with a naked torso, and not in the way I'd hoped.

"My Chi Would Like to Bang Your Sweet Spirit, If You're Still Interested"

Synopsis: one passive aggressive, emotionally stunted unemployed "writer" who I inexplicably dated for a full four months, who lived with 3 cats in an apartment I came to refer to as "Wild Kingdom" due to the excessive amounts of animal detritus, breaks up with me, only to call back a week later, asking "Did we really just do that?" (Answer: yup.) This is followed by a voicemail a month later, reminiscing about my "sweet spirit and great laugh" and musing about the possibility of dating again. I return the voicemail, politely and firmly declining, only recently having removed all residual cat hair from my belongings. This is followed, 3 months later, by an email proposing another reunion. I again politely decline. This ends with him saying "See, what happened is that my chi was low, and when the chi is low the body seeks endorphins, which is why I emailed you." COME ON, BUDDY. If you wanna do it, just say so. But don't try to blame your chi, or your endorphins. It's not their fault you're an idiot. It is my fault, however, for dating you when you managed to buy me dinner once in four months (it was my birthday) and cooked me dinner exactly once as well (Trader Joe's pre-made meal, topped with some crumbled pita chips.) La culpa es mia. I take full responsibility for my judgement's extended vacation.


"You Say Cream Cheese Sushi, I Say, What's Wrong With You?"

Synopsis: I meet a foodie guy at a mutual friend's birthday party. We hit it off. We make dinner at his house. We make sushi. I buy 60 dollars of unbelievably top-notch sashimi. He insists on putting cream cheese on it. (Insert flashing "X" and sirens here.) And, we're done.

This is just a small sampling, a fraction of the stories I have to tell. Which made me deeply consider, perhaps my blog should be named "Hotbreak and Heartsauce"? Because, as you can see, I've had a lot of situations that I have wanted to take a "hot break" from, and I feel like I'm in a constant state of making "heart sauce", like pretty much ever time I turn on my stove, chop a clove of garlic, or smell muffins baking in my oven. It's an act of hope, a pure act of love and optimism. If you cook, you have created home, for yourself or maybe yourself and a lucky someone else.

But I ran this idea by some of the more practical people in my life, and they unanimously found "Hotbreak and Heartsauce" to be impenetrable, nonsensical, and confusing so...Heartbreak and Hotsauce it is.

Welcome.