How To Introduce Oneself at a Party

I attended an amazing Adult Forum this morning before my regular Sunday 11 o'clock church service. Amazing because its had me thinking all day. A wonderful professor, whom I'll call Beverly asked the question: "How do you introduce yourself at a party?" Quickly, a friend of mine replied "my name is Kent, and I am a carpenter." He is in fact not a carpenter, but he clarified the point by adding "Americans always say their name and what they do". Americans are obsessed with wealth and how much money other people make. After learning ones profession, the American automatically figures out the next logical question...how much the person makes. Another parishoner offered it might be easier to skip the name and job and just give people a number!

I know its uncomfortable to hear this simple insight into American pop culture. But is there other ways to introduce yourself more clearly? If you are a Christian do you way, "my name is Charles and I am a child of God and a forgiven sinner?" Well there is nothing wrong with it, but its funny that the latter question makes people more uncomfortable than some 26 year old blond Hollywood leach asking "I my name is Barbie, what kind of car do you drive?"

I prefer to allow people the benefit choosing how they wish to introduce themselves, but be careful when the next guy who comes up to you at a party with "hi I'm Jeremy! Want to see my new Rolls?" I recommend getting more punch instead.

Peace,
Charlie

Beverly and my fellow parishoners have inspired my blog today.

Tentative Mission: Haiti

Through sources and friends of my co-author, (and originally a great idea of my father), I have begun to think about a trip to Haiti. One of the most common injuries during the earthquake were crush wounds delivered by falling debris, including mostly buildings. These do not leave simple fractures or simple breaks, but bones are crushed and, in many cases, irreparably. This of course leads to amputations.

After two years in French-speaking Africa, I can communicate pretty well. Well enough, I think, to talk to people about their lives, past and future. More importantly, I was a child amputee. Granted, I was not caught under a falling apartment building without warning, but I understand these things: poverty, pain and hopelessness. I am interested in spending time in Haiti for this reason. I can have the opportunity to show children that they have a future. In a poverty stricken and politically hopeless situation like that in Haiti, it is extremely important that the new generations learn from the mistakes of their elders. I am not blaming the government for the earthquake, but I do blame them for attempting to tax entire plane shipments of aid from the US and others.

With the formation of the Community of American and Caribbean States (sans United States) during the summit in Cancun, our neighbors in the southern hemisphere are becoming more united in the hopes of a stronger political and economic future. Haiti needs to get back in the politcal sphere. It is understandable that after close to 300,000 deaths, such a poor country needs time to recuperate, but I believe that any bit of help pushing hope will help to give a positive example future Haitian leaders.

The children of the world are everyone's first priority, or they at least should be. I want mine to include those I can help with my background: amputee and mediocre French speaker. I am still waiting to hear, but this would be a excellent chance to witness this tragedy and allow me to do something positive for children who deserve it. Let's wait and see!

Peace,
Charlie

Diving into History

When I was growing up with a prosthetic leg, I could do almost everything. Ride a bike, climb mountains, play sports and swim... but I could never swim with the leg on. Swimming pools were not a problem, but the beach was a total nightmare. I would get sand in my prosthetic irritating the skin, and I needed assistance getting from my towel into the water. And boy, did I hate assistance. I hated depending on someone else to do simple things. It drives me crazy, honestly, to this day.

I had heard when I was younger about something called an aqualeg: a leg for the water. I asked around and came to the conclusion that, because it was unnecessary, that I would have to pay out of pocket. Obviously, at the going rate of $10,000-14,000 a leg, this was out of the question. And so life continued. I traveled the world and its beaches. From Bali to Africa, Europe to the Caribbean islands, West coast to East, I technically swam in 3 oceans (Pacific, Atlantic and Indian), 3 gulfs (Mexico, Aden and Persian), and 6 seas (Caribbean, North, Mediterranean, Tyrrhenian and Bali).

We have been planning our honeymoon, and we finally have decided on Turks & Caicos, which is supposedly not as rainy in the summer as other islands. We have looked at beautiful pictures on the net of the hotel, the island, and of course, the beaches. But this time, it will be different. While procrastinating on the internet, I came upon a prosthetic cover, which you slip on over, remove the air with a valve, and allows the wearer to shower, bath, walk in the water and (they claim) to swim! I couldn't believe it! I went to the order page.... $68!!!!! It hasn't really sunk in yet, but can you imagine how this makes me feel? Finally, I can take the last little piece of physical dependency and throw it out the window. On my honeymoon, I will walk out of the hotel onto the beach, run full strength, and dive into the water by myself. I am smiling uncontrollably as I write this. I will take a video of it for my blog followers. It will go down as a day I will never forget, especially because I will be doing it with my new bride at my side.

Peace,
Charlie

Lunch with a friend

Today I had a lunch date with my future flower girl Esme Ashcroft, and her Nanny and my friend Sarah Bates. I made kid friendly Italian Quesadillas, and Esme enjoyed a sippy cup full of organic chocolate soy milk. When I was a kid, it would have been microwaved tortillas with melted Velveeta and a glass of Nestle Quick. My how times have changed. After lunch in front of "Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs", Esme wandered the apartment searching for Dexter the Cat while Cassie the Dog tagged along. As I witnessed my nephew's birth last fall, plan my wedding for this summer and soon to move up a notch on my "30s belt", children are becoming more and more a part of my life. Perspectives have shifted. My parents are now my closest friends, cops 'n robbers is not as fun as it used to be, and the idea of going to a nightclub just makes me tired.

Is this how my parents felt before they got married? Tired, slower, wiser and quieter. That's what I am. That is, until I am with a kid... During my lunch date with Esme, we stood together on the window sill, we went and teased Dexter in the closet, we watched cartoons, drank chocolate milk, and laughed about anything and nothing. I felt like a kid. When I was home in Connecticut visiting my nephew James, I held him and stared at him for hours without getting bored or tired. And I talked his ear off.

Moving forward towards parenthood, it seems, is a chance to raise children in your image, with your values, appreciating life, and blah blah blah. What it really is, is a chance to become young again so that your children are not only your children, but your closest friends. Man, it's going to be fun! I'm going to name my son Thor! (Just kidding, baby...)

Peace,
Charlie

Self Reflection

A couple of days ago, I was getting my haircut at a barber in downtown Philadelphia. Both the establishment and barber were new to me, so the standard questions came up. Where do you live? How long have you been in Philly? How on earth can you like the Mets? These I had heard before and had my standard quick responses ready. I also asked him of his life, and he told me his son, Joey, was a smart kid but confused about his future. He said Joey had decided to take a semester off from college and was living at home and working at a nightclub to his father's chagrin. His father had warned him that many kids taking off time from school often never went back. Joey's response was, "Dad, I just don't know what I want to do! I don't want to waste my time and your money." What a thoughtful kid.

The fact is, everyone makes decisions in life that seem brilliant at the time, but often come to a quick end and one moves on to other things. In a way, my entire professional career has followed this path. I worked hard in high school and went to Hotchkiss, one of the top prep schools in the country. Afterwards, I went to Kenyon spending vacations working internships in Chicago on foreign exchange trading desks. After graduation, I was offered a full time job from the same company and I headed there. I got tired of the work, and decided to go to the culinary school that I passed on my commute every day (lucky I rode the Ravenswood Line, huh?) After getting laid off a few months later, I used my growing skill to get into the professional kitchen which brought me to New York and then, eventually to Africa: an experience that has rearranged my life and put me on a new path. This path has me questioning my spiritual future and my faith. During my time in Africa, I also began communicating with my best friend from Hotchkiss whom I hadn't spoke to in years. So I moved to Philadelphia, and eventually asked her to be my wife.

I have heard, "why did you need to go to an expensive boarding school and a 4 year liberal arts college to become a chef? Wasn't that a big waste of time." Absolutely not. My life has led me through amazing situations, jobs, adventures and decisions. I regret not a single one. I am living the dream. Following what makes me happy and doing what I think is right. In fact, now I am in the process of writing a book with Judy Block, a friend of my mother's, but now I can say, a very close personal friend of mine too. You see? All of these decisions mean something.

So maybe Joey goes back to school and becomes a doctor. Maybe he doesn't and it leads him to something else. It sounds cliche, but following one's dreams is a very personal adventure, and one hardly ever understood fully by others. If you are following dreams, push on through. If you care for someone who is, give them a boost. As long as you move forward with positivity and love, your life will be the greatest adventure ever told.

Now let's see if a publisher agrees....

Peace,
Charlie

Check Your Fly

I love my fiancee for infinite reasons. One humble reason is that she knows me so well that she can see my small, quirky and often inane mistakes and, if necessary, will correct them...sometimes before they even happen. Some of you, readers, might think "that would drive me crazy! Like someone is breathing down my neck!" But for those of you who are in love, you don't even think in that direction. When you have truly found that life partner, these helpful hints become a blessing.

Now specifically, one of my big ones is the fly unzipped. Awful. I remember when I was a kid my grandfather Si Si (opposite of No No, or grandpa in Italian...he preferred Yes Yes!) constantly suffered this malady, but, although he tried several times, never quite found that companion to give him that advice just when he needed it. Ie, before going out in public! He was a famous author and professor and one of the most brilliant men I have known, and his head was always full of ideas and refelctions...probably not leaving much space to remember the simple things, like zipping up. I think a lot too. I am not a professor, but am writing a book... I like to think I have a lot going on upstairs, and that forgetting occasionally to button my fly might be the result as well!

Now that Lent has begun, I have tried to consider the man I am and what God would like me to concentrate on. Not biting fingers, going on a diet, or something deeper! I decided to try and cut cursing out of my daily usage. Growing up professionally in kitchens has left my vocabulary nothing short of piratical. But, considering Si Si and my own disposition, I realize I cannot just "remember" to stop swearing. In order to stop, I have to concentrate on being a better person, therefore more polite in public, and therefore not swearing. This, I believe, can apply for all things. If I wanted to diet, I would have to concentrate on being a better person, therefore respecting my health and body, and therefore dieting! Lent is not about giving something up, but about being better. Respecting this sorrowful time in the Church's calendar and remembering that we are not always great. That sometimes we have to look at ourselves and remember that we are free. And with freedom, as they say, comes responsibility (do they say that? Maybe they do.) Be responsible and be a better person. It's that simple. Check your fly.

Peace,
Charlie

Parallel Bars

Some people are amazed when they find out I have one leg. They say things like "oh my gosh, you can't even tell" and "I guess I only see you in pants!" These are, in fact, compliments. My gait (walking pattern) is something I have been practicing since they day I fit for my first prosthetic, and it is something I continue to do everyday. Its not that I am thinking about having a prosthetic all day long, but sometimes, if I don't pay attention, I can get lazy, start limping a bit, getting sloppy.

When I was younger, it was not so easy. Growth spurts and wear and tear had me fitting for new prosthetics regularly, and a new leg meant a new gait, and, essentially, learning to walk again. Don't get me wrong, I didn't care. I wasn't unhappy, depressed or angry. It was just the way things were. Leg was old, get a new one. Get a new one, learn to walk on it. Simple.

This lack of "caring" or getting emotionally involved was the best thing ever. A gift from my parents, actually. I know they worried about me, got me the best medical care possible, etc. But at the end of the day, I still had to tie my shoes, brush my teeth, and make my bed like my siblings. Nothing different. Therefore I grew up not feeling different, and to this day I don't feel different. Now I can imagine things going differently: everyone sympathizing, taking care of me, sitting around not doing chores, and feeling sorry for myself. No thanks. I have taken the gift of normalacy and will never let it go.

The truth is, I still need help. Maybe not physically, but this blog and my up and coming book has allowed me to settle many unanswered questions. Questions gone unanswered because, at the time, I refused to ask them. I didn't need them. I needed, at the time, to be normal. It is now that I have matured that I have the ability to look back at myself in order to understand things a little better.

This is a piece I wrote in high school when I first started looking into my past as an amputee. I am using several of these vignettes in my book

PARALLEL BARS

I try not to think about it. I am forced to take another step, so I lift the burdensome leg constructed of metals and plastics and place it some few inches before me. The robot-like machinery is scary, and I try not to look at it. Biting down to cope with the therapeutic pain, I begin to place my weight on it. The end of the stump, pressing down on the hard plastic sends a sharp pain up through me. My brain sends an unexpected excess of blood which overflows the amputated limb, making my knee ache to the point when it feels as if it were going to explode. Using the parallel bars I have come to depend on, I force myself forward. As soon as I possibly can, I set the prosthesis down and take in a deep breath as I hold back tears of accomplishment. Never before in my life has taking a step with two legs meant so much. The doctor eventually decides that we have had enough for one day, and releases my swollen limb from its bulky plastic leg.

As my life continues, and therapy becomes less frequent, I find replacement parallel bars. My family and friends make the greatest pairs. Whether my father holds a glass to my mouth when I am thirsty in bed, or my brother stands up for me when other kids laugh and make fun, they are my support. When I fall, all there is to catch me are bars.

Coal Miner Pasta

One of the best things about getting married is being engaged. A few weeks ago, friends threw us a big party, and last night, my friend Bob Brano organized with another engaged couple a dinner with friends at Melograno. It is a wonderful Italian BYO with a concentration on Tuscan and Roman dishes. I brought a couple of bottles of Ruffino, in the style of the place, and, in the style of Episcopalians, they were opened well before ordering. The open kitchen stands at the end of the room, and it seemed like our seating, at 6:30, was the earliest. Every table seated had their menu and the cooks stood at attention, staring out into the audience, awaiting the mass firing of orders that they knew would hit all at once.

After ordering everything got very quiet as all four waiters approached the kitchen pass with their order pads. Then, like an orchestra, you could hear burners flickering, pans clinking, and that beautiful sound of the first sizzle of saute. The kitchen erupted into full force, and the smells so well utilized in an open kitchen scenario filled the room with pure Italy.

To start I had the squid and shrimp salad, served warm with tomato, garlic and Tuscan white bean. Excellent flavor, and tart with a perfect amount of lemon. The carne that jumped out at me was coniglio ripieno, a roasted stuffed rabbit. Unfortunately, the tip had been a little burned. This could have been a cook's error on such a busy night, but rather the owner needed to replace the salamander (overhead broiler) which was heating the meats unevenly. I had an espresso with excellent crema (the foam created by the pressure of the espresso machine...not milk obviously). For dessert, a great trio of gelato: pumpkin, vanilla and cappuccino.

The only question I had was my friend's spaghetti alla carbonara. The homemade pasta was great, but the sauce salty, pork minimal and cheese grated too large. Maybe I am biased having grown up in Rome, the origin of the dish, and I happen to have a mother whose version is a masterpiece. All three of her sons have called her at least once out of college for the recipe attempting to swoon a young lady. My sister, who spent half her junior year studying in Rome, made a hundred dollar phone call back home for instructions on the prized dish. From Rome! That's how good it is.

It is called spaghetti alla carbonara for unknown reasons. Some believe that it is the coal miners sooty hands that leave black speckles (pepper) on the white plate. The first recorded recipe came right after WWII, because of the eggs and bacon eaten regularly by GIs during the occupation. The restaurant Carbonara in Rome has a fantastic recipe used since the war. Now, depending where you are in Italy, the cream can be added (Parma) or not used (Lazio). My mom used the cream because she is brilliant. I taught this recipe to 7 cooks in a Rwandan kitchen who couldn't believe their taste buds. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the recipe that will change your life.

Mama Lucy's Spaghetti alla carbonara
1.) 1 pound spaghetti
2.) 1/2 pound bacon or pancetta, small dice
3.) 1 clove garlic, minced
4.) 1/2 cup white wine
5.) 3 egg yolks
6.) 1 cup cream
7.) 1 cup parmegiano, finely grated
8.) salt and pepper to taste
9.) 1/4 bunch parsley, coarse chop

Boil 1. in salted water. In a medium saute pan, add 2. and cook till just brown. Add 3. and saute until translucent. Add 4., cook till almost glazed, and turn off fire. Should still be very moist. Whisk 5., 6. and 7. together. In a serving bowl, add cooked spaghetti with 1 Tablespoon of the cooking water. Toss. add the bacon pan with all juices and fat. Toss. Add cream mixture. Toss. Add 8. to perfection. Garnish with 9. and fresh ground black pepper.
Buon appetito.

Peace,
Charlie

An Amputee Reawakening

In early January 2007, the prosthetic that I had been wearing through rough kitchen work three years in a row was finally breaking down. The padding and "skin" had fallen off leaving the terminatoresque metal pole for a calf and the ankle joint had long since broken and was dangling, dangerously close to falling off. My brother was visiting me in Djibouti for New Year's, so I bought the two of us some cheap tickets to Dubai for a long weekend. I would also use the opportunity to meet a contact I had made throught the American hospital there, to fit for a new prosthetic.

We had a great weekend, skiing indoors, going to fun restaurants and 4x4ing out in the Arabian desert. And I found a guy to build me a new leg. Because of time and cash constraints, I walked out of the clinic with a 10 year old fashioned leg, heavy and oversized...but new. It was, I assumed, the best I could ask for. It was strange feeling, but ok the day I got it. As we landed back in Djibouti that evening, I picked up my carry on bags and an intense pain filled my stump. After limping back home, I got to my room and took it off. The bottom of the stump felt as if it had been sandpapered, leaving a red and bloody mess. But, as stubborn as I can be with pain, I put it back on the next morning for my 12 hour shift in the kitchen.
I suffered on this painful prosthetic for the nex 15 months, pretending it wasn't as bad as it really was, not being able to run or even walk for more than a few thousand yards at a time.

I moved to Philadelphia in October 2008, and started working as a chef at Sofitel with the same prosthetic. I didn't tour the city, didn't want to go out, and became seriously depressed...something I stubbornly never discussed with loved ones, dreading attention and sympathy. Finally, after a new insurance plan, I fit for a new, high tech one in April of 2009. It was absolutely amazing. It felt like I was running on air with carbon graphite parts, and a high-intensity refelexive ankle joint. After getting home with it, I threw on a pair of shorts, and ran down the parkway Rocky style to the art museum and back. It felt like I had an angel on my shoulder. My spirit was lifted. for the first time, I went to see the liberty bell and began to take walks with my finacee in the evenings. I also started walking to church on Sundays, which has changed my life immensely over the past year.

Sometimes we allow things to progress to a self-destructive level, affecting not only ourselves but our faiths, people around us, and denying ourselves true opportunities for advancement, spritiually or whatever. I believe suffering helps one grow, but one needs to realize there is a light at the end. We learn incredible things about ourselves from the light, but even more on the path to reach it.

Peace,
Charlie

Apology

My blog was erased!!! I have to work now...
I am sorry everybody, and will have it out promptly tomorrow morning. I am very sorry.

Peace,
Charlie

Phil's Philly

As snow beats down on Philadelphia again today, setting records for most Nor Easters the city has seen, and inches of snow laid in a single season, the first thing that pops in my head are the homeless and infirmed. Snow storms like these are absolutely crippling. "Whiteout" conditions allow for poor visibility and very high, freezing winds. Enough to keep the hardest skinned indoors. That is, if you have an indoors. Phil is a gray bearded homeless man who attends church with me at St. Marks Episcopal on Locust. He, like me, sits in the same pew every week as we pray, sing, listen and bask in a glory higher than ourselves.

Phil does not like speaking to anyone. The only multiple words between us occured when he happened to buy a cup of coffee and a bagel at a Starbuck's I was training in. I went up to him, cleared his bagel wrappers from the table, and asked if I cold buy him a refill. "Ok." "Alright, here you are, Phil!" "Ok, thanks." He didn't look me in the eye, his facial expression unchanged. But those words were enough for me. Phil, I've been told, also sleeps in the church courtyard when the weather permits, and can therefore, most of the year, get his much needed rest amongst flowers, grass, a secure gate, and the knowledge that he is welcome.

Well, Philadelphia Februaries and whiteouts are not welcoming. I look outside the window and wonder where Phil is today? Where is he staying? Is he getting his cup of coffee? Is he welcomed wherever he is?

During my tenure with some painful prosthetics, days like this would just put me down. The pain I would suffer walking over poorly shoveled streets, clenching my stump when blindly stepping on a patch of ice, or detoured around hills the plows have left behind (and therefore adding to my dreaded and excruciating step-count), was, as I look back on it, was the absolute worst. But the solace I had was a warm home. A place I could remove my prosthetic, and sit and heal myself. Everyone needs a place to heal themselves.

I am sorry that Phil is homeless and that this weather really shuts down his daily routine. But I know there is a place that welcomes him; a place where he and I can sit together, albeit in different pews, and feel that same warmth together. A place where he and I can sit and heal ourselves. In a cold Northeastern city like this one, I am thankful for things like St. Marks, refillable coffee, secured gates and especially for my brother Phil for reminding me the true meaning of home.

Peace,
Charlie

Most Beautiful Place I've Been

During the Belgian occupation of Rwanda (part of Belgian Congo), Belgian doctors created templates of head and nose sizes on cardboard by which to measure, record and label the local population into two (really, three including the 2% Twa) ethnic groups. They marked "Tutsi" or "Hutu" on their national ID cards. This was the beginning of a nightmare. The "wind of destruction" in 1959 left 20-100 thousand Tutsi minority dead, and had the survivors accusing the Belgian commandos for sponsoring the Hutu murderers. A special commission from the U.N. called the Belgian actions "Nazism against the Tutsi people." After 1,000,000 deaths in 1994, including the thousands killed by the retaliating Rwandan Patriotic Front "inyenzi" (cockroaches) led by the now-President Paul Kagame, this beautiful nation has become one of ultimate sadness and despair.

Yet, today, hope grows through the telling of stories, the friendships made between ethnic groups, the growing universities and the influence of Western and Eastern people; not just Belgian colonialism, Belgian destruction, Belgian ignorance, and Belgian superiority. At the tenth anniversary of the genocide, Belgian Senator Alain Destexhe blamed General Romeo Dallaire (Canadian Commander of the UN mission in Rwanda during the genocide) for the death of ten Belgian soldiers (working for the UN). 10. 10 soldiers. In the midst of a 1 million citizen genocide, Dallaire should have concentrated on 10. Insane.

When I lived in Rwanda, I experienced friendship, troubled pasts, heart break, tears, love, caring, mountains, rivers, lush gardens, wonderful cities and people genuinely moving forward. Christiane Amanpour's "list" article in yesterday's NY Times Magazine read "19. Worst Place She's Been: Rwanda. In the space of 90 days, around one million people were killed with machetes and clubs. When I was in Rwanda in 1994, all you could see was darkness, even on a bright day."

For me, I can't wait to return to Rwanda and to see how far it has come. Where you will probably never see me is the home of the real problem, Brussels. I pray for Belgian charity and compassion and a push to try to soothe the nightmare wave they have left behind in a wake of greed.

Peace,
Charlie

A luxurious evening in Philadelphia.

Last night Meredith and I went out for a night on the town to celebrate her birthday, and the obvious Valentine's ritual. Last year we had gone to Steven Starr's Tangerine (now closed and only used for private functions). The atmosphere of Tangerine was excellent, and the food amazing for the price point. It was dark and one of the walls beautifully lit by hundreds of small candles sitting in personal little stone cubbies. The tables were small, and the chairs short to the ground, but not so that my prosthetic, an old one at the time, did not feel comfortable. A fantastic evening.

Yesterday was mixed. I got out of work at 8:30 and rushed home to change and make it for our 9 pm reservation at Bar Lyonnais, the downstairs restaurant of Perrier's Le Bec Fin classic. We got their 3 minutes early, and stood there in front of the host's podium for five minutes, unwelcomed, and listened to an assistant manager tell the manager of three customer complaints, while the manager replied to him that "[he] didn't care about Mr. X. He can wait. He doesn't impress me!" Wow, as a guest, I really enjoyed that conversation. We were led downstairs, our coats taken and left to mingle. There are about 8 tables and a long beautiful bar. The lighting is perfect and Charlie Parker gently played. But it is Saturday night and the the place is packed!

It took another 15 minutes to get a drink order taken (time now is 9:20), 10 minutes to get the drink, and only then did they realize that our reservations were for downstairs. We sat down at 9:30. Besides this pointless half hour, at least we were hanging out in a nice place! For our first course, they had ran out of the Rabbit terrine, so I had the Mushroom Ravioli with Ivory sauce. This was five postage stamp ravioli stuffed with duxelle, centered sauteed lobster and chantrelle mushrooms, micro green garnish and doused in a creamy mushroom ("ivory") sauce. Good, and the dished tasted what it was supposed to taste like. A mushroom. I think there was an acid component missing...maybe a trinkle of sherry or white port in the cooking. This would have kept the flavor consistent from start to finish rather than what really happened: I couldn't really taste it by the last mouthful. Meredith had snails in a hazlenut butter served in a silver cassoulette, and was delicious. We had a bottle of '96 Bourdeaux, Chateau Bourg. At about $80, one of the cheapest on the menu.

I took a steak frites rare (ribeye) and bordelaise and Meredith had the cassoulet with rabbit sausage and duck confit. Cheese course was ok, but they were described as "Spanish blue, triple cream, smoked gouda, italian hard???, and goat cheese with ash." I am a chef, and would like to have known the real names. Oh well. Dessert was arguably the best part of the meal. We had a tasting of three cakes: the Mathilde (raspberry and key lime) was AMAZING! Then the Le Bec Fin chocolate cake and an apple tart were both excellent.

After dinner we headed to the Four Season's Swann Lounge for jazz, campari and dancing. Truly a romantic end to a wonderful night.
Hope everybody had a fantastic weekend!

Peace,
Charlie

A lesson in patience, love and poop

I know everyone has seen Marley and Me and thought, "oh, my dogs were never like that when I was growing up! What dog would ever jump out of a moving car????" To all of you, I personally invite you into my cave where the beast Cassie lurks. Originally, my finacee Meredith bought the apartment in which we currently reside. It took some time (and a diamond) for me to really feel at home here as well. (JUST KIDDING, BABY!) Then, in June of '09, we found a cute, loving, 29 pound puppy at the dog shelter and brought her into the mix. Since that day, Meredith and I no longer have a home. We live in the presence of a monster. I'm talking poop, pee, vomit, bones, chewed up leather gloves, shoes and shampoo bottles. We have witnessed things being ingested and regurgitated (sometimes 2 weeks later) that we didn't think could fit in her mouth! On top of all of this, she is now 56 pounds, still energetic as a lightning storm, and we love her more and more every day. This may be her cave, but I kinda like it here. She kisses me all the time, she is my bodyguard, and becoming my other best friend. She also, in her favor, has eyes like a baby calf.

I know parents will tell me, "you haven't seen anything yet! Just wait till you have kids! They can actually talk!" Well, before we got the dog, the biggest warning came from my mother, who has raised 4 dogs and 4 kids in her tenure. "Charlie", she said, "you can't put a diaper on a dog..."

Peace,
Charlie

My first post

I am happy to finally be on a blog, and I hope this is a way to reach out to my friends all over the world in Canada, Italy, Djibouti, Rwanda, Tanzania and even far-away California!
I have been working hard on my book, THE ONE LEGGED CHEF, and Judy and I are getting a proposal ready for an agent. As much experience as she has, and as positive and optomistic as I am, it is still a strenuous process. I am so proud of what we have achieved and cannot wait to share it with my friends, family and the world. It is a story of an amputation, of cooking, of finding a new meaning of life in the heart of Africa, and about a journey forward. I will have a facebook and twitter page up soon that I will link with this blog. In the meantime, "favorite" my blog and stay tuned for adventures to come!!!

Peace,
Charlie