The scene is a long table with twenty-four red metal chairs under a high steel roof strung with lights swaying in the Hawaiian tradewinds at sunset in July. And then it rewinds like film in fast motion like you see in the movies, rewinding backwards in a blur until it stops on a scene in a small-town grocery store in the High Sierra Nevada Mountains in Northern California, zooming in on a pile of suitcase-sized bags of dog food stacked near the meat counter where seven year old me has brought my blanket to make a little fort and then curled up to sleep while my parents work late into the night butchering deer for local hunters after the store had closed.

I was sleeping on the job. It was my first job, and I liked it. My mom made sure I understood how important it was. It was a big job, the final step in a long line of turning something that was once a wild animal into something that would now be an ingredient in a freezer, later becoming food that would feed a family. My mom leaned down closer to me and the shiny stainless steel countertop and told me how important it was to write verrry clearly and neatly onto the white butcher paper package that she had perfectly wrapped and taped, as she took one of the special black grease pencils and wrote LOIN.

I took the pencil and slowly and seriously copied my mother’s letters onto the cold mushy packages, eventually adding a bit of my own flair, and sometimes getting a stern redirection from my step dad who was on quality control even from his position behind the loud whirring saw whenever he noticed I had started to draw hearts and flowers next to the letters FLANK, CHOPS, (and to my giggling delight sometimes next to) RUMP.

My parent’s butcher shop was inside of Young’s Market, the only market in the small mountain town where I grew up. Jerry’s Meats was where I began my love of penmanship and also the first place where I saw the behind the scenes action of where food comes from. I loved the smell of cold cardboard boxes on the other side of the swinging doors with the sign saying “employees only” in the refrigerated back room where I was sometimes allowed to go to “help” my step dad get one of the full sides of beef that hung from hooks in the freezing cold walk-in where I was always secretly terrified of getting locked in. I loved saying hi to the owner, Ed and his son Mike when I would see them in the isles. They were also respectively the grandfather and father of one of my best friends - it’s that kind of small town, where everybody knows everybody.

Eventually my job also included rotating the packaged lunchmeat that hung in rows in the refrigerated shelves next to the butcher counter, putting the ones with the newer dates in the back and moving the older ones to the front, and most importantly, checking the dates to make sure none were expired. Another very important job for an elementary school kid. I guess I was moving up the ladder.

When I was twelve years old, my parents opened a restaurant in a building they bought on a property next to a river, where they would also build a home. Because I am the youngest of a combined six children between the two of them, and the rest of my siblings had long graduated and were off starting their lives, it was the three of us, my parents and I, moving equipment and tables and chairs and supplies and eventually hanging the wooden sign outside that my mother and I had painted that read “B.J.’s Bar-B-Que & Deli”, named after the two of them: Barb and Jerry.

I watched my parents take on their roles as restauranteurs. My mom, a magical energizer bunny type who welcomed customers with a hug while managing reservations, scheduling, book keeping, baking pies, making vats of baked beans and probably juggling a hundred other things too. And then there was my step dad, a hard-ass with a big heart and a politically incorrect sense of humor, a hard worker and a hustler since he was a kid. He had an entrepreneurial business sense and a strong opinion about quality meat, amongst other things. He was the cook and the head dishwasher - that was his turf and you better not mess with it. They were the dream team and they achieved my mother’s goal upon the opening of “B.J.’s becoming a household name”. Meanwhile I stepped into my role of order taker at the deli counter and eventually as a waitress, as we called them in the late ‘80’s.

In high school, I was at the restaurant most days after basketball or volleyball practice, and couldn’t even think about making plans with friends on Friday or Saturday nights until after closing on Prime Rib Night. I didn’t realize it then as I complained about always having to work instead of hanging out with my friends, but I was learning about business. While my friends were all chillin’, I was the one with a checking account. I had friends who were picky eaters while I was out tasting new things while my parents dragged me along to food shows in convention centers with endless rows of the latest restaurant equipment and products and samples. Now I know that those times were also teaching me how to eat.

After I graduated from high school and moved to Maui, I got my first job in a “serious restaurant” at the Charthouse in Kahului, where I was so nervous being in this fancier environment that I actually lit a customer’s sleeve on fire one night, but that’s a story for another time. My time spent there showed me my first glimpse of the pirate ship that is a restaurant. The front of the house versus the back of the house, the managers in their aloha shirts and the cooks with their anger issues and frequent smoke breaks, the flirty bartenders, the beautiful young servers and the pau hana drinks down the street once our shifts were over.

A couple of years later when I moved to San Francisco to study photography at the Academy of Art, I got a job at the Real Food Deli where I stood behind a lengthy deli counter filled with large bowls and platters of as-advertized “real food”, delicious, healthy creations made in the kitchen next door. and secretly envied the job of Michelle, the cheese monger - I hadn’t known such a glorious job existed until then. These were the years where I started to actually learn how to cook, for no other reason than the fact that I had grown up around great food and great restaurants but now I was a poor college student with a pretty decent palate, a big appetite and a small budget.

Those years would also be my last in the “industry” for the next fifteen years. However, that time of my life held the years that I got married and had three kids, so feeding people became my most important job yet. When I had my first child, I began to see food differently. I couldn’t imagine putting anything artificial or unhealthy into that pure, shiny, new little human. I had never before really thought about or cared too much where my food came from or what was in it, as long as it tasted good. But suddenly, those things had become important. As my children grew up, I tried to steer them away from fast food with my constant complaint that it’s “not real food!”.

After a career as a photographer of children and families and eventually food and interiors, and then through a string of connections, fate, twists of life, and a divorce, I eventually found myself with a blog called Swigs & Grinds and a little cafe in a residential condominium building in downtown Honolulu, which I named the Real Food Cafe.

It was never my dream or my plan to be in the food industry when I grew up. The seven year old little girl asleep on the stack of dog food was dreaming of being an artist, and once she learned what it was - an interior designer, until she found photography and writing. Now, looking back I realize that a life built around food was never not going to happen. For better or worse, the food business is in my blood.

And now our grocery store scene zooms out from the kid asleep on the dog food, and fast forwards back to that scene at a long table with twenty-four red metal chairs under a high steel roof strung with lights swaying in the Hawaiian trade winds at sunset on July 17, 2023. I have set this table with vintage cake stands lined down the middle holding ferns and candles, with flowers cut from the fields of Ho’i’o Acres Farm, interspersed with bunches of the tiniest green bananas that were mistakenly harvested too early from KLK Farms, but made for the cutest table decor, along with green pomelos and pomegranates snipped from the trees of my own garden.

After I stopped sleeping on bags of dog food and began working in the food industry, I had long dreamed of this table, of this dinner. I dreamed of meeting the farmers and hearing their stories, their passion, and their love of the land, the seasons, and the miraculous alchemy of growing real food. I dreamed of accepting their invitation to come into their fields and pull the things from the ground, to listen to their tips of how to cook them, and then to create a menu using 100% local ingredients. I dreamed of taking it a step further and creating an event where the people who love sexy food and sexy drinks can come and dine with the people who work so hard to bring us the best local and sustainable products.

And so it was, our first Farm to Fork dinner.

The menu:

AHI POKE ON FRIED KLK FARM ULU CHIP - with Ho’i’o Acres Farm marigold and Waihole Greens Sprouts + EWA BEACH CALAMANSI SLUSHEE

FRIED MA FARM DEVILED EGG - with Diamond Island Farm pickled onion + KLK Farm Coconut Rum Cocktail

MA FARM CUCUMBER GAZPACHO - Ho’i’o Acres Farm borage flower, fresh herb oil & Breadshop baguette + Hoe Mary! Spicy Ma Farm Tomato Cocktail

KLK COCONUT MARINATED MAHI MAHI - with sautéed cabbage + Oeno wine pairing

MADRE CHOCOLATE CACAO NIB & ROSEMARY CRUSTED MAUI RAISED BEEF TENDERLOIN - with Ma Farm Cassava & Small Kine Farms Mushrooms + Oeno wine pairing

KLK FARM DRAGON FRUIT SORBET & MANOA CHOCOLATE HOT CHOCOLATE + Madre Chocolate Cacao Tea

Connections were made at that table. Food was savored, bellies and hearts were filled, and three days later when I had finally risen from the ashes of exhaustion after pulling off the dinner, I sat down to finish writing the story of this table of my dreams coming to life, and I realized that today is my step father’s 87th birthday. How appropriate.

So many things have changed in my family since the days at the butcher shop and B.J.’s Bbq & Deli. Today, instead of worrying about prime rib sales or butchering animals, Jerry spent his birthday at the hospital where he has been admitted for the past week with his heart functioning at only 30%. Now, instead of rewinding or fast forwarding through the scenes, I would like to press pause on this present moment and lift a glass to the man who raised me, who loved and worked together with my mother to teach me about the value of hard work, of quality food and of the joy that comes from creating the space for people to gather around a table and enjoy the taste of love in a plate of food.

Happy birthday Jerry, may you know the value in the lessons that you have taught and in the love that you have given. Cheers to you old man, I love you and I thank you.

Dinner with the Marys

When the text message invitation comes in that says, “Hey lady! Join me tomorrow with the Marys mo betta!!”, a smile twists onto the lips while the brain and stomach shoot each other a knowing look, anticipating the the deliciousness to come.

“The Marys” in this instance are three couples: Kamaki & Steve, Kapono & Gino, Paully & Kealii, and then most serendipitously: me. A party of seven, the location: the rooftop lanai of Kamaki & Steve’s home in Kaneohe, the backdrop: the towering emerald ridges of the Ko’olau mountains, the weather: perfect, the people: ohana, the food: LEGIT.

Our hosts have built their home on the beautiful patch of land that Steve grew up on. His partner Kamaki grew up in Cambodia, learned the secrets of the kitchen from his mother and is one of the best cooks I know. There is so much heart and care in his food that it brings a smile to the face just receiving an invitation to dinner with the Marys.

“Tonight we will feast!” Kamaki says, as we enter the beautiful etched glass front doors that open into the kitchen. He stands behind a stack of what will become 50 crispy, handmade spring rolls as Steve welcomes us with kisses on cheeks and the transfer of bags of food and drinks to countertop and fridge.

Prep Mode

Tonight’s dinner is local style where everyone brings something that will contribute perfectly to the feast. Steve moves out to the grill with Kapono, a towering Hawaiian with a no-bullshit attitude, tons of aloha and the kind of manners where he removes his hat before kissing my cheek as I stand on tip toes to greet him with a hug. Gino and Keali’i have already made their way upstairs to the table on the lanai when Paully and I make our way up with my tray of spicy beef lettuce wraps and his pancit and turkey meatballs, soon to be joined at the table with Steve’s fresh basil hummus, Kapono’s teriyaki cheeseburgers with grilled onions, Kamaki’s just-fried spring rolls with bowls of his famous peanut sauce, char siu pork chop and a Hawaiian fern salad - picked that morning in the mountains and loaded with Thai spices and tiny dried shrimp. Oh yes, tonight we will feast.

Kamaki’s Spring Rolls

Kapono’s cheeseburger with the Ko’olau mountain backdrop

Spicy Beef Lettuce wraps by yours truly

Tonight we will feast and we will talk story and listen to Gino’s playlists of local musicians. We will eat and drink, and laugh and laugh, and then eat some more. These big, beautiful men know each other from Hula halaus, and I know them from restaurant kitchens and Chinatown businesses and the web of connections that connect us all.

Eventually our bellies are full but we all make room for “just a small one”, ( but eventually two) pieces of Paully’s banana cream pie with toasted macadamia nut crust made at 4:30 that morning from Keali’i’s mother’s recipe.

It is a perfect night of dogs on laps, multiple stories flying across the table at once, and me - most grateful to have a seat at the table with the Marys.

When The Soufflé Is Shit

It will happen. No matter how many times you’ve made your very own grandmother’s recipe, or how accomplished a chef you are, whether you work in a professional kitchen or in your own home cooking for your family, no matter how calm you feel, how in place your mise en place really is, the time will come when what you create is shit.

Maybe you blew it with the measurements, used salt instead of sugar (you think you’re the first one?), overcooked the tenderloin or served sandy clams.

Maybe the dinner was served two hours late and everyone is pissed. Maybe the birthday boy’s cake flew right out of your hands. Maybe you forgot to serve the beautiful shrimp that are all prepped in the fridge.

I’m going to tell you a great big secret: It happens to EVERYONE. Everyone who cooks anyway. Anyone who has stood on screaming feet for hours, chopping, stirring, blistering forearms while reaching into hot ovens, eyeglasses covered in steam from boiling cauldrons on the stove top. Backs, knees, everything hurting at the end of the day and at the beginning of the next one. Cooks who pour all of their creativity, concentration and effort into serving something beautiful, transcendent, or at the very least delicious, who despite all of that, sometimes, indeed create a soufflé (metaphorically or otherwise) that is shit.

It happens to everyone except the people who don’t enter the arena of the kitchen. For the people who don’t know what’s it’s like to be *“in the weeds”, who haven’t served time in the service industry, you might not relate to this.

But for ME, and if you do cook in any capacity, then probably for you too, it happens. Hopefully not too often, but when it does, what the heck do you do then?

There are lots of options.

The walk-in, the bathroom, the alley, the garage, all make for great stress receptacles and excellent places to gather one’s breath.

But what do you do about that roomful of people that are still out there? The hangry family members, the grouchy customer, your impatient boss, your judgmental dinner guests…how will you ever face them? It’s the worst, but you do it, you have no other option. With humility and a cautious sense of humor, careful not to be flippant but secure in the fact that you did your best, you accept the fact that unfortunately, today your best was shit.

And hopefully, HOPEFULLY, those people show you mercy, they see your sincerity and they understand that despite the best laid plans, it happens.

And if they don’t? Well, just know that the rest of us feel your pain, we appreciate your hard work, your physical pain, your sense of shame, and WE know that next time it will be better. And if not, well it’s gotta get better the time after that. And if it doesn’t, I promise you, one day you’re gonna nail it.

So if the soufflé is shit, whether you made it or it has been served to you, please be merciful and be especially gentle with yourself if you’re the one standing in a puddle of fallen soufflé. We’re all just doing our best and most likely we’ve all been there. After all, grandma’s recipe surely took decades to perfect.

Sincerely,

Someone who’s been there.

*in the weeds: A term used in the restaurant industry, IYKYK. An online glossary of restaurant terms puts it like this: "A colloquial expression used when persons are near or beyond their capacity to handle a situation or cannot catch up. Struggling. Very busy." …to put it mildly.

A Tale Of 8 Beds

Although this is not a tale about food necessarily, it is a tale about the beds that were fallen into after a two-week whirlwind of eating, drinking and being merry.

And so I give you, A Tale Of Eight Beds…

The Inn at Union Square: a boutique hotel in the heart of downtown SF, loaded with funky, elegant character.

You know that feeling of returning home; perhaps there’s hugs at the door, the distribution of gifts, a hot shower, food delivery, tales of the travels, and finally, the familiarity and comfort of your own bed. Nestled in, reunited with your own pillow, alone within a moment of reflection about the (in this case eight) beds which made up the cast of main characters in the tale of an adventure.

This story begins with a bed at the Inn at Union Square. A boutique hotel resurrected from the 1980’s and redressed in its original vintage, carrying an updated yet seasoned, elegant vibe. The bed, spread in a fluffy white comforter draped over a perfectly smooshy nest of crisp white sheets and alllllll the pillows awaits a woman traveling alone to her favorite city where she Ubers from the airport, checks in, runs into two of the friends she is in town to rendezvous with before heading upstairs from the tiny lobby to a one bedroom suite, a steaming hot shower followed by a steaming hot tofu soup delivery from Cocobang, savored while wrapped up in the room’s soft, palest of pinks robe. 

Finally the time comes to crawl into Bed Number One, alone and well aware of the sacred space between this moment and the two weeks that would follow, where she will soon be surrounded by a stream of loved ones and revelry. But first this: this time, alone, in this bed. Sinking into the luxury of this moment and happily drifting off to sleep. 

When she rises, the sun will be shining and warming Union Square to a perfect 77 degrees and it will be day one of an adventure. The eating, drinking and being merry would commence under the indigo sky on this uncharacteristically warm San Francisco day.

After two nights, she would move on to a hotel she had recently become a regular at when in town. Bed Number Two sat on the 11th floor of the Donatello, just a couple of blocks away in a sparsely elegant hotel with a fantastic restaurant and nightly jazz bar called Zingari, which has become the perfect meeting place for the travel partners who go by the aliases “Kilany San Francisco and Elvira Jones”. There would only be one night slept in this bed, which happens to be the type where one finds a chocolate placed on a tiny white doily and left on the pillow at night. 

The Donatello in Union Square, a perfect starting point when visiting the city by the bay.

And yet, she moved on to Bed Number Three. This bed lives in a victorian home in Portrero Hill. Its owners are two stylish men who have infused this Air B&B space with eclectic, vibrant choices of paint, art, furniture and artifacts from their travels. The fuchsia wall in the dining room holds up a giant, floor to ceiling mirror, framed in thick wood which reflects an image of her in a denim trench coat lined with rabbit fir. The two gold cast peacocks hanging on either side of the mirror, the retro white table and swivel chairs, gold fabric upholstered bar stools lining up behind her are the background as she prepares to head out to her first two-Michelin Starred restaurant experience at Aquerello. 

The most beautiful, eclectically designed Air B&B and home to bed # 3.

The green face of the Wicked Witch Of The West smirks from a painting which hangs above a bed. It is a bed, but it’s not Bed Number Three, however it does a good job of separating the dining room from the living room with its brick fireplace full of plants and bright pink Japanese cabinet holding a giant pair of tusks and a flat screen TV and will sleep one of the friends who will be joining the group later. 

Bed Number Three awaits behind a door with a glass knob. It sits in a room with three windows that curve to frame a view of the magnolia tree blooming across the quiet street. She would stay in this bed for three nights while two new friends who have known each other since childhood slept on the other bed and on the couch after nights sitting in amazing seats at the Warriors/Lakers game and savoring great dinners in the City by the Bay. It would be a most memorable time of joy and celebration all the way to Valentine’s Day. 

Bed Number Four was a familiar one that wouldn’t be laid upon until after a breakfast of oysters, razor clam ceviche, seafood stew, an oyster po’boy, a bottle of bubbles and plenty of fresh bread and butter in the late morning sun on a clear and chilly Valentine’s Day at Hog Island Oyster Co. at the Ferry Building, followed by an afternoon of Netflix on the light green couch bathed in the setting sunlight streaming through the tall arched windows in San Jose, and then dinner at a French bistro at Santana Row. And then finally, the return to Bed Number Four, in the loft overlooking the green couch and the arched windows.

Bed Number 4 comes with a lovely view of the San Jose skies.

Bed Number Five is tucked into the upstairs guest bedroom at her Aunty’s house in Salinas, California. It is incredibly soft, the air is incredibly cold and she is incredibly tired. It’s warmth coaxes out a dream-laden sweat that covers her body under layers of blankets that warm her chill after waking up mid-sob from a dream about her dead father. It heals her and after three nights she moves next door to make way for visiting cousins. 

Aunty’s Paella recipe, which delightfully includes instructions for a white wine & saffron JACUZZI.

Bed number six is a firm and tall blow up mattress set up in the middle of the office. It is comfortable enough to allow her two nights of rest between hosting a private Sexy Food dinner event and soaking up family time. 

Bed 6 May have just been a blow up mattress but these trails right out the backdoor were worth it.

Bed Number Seven was next to the window in a room at the Courtyard Marriot in Vacaville, CA. There were two queen beds in this room, One she shared with her aunty, and one for her mother and step-dad. It was a restless night of sleep and a glimpse into her mother’s new role of caring for an aging husband. 

Mom & Aunty on Bed Number 7 enjoying some brief sister time

You would think Bed Number Eight would be next, but first Bed Number Four was revisited for one more night before flying across the ocean to be reunited with the one and only, Bed Number Eight. 

Her own bed, under the window in her bedroom/office. Only a sheet and a lite fuzzy blanket are needed at night because the tropical air is always warm, even when the trade winds are blowing. She is back home, in her little nest in her little place in the world, right there in Bed Number Eight, taking in all the of the dreams of travel and adventure that were collected in a tale of eight beds, where she can begin to dream of the beds in her future… 

A Seat At The Table

It’s my 49th birthday and I have been eating like a queen. Like, count my lucky stars, cinderella at the ball, sitting at the tables of my dreams.

Two decades ago I didn’t have a passport, hadn’t gotten into wine yet, and was only beginning to realize all of the wonders that the world holds. I watched Anthony Bourdain go on the adventures, chat with the fascinating characters and sit at those tables, and I thought, “One day I want to be him”.

At that time my children were in elementary school, I was about to get divorced, and I realized I would have to live vicariously through Bourdain for quite a few more years before it would be my turn to collect passport stamps and sit at those tables, having those conversations.

Since I wasn’t traveling, I began to find adventures of my own in my home base of the last 20 years in Honolulu, Hawaii. I was the the lady with the photography studio in the neighborhood in Chinatown during it’s “revitalization” stage. When the new restaurants moved into the neighborhood, I became their friend, their customer, their photographer.

Birthday at Du Vin, Honolulu, HI 2010

I sat in the construction rubble of Du Vin with Dave Stewart and friends during the build of the wine bar that was opening up two doors down from my studio and began to experience my first tastes of great wine. I would pop into Indigo’s wine club gatherings between printing photographs across the street on Tuesday nights and I began to learn about the magic that happens inside of a wine bottle.

And then somehow, a few years later, I had become the chef working with a sommelier to pair the dishes of our five course wine dinners for the people with a seat at the table in my little cafe.

In 2015 I finally got my first stamp in my passport on a surprise birthday trip to Italy. I sat at the table of a wine maker in Tuscany, eating perfectly roast chicken and fennel, and sipping wines that he brought up from the cellar downstairs as his adorable nine year old daughter wrote poetry in my notebook. As I sat at that table, I realized THIS was one of those moments that I knew was out there, waiting for me, in real life.

Mario & Vivienne preparing a perfect roast chicken, 2015

In 2018 I found myself in a classy joint in Barcelona called Boadas Cocktails where I sat in the very stool where Hemingway used to sit and I watched the tuxedo-ed bartender create a drink for me made of ginger and fire- literal flames- and I realized, “this is another one of those moments”.

Boadas Cocktails, Barcelona 2018

In 2019 I wandered the markets in the tiny fishing village of Puerto de Angel, south of Oaxaca, Mexico. I ate fried fish on the beach while sipping a cold beer, watching super chill dogs cruise around from tables to the beach. Another moment at another table and the realization that these moments that I had only dreamed of were now happening regularly.

Back in Hawaii, I was working in the trenches of the restaurant kitchen and my private chef/catering company, continuing cooking for wine pairing dinners and working the cold line in a very fun kitchen until the pandemic...

When the quarantine went into effect, I gathered my children in my nest and did the only things I was sure of during that uncertain time. I cooked. And I photographed. And I fed my people. And I wrote. And I gardened. And it was glorious.

The table that I gathered around for those dinners was set under my pomelo tree at my little cottage in Kaimuki. My oldest child turned 21 in the middle of the lockdown so we did one of those drive-by birthdays that everyone was having. My middle daughter flew home from college and stayed for four months. My youngest daughter went on spring break in her senior year of high school and never went back. Graduation ceremonies were cancelled and instead of attending ceremonies, my children became activists and went to marches and rallies about police brutality and racism. The restaurant industry was crippled, the tourism industry stopped, and the world was transforming. Once again, I was very aware that these too, were “those moments”.

Slowly, the world began to get back on it’s feet, with new rules and regulations that were constantly changing, until thankfully, both restaurants and travel opened themselves back up to us all. Those times we all missed the most; gathering around a table full of our loved ones, were finally been realized. There was a bit more gratitude around those tables. A deeper joy and appreciation for being together. We were so happy to be OUT, sitting in a beautiful place where servers were genuinely happy to be working again and the chefs were so grateful that we were back and so inspired to be cooking for a full (even if socially distanced) house again.

So grateful to have been able to travel to my mom’s 80th birthday celebration. Loomis, CA 2021

We started to gather in our own homes again too, different people than we were two years ago, five years ago, twenty years ago. We have lived through things. We have seen hardship and we have seen great beauty. Lines have formed on our faces from worry and laughter. We hold our people a little closer and we are aware of how precious life is. These are those moments.

On this 49th birthday, my 19 and 21 year old daughters will have made me breakfast, pampered me with a spa day and will have cooked me an amazing dinner. We will gather around our own table and I will continue answering their question of 49 things I am grateful for, one of which is the gift of gathering around a table with the people we love, and another is getting back out into the world, new passport stamps, new adventures awaiting.

I hope to see you out there. Until then, may you enjoy your seat at the table, wherever you may be.

Not Peaking, But Close...

The Wonder Woman mug of coffee has stopped steaming and is now the perfect amount of hotness to sip while thinking about the sips from last night’s glass along with a quote from a cherished classic movie.

“I like to think about what was going on the year the grapes were growing; how the sun was shining, if it rained. I like to think about all the people who tended and picked the grapes. And if it’s an old wine, how many of them must be dead by now. I like how wine continues to evolve, like if I opened a bottle of wine today it would taste different than if I’d opened it on any other day”. ~Maya from the movie Sideways.

I have recently begun to think more about the people who were born in that same year. How old are they now? Where has life taken them, what have they experienced?

I like to think about how grateful I am for the vision years ago of getting three bottles of wine from the years my children were born to give to them on their 21st birthdays. I like to remember how little they were then, how young I was too, and how very much would fill our lives in the years between then and now.

I like to think about the feeling of gifting my beloved a 2001 bottle of Cabernet for her 21st birthday. The feeling of pushing into a soft, crumbly cork, a delicate extraction, and the first sniff of the dark bridge between past and present.

I like to think about the ‘99 that was gifted to another beloved, which remains unopened, awaiting it’s special occasion. Who will it be shared with? How has the young man who it belongs to grown into his adulthood?

I like to think about the ‘02 that is still in the box, waiting for 2023 and it’s turn to be gifted. Where will we all be then? How different will our lives be? What will remain the same?

I like to think back on the gifter. How she’s transformed over time. How, like the wine, she has aged and grown in depth and complexity, and unlike the ‘61 that Miles and Maya talked about in Sideways, she has not yet peaked, but she’s getting close.

I would like to raise a glass, or a mug of now cold coffee, to all of the mamas out there, doing a million little things to hold it all together, trying to see through the tough days to the light at the end of the tunnel.

May you all have the gift of looking into your beloved’s eyes on their 21st birthday and saying a cheers to them, but also to you. Because a strong family is like a good Pinot: “…hard to grow, as you know. It’s thin skinned and temperamental. It’s not a survivor like Cabernet that can grow anywhere and thrive even when neglected. Pinot needs constant care and attention, you know”. ~ Miles from the movie Sideways

Cheers to the alchemy and the mystery that is in every life, and in every bottle of wine.

And thank you to Maya and Miles for delivering some of the best wine movie lines ever.

A Wolf Pack Feeding Frenzy

I have recently returned from a 16-day feeding frenzy that took me from Hawaii to San Jose, Carmel, San Francisco, Tomales Bay, & Loomis, CA, then onto Las Vegas NV, Boston & Salem, MA, New Hampshire, Seattle, and finally back home to Oahu. I know, it was a lot. But your mom only turns 80 once and if your bestie is only going to be working in New Hampshire for four months, you really must go and see the fall foliage and eat all the lobsters. That’s what I told myself anyway, and I’m so glad I listened.

You see, I am part of a pretty great wolf pack. This is one that was formed by a bunch of hungry wolves finding each other over plates of sexy food and sexy drinks at the little cafe I owned and operated in Honolulu for five years. Two of them showed up as new employees, one was my soul sister who helped cover some shifts when I first opened, one was a boyfriend and the rest were customers turned family, and while none of us play our original roles, still all of them are my people today.

4 Wolves In A Window

Five of us linked up at several pinpoints across the country recently to do what we do best: eat, drink & be merry.

My first step in preparing for such an adventure: buy sensible shoes. I knew there would be plenty of walking in my future, I was anticipating cold weather, and I needed something cute. What I bought instead was a semi-ridiculous pair of crystal covered espadrilles which were totally out of my *comfort* zone, if you will. But something said, “Do it”, it was that kind of trip and so I opted for semi-sensible, fun shoes.

My second step was researching all of the places we needed to try as we ate our way across the country, beginning with three days in my favorite City By The Bay, before heading north to cook for a three day birthday celebration for my mom.

Three days is never enough in San Francisco. I could spend three years there and never eat all of the things on my list. But damn, we did a pretty good job. In a similar way that three days in San Francisco is never enough, three days with family is just right. Especially when your family is made of clowns, comedians, and energizer bunnies such as mine. But celebrate we did. Wineries, an Octoberfest, dancing, singing, daily gathering around a big beautiful outdoor table, storytelling, laughter and tears. These are the people who first taught me the value of eating, drinking & being merry, and as they say, the fruit doesn’t fall far from the tree.

Mama, always the life of the party.

Next came three days in San Jose, which included a beautiful lunch in the garden of my previous photography assistant/right hand, a sunny afternoon in Carmel By The Sea, dinner with friends on a deck in the Santa Cruz mountains, a tour of the Winchester Mystery House, The Mystery Spot in Santa Cruz, and one more day and night in San Francisco, because… San Francisco.

And since we had to have a layover somewhere on our way to Boston, my travel buddy/hungry wolf chose Vegas, because we are animals. First stop: Pretzels at New York, New York Hotel. Next, I watched my friend gamble as my gummy kicked in and I marveled at the weirdness all around me as we sipped Corona’s in the blink and bling of a casino on The Strip. Finally, a verrrrrrrry sexy dinner at Sparrow & Wolf, (because *Wolf*) which her foodie brother HIGHLY recommended and we smartly heeded his wise advice . And holy hell was it good.

A midnight, red eye flight to Logan International Airport and a drive straight to Tatte Bakery & Cafe for some amazing Pastries before hitting the road for a brief visit to my friend’s family on the way to Portsmouth, New Hampshire included me spilling coffee on our host and nearly falling asleep at the breakfast table, but also included the very valuable lesson of how to properly pronounce Peabody, which became our favorite exclamation over the next six days.

Two nights were spent in the charming town of Portsmouth, hanging with our Navy shipyard friends, then back to Boston where we pulled off a surprise guest’s arrival to join the celebration of our friend’s birthday, a day eating our way through the picturesque brick buildings and a night at the Encore Boston Harbor Resort & Casino, which happened to be the same night the Patriots played Tampa Bay/Tom Brady, which I’m sure you know is a very big deal in those parts. Not gonna lie, I was a little nervous of winding up in some angry mob of the infamous “Massholes”, but actually everyone was quite pleasant, especially the two middle-aged sisters who invited me to sit with them in the fancy sportsbar as they told me about their town, swooned over the fact that I live in Hawaii and insisted I check out Cambridge, which of course, we did the next day.

We had planned to take a quick tour of Salem, the famous witch town on our way back to Portsmouth, but once we arrived on a grey, rainy afternoon, it was clear we were going to need more time there to explore all of the creepy and magical things and so we spontaneously booked a room at a rumored haunted hotel.

During a fun yet freezing two hour walking tour that night, the wicked cold Massachusetts rain soaked my sparkly espadrilles as our tour guide joined the list of those who had complemented them along my travels, while I said thank you but longed instead for more sensible and - if a girl could dream- DRY footwear. We recounted the spooky stories we had heard the next morning while I blowdried my shoes before we set out to explore the town in the daylight before our drive back to New Hampshire.

Our adventure ended with an EARLY morning flight to Seattle because, again, we had to stop somewhere on the way home and when my travel buddy said, “If we stop in Seattle, there’s a sandwich we have to eat”. Done, said I. That’s just how it is when hungry wolves travel. We had about four hours to hunt down the famous Caribbean Roast Pork Sandwich from Paseo (said to be the second best sandwich in the US by Food Network), then on to Pikes Place where we met up with above mentioned soul sister for oysters and prosecco on a stunning sunny day after shopping for cigars, hats and honey.

And then just like that, I clicked my sparkly shoes together three times and I was back in my little cottage in Kaimuki, looking through the hundreds of photographs captured along the way and sorting out the many stories I have collected to tell about a wolf pack feeding frenzy.

Back in October of 2009 I wrote a blog post titled “Sexy Food”.

It was the first time that I had written about the question posed to me by my food-loving sister:

Can food be sexy?

Of course it can, was my answer waaaay back then, even before I really knew just how much sexy food would become a part of my future.

 This conversation started when, while eating a pomegranate, my sister declared to her boyfriend that pomegranates are a sexy food. He didn't understand & said, "How can a pomegranate be sexy"?

And so our conversation began.

I entered the arena by considering foods that I deemed definitely UNsexy; pickled pigs feet, liver… and reasoned, thankfully, that there was an even greater list of foods that made the “sexy” list. We went back and forth from raspberries floating in champagne, to carnivorous platters of bbq ribs, the obvious oysters and dark chocolates, to oozing melty cheese.
And so began my quest and my conversations surrounding the sexiness of food and drink.

A few years later I started cooking professionally and sexy food became my culinary point of view, as they say. I practiced creating beautiful food that you eat with your eyes first. I began to dabble in unorthodox combinations of sweet, spicy, herbaceous and savory. Black Sesame Ice cream as an appetizer, lavender roast chicken, brie and apple pizza with a green pea puree sauce, candied beets over strawberry-guava sorbet with balsamic reduction for dessert, and on and on.

And let’s not forget about the sexy beverages!

My first cocktail recipe, such as it was, that I posted on the blog was a Lemon Rosemary Cocktail, which was soon followed by a Lychee and then a Ginger Martini, a Boozy Shave Ice, my deep dive into Australian wines, and even a non-alcoholic Chai. Eventually I began to write about local distilleries, breweries and watering holes, and finally began to travel the world with a thirst for a Brunello de Montalcino in Tuscany, a flaming cocktail in Barcelona, and Mezcal south of Oaxaca.

And now, in a time where the entire food and beverage industry has taken a monstrous hit from the Covid-19 pandemic, I am diving into more conversations and explorations of sexy food and drink on the coming

Swigs & Grinds PODCAST!

I have been chewing on this one - see what I did there? - for a while now and I am so excited to bring this new baby to the party!

Stay tuned for the release of the first episode and until then,

Keep in touch and let us know what sexy drinks your drinking and what sexy food your eating!

Cheers!!

Swigs: Quarantini-ing

We talk a lot about sexy FOOD here at Swigs and Grinds, but today we raise a glass to the almighty SEXY BEVERAGE.

It’s a strange time where you are either quarantining at home and working in your pajamas or perhaps still leaving home every day to do essential jobs for which we are all so grateful. Either way, whether it’s a cocktail or a mocktail, you deserve a damn sexy beverage.

We love dining out at a restaurant or getting a beverage from our favorite watering hole because of those little extra sexy touches. A chilled beer mug, a sugared rim, a beautiful garnish, creativity, a proper glass: it’s not like I haven't had a Wonder Woman coffee cup full of a lovely cabernet recently, but now more than ever, I realize it’s important to treat myself the way I would treat one of my customers and make it sexy sometimes, even when it’s just a happy hour for 1.

Dive in…

I have a lovely little tree in my yard that produces very ugly citrus and two things are currently happening: It’s going off, and vitamin C also happens to be all the rage right now. Also, my rosemary bush is flowering. Tiny light lavender rosemary scented blossoms. Also, I was recently gifted a bottle of Fee Brothers Toasted Almond Bitters, so…. when life gives you ugly citrus, almond bitters and flowering rosemary, make yourself a Quarantini.

When life gives you Fee Brothers Toasted Almond Bitters, Ugly Citrus & Rosemary Flowers….

First of all, this bitters. It tastes like an intense almond extract and brings a floral, nutty sweetness to whatever you add it to. A family business since 1864, Fee Brothers has been creating boozy sidekicks for almost 150 years. They obviously know their shit. After doing a little research on what other concoctions they might carry, I discovered that Ellen and Joe Fee are fourth generation operators of this family business, are now up to nearly 100 different products, and I can’t wait to try more.

Rosemary Sugared Rim

One of those extra touches we often forgo at home is the simple touch of a sugared or salted rim and a quick but beautiful garnish. For this one, some finely chopped rosemary mixed with sugar, a swipe of the rim with an orange wedge, a dip in the sugar and a blossoming sprig of rosemary turns this cocktail up a notch.

Toasted Almond Rosemary Quarantini

For this Toasted Almond Rosemary Quarantini:

• Shake together 2 oz. spiced rum

• Fresh squeezed orange juice

• Iced Jasmine Tea

• 4-6 shakes of Almond Bitters

• 1 Tablespoon local honey

• Pour into rosemary-sugar rimmed glass filled with ice and garnish with orange slice and fresh rosemary

• Next, congratulate yourself on making it through another day of quarantine, put your feet up and enjoy.

Cheers to you wherever you are during this brave new world. May you stay safe, healthy, and well fed.

Cook Like You Give A F*@k

I recently leveled up from my small but fantastic little cafe to a beautiful restaurant serving Italian food in Hawaii. Things could be worse. I joined a team that has been coming together for the last two years in a space that has been dear to my heart for more than a decade.

I didn’t mean to become a chef, but here I am. What I did purposely do many years ago however, is to start cooking like I CARE. Lately as people ask me about my new gig, I have found myself telling them, “Everyone in the kitchen and in the front of the house CARES”. One of those recent conversations was with a sommelier and a liquor rep at a dinner party. We talked about Temple Grandin’s theory about being able to pass down a cow’s stress at the slaughterhouse into the food and we drew the similarity to when you can taste the frustration and stress of a restaurant kitchen in the dish that is delivered to your table. When talking about the kitchen I work in now, it is the opposite of that. You can see and taste in the food that there is joy behind that plate. We want you to taste and see that we give a f*@k.

When my children were young and I was working from home, I began to practice the slowness and attention to the small details that can turn the simplest of things into something a little more special. Things as simple as garnishing the finished dish, even if you are the only one at the table.

Now that I am cooking professionally, this is what I bring to every dish I send through the pass-through. I have had several conversations recently about the differences and similarities of cooking at home versus cooking for a living. My discovery? We all just want to eat food that was simply made by someone who cares.

Here are ten simple things you can do in your own kitchen to cook like you give a f*@k and show the people you are feeding that you care:

Finger Root has a subtle citrus, floral flavor

1. Buy Sexy Ingredients

I guess this means that you first have to shop like you give a f*@k. And no excuses that you don’t have a big shopping budget, sexy doesn’t = expensive. It can be one ingredient in your recipe that you choose to highlight or elevate.

Cooking a simple pasta? Go with a shape that you don’t normally use like campanelle, radiatori, or orzo. Look for seasonal produce. One rainbow carrot or a bundle of some mystery fern from the Chinatown markets will make your dish look, well, prettier. Because don’t forget, before anyone tastes your food, they will eat with their eyes first.

Keep some sexy things in the door of your fridge and in your pantry. The next time you are in Ross or TJ Max or wherever else, check out that specialty foods isle. For a few dollars, you never know when you might score a jar of spicy mustard, or a bag of lavender, or a bottle of hazelnut oil.

2. Get In The Mood

Your kitchen is your stage when you’re cooking. Turn off the fluorescents and turn on some soft light. Pour yourself your favorite beverage. Play some music. Open the window. Take a deep breath. Smile. Dance. Definitely dance.

There are certainly those times where all you want is food in your face. Immediately. You think you don’t have time before you rush out the door in the morning to make yourself or your people something sexy, but you do. Play your morning jams, open that fridge and do something as simple as drizzle some of that honey you scored in the specialty isle over a sliced apple. Done. Too tired when you get home from work to even think about cooking? Pour yourself that drink, slice some onion and sauté it over gentle heat with a hunk of butter while you peruse your mystery ingredients. The smell will guide you toward creating something as simple and satisfying as a caramelized onion grilled cheese and some spicy greens (because you always keep some in your fridge) drizzled with that lovely oil.

Did I mention the dancing? Sway your hips while you stir that sauce, sing the lyrics into the spoon or have a full on dance party. We need as many of these moments in our day anyway, it really does wonders.

Heads of garlic dressed in olive oil, fresh time, salt and pepper ready for the oven

3. Make Your Own

There are some things to have on hand that will not only make your life easier, but now that you’ve learned to set the mood and you’re dancing around your kitchen with that drink in your hand, you can actually enjoy the smell of a chicken stock or a red wine tomato sauce simmering away on the back burner on a day or an evening when you are puttering around your house or multi tasking anyway. 

You can buy a six pound can of tomato sauce for about $3 along with a rotisserie chicken for $5, make your favorite sauce or stock recipe, cool and then freeze in smaller portions to have on hand when you need them, and trust me, you can taste the love in a homemade pot of anything that has been cooking slowly and tended by a happy cook, dancing around, drink in hand.    

4. Get Your Mise en Place, Yo!

Mise en place (French pronunciation: ​[mi zɑ̃ ˈplas]) is a French culinary phrase which means "putting in place" or "everything in its place". It refers to the set up required before cooking, and is often used in professional kitchens to refer to organizing and arranging the ingredients. That’s what Wikipedia says anyway. 

In professional kitchens, this is the beginning of any dish. Whether you are making that simple grilled cheese, or cooking dinner for 20 of your closest friends, this will make the execution of YOUR dishes so much easier and less stressful for you. 

It doesn’t have to be like the cooking shows with one tablespoon of each ingredient laid out in  endless bowls, but can be as simple as lining up your sliced vegetables on your cutting board, having your herbs chopped and your cheese grated. 

Taking these few minutes before you hit the stove, to prep and organize your ingredients, will do wonders in helping you to enjoy creating something sexy and nourishing. 

Fresh ravioli

5. Cook Like You Like To Eat

What do you order when you go out to eat? What do you crave? What is that “last meal if you were on death row” that you would choose? Learn to make it. Good food that feels like a special occasion doesn’t have to be complicated and unattainable. Is it impossible to resist a house-made ravioli when you see one on a menu? Take some time to learn to make your own. It may take some time to figure it out, you will most likely trash your kitchen and make a few batches of shitty ravioli before you get it right, but you will learn first hand how much love and attention goes into that dish that rocks your world on that menu that you love. Don’t forget, most of us who are cooking your $30 dish in a restaurant learned the exact same way. Cooking a perfect steak or even something as special-occasion-y as lobster is truly a simple process, don’t be afraid, the internet will tell you all of the secrets.  

6. More Than Salt & Pepper

Spice doesn’t have to be spicy. It’s that thing in the back of that dish that you love that brings out the flavor of the star ingredient, maybe it’s the thing that doesn’t make any real sense but it’s what keeps you coming back for more. 

There are a few different spice and flavor families that you should really consider inviting into your cooking. Think “The 5 S’s”: Salty, Sour, Sweet, Savory, Spicy. You don’t have to have them all in one dish but learning to balance these flavors will make your dishes sing. 

Salt is definitely a must in any dish. It’s non-negotiable, unless you are on a low-salt diet, which you then have to compensate for with other flavors. There are lots of creative ways to add saltiness to your cooking that you might be missing out on. Miso provides a fantastic layer of salty umami, as with so many Asian sauces. Garlic salt is one of my favorite staples. And of course there’s just good old’ salt, but you can start collecting some sexy salts too. I brought back a small vile of sea salt with rose petals from Spain and just using a sprinkle of it brings something truly special to the plate. For home I buy Hawaiian sea salt and grind it slightly in a spice grinder to give it a smaller, course texture. There’s Himalayan pink salt, there’s grey sea salt, and the list goes on. If you really want to get crazy, mix up your own blend with your favorite herbs from the garden or farmers market.

Sour comes in the form of acidity in cooking and it can be the one little touch that brightens up the whole dish. Lemon & lime zest are a great addition to pretty much anything and if you grate it over your finished plate it gives an extra visual boost too. A squeeze of lemon onto a roasted chicken or some seafood, served with some pork tacos, or a little zest in your next dessert will make all the difference. And then there’s vinegar. It’s so easy to give something a quick pickling in a little vinegar of your choosing, salt and some sugar as a base, and then you can also add herbs and spices if you so choose. Fresh fruit, red onion, jalapeños, radish, carrots are all great things to have on hand to add to whatever you’re cooking.

Sweet is key in marinades especially. I love brown sugar, honey, and I even reach for a jar of marmalade or jam when throwing together a marinade. 

Savory can come in the form of garlic, onions, herbs, and fats such as butter and oils. You better believe I have a mason jar of bacon grease that I keep in the fridge and use it in place of cooking oil ALL the time. Try adding a dollop of butter to your pasta sauce as it’s finishing cooking, or roast a head of garlic and store that to smear onto some French bread or to add to a sauce. Caramelized onions are another favorite to keep on hand.

And of course, everyone needs a little spice in their life. It doesn’t have to blow your face off but a little cayenne, a sliced jalapeño, a dash of hot sauce always gets the party started. 

Squash blossoms for the win

7. Don’t Be A Chicken

No offense to chickens, but be brave in the kitchen. In my cooking classes I talk about the value of what I call “improv cooking”. It’s great to have a recipe and follow the steps, but it’s also ok to improvise when you realize you are missing an ingredient or have totally overcooked something. Remember, you can always turn it into soup. 

Let them eat soup

8. Clean As You Go

I am not good at this. But I can tell you that when I do this it makes everything flow a little easier. There’s nothing that makes you not want to cook at all like coming back into the kitchen after eating your sexy meal and walking into the aftermath of a cooking tornado. Plus, if you have set the mood (see #2), chances are your people have gravitated into the kitchen to sniff and taste and chat, so you might as well pass them a bowl to put away or hand them the towel to wipe the counter. 

9. Eat It With Your Eyes First

Please please please take two seconds to pretend you are in a chef coat in a swanky restaurant.  You know what went into making this dish. You cried the tears when slicing the onions, your burnt finger is stinging, you’re quite proud of yourself for adding that dash of white wine which brought the whole thing to another level, and now you’re ready to plate like the badass chef that you are, dammit. You’re not going to scoop little piles of food onto the plate like a cafeteria kitchen, not you. Because you give a f*@k. You’re going to take those two seconds and you are going to artfully arrange your sexy food in a way that says you CREATED this. You are going to garnish that bad boy with some fresh herbs and maybe even give it a fancy drizzle of that balsamic reduction you scored. And then you are going to stand back and congratulate yourself, because that is one beautiful grilled cheese. 

10. Share

I love to eat alone with a book or a movie or some great music. But I really love to share a meal with someone I love. I love to watch them eat, to see how food makes them happy, to witness them being nourished, for them to know I care. 

And what to do with the leftovers of that huge batch of soup you made? Package it up and give to someone. Your neighbor, coworker or the homeless person you will pass on the street later will love your thoughtfulness. Because remember, we all just want to eat food that was made by someone who cares.  

And now, if you’ve made it all the way to the end of this article… Please leave a comment below and let us know what things you already do to take the time to cook like you give a f*@k!

Cheers!

The Feeding Frenzy

This September Swigs and Grinds turns 10 years old!!

Swigs and Grinds began as a blog, written by a thirty-six year old woman with three young children and a love of food and drink.

That lady has learned a lot in the last ten years. The children have grown into young adults, food and drink have grown into a full time job and Swigs and Grinds has grown into a business.

I began the blog at the suggestion of a dear friend.

“You should write a blog”, she said.

“A what?”, I asked. I had never read a blog although I was an avid reader. She explained while I thought, “A blog about what though??”. I was recently divorced, my world was shifting and there was no shortage of adventure and revelry in my future. At the time, I was a professional photographer, and food had always been a part of my history.

My mother comes from a family of 10 children, raised on a farm in Minnesota. Her mother ran a tight ship and was an alchemist, always able to create something out of nothing while feeding and clothing their huge tribe. Everything she cooked came from their farm where my grandfather tended the land and some animals which he occasionally sold or traded for other products to provide for the family. My grandmother canned vegetables, and baked breads, she preserved fruits, churned butter and god knows what else. My grandparents ran a strict home where everybody did their share of work and when it was time for a meal, there were three expectations: silence at the table, and that you eat what you take and you take what you get.

While this created a family of hard workers, it also produced a wild, loud and debaucherous clan of adults. Those ten brothers and sisters grew up, got married, had children of their own and remained a tight knit group of crazy people. My grandparents ended up with a whole litter of grandchildren, and until I was a teenager, I was the youngest of all those cousins.

For many years, our family gatherings took place at my grandmother’s house in the mountains of Northern California where most of the family had eventually migrated. Like the gatherings around the table when they were children, there were also three expectations, but now that the children were the grown ups, the expectations were different. This next generation’s standards were to eat, drink, and be merry. The dinner table was a loud and raucous place, where if you asked for a dinner roll, it was not uncommon for one to be literally tossed from one side of the table to the other and you better be able to catch. There were always twenty conversations going on at once, the soundbites strewn with insults, jokes, tall tales and quite often singing. At the kids table, it wasn’t much different.

The famous pie fight at the “grown up” table.

After dinner, the children and the aunties would do the dishes and then the adults would gather to play cards while the kids would re-form into our own little tribe of bandits, finding exciting and dangerous ways to get in trouble. This was how every holiday and birthday was spent. It was fantastic.

At home with my parents I was also the youngest of their combined six children. My two sisters are eleven and thirteen years older than me, and my step brothers and step sister are about the same ages. My parents had a butcher shop in the small-town grocery store in the tiny mountain town where I grew up, where I would help to stock the shelves and write the cuts of meat on the white butcher paper packages until they opened up their restaurant when I was in the seventh grade. B.J.’s BBQ & DELI was our family business where I worked all through high school, until I graduated and moved to Hawaii.

Maui is where I fell in love with photography, which led me to San Francisco to study at the Academy of Art two years later. I got married, had two children and a photography studio, and then moved back to Hawaii, had another child, went through the twists and turns of life, and found myself divorced and contemplating starting a blog, of all things.

“I guess I could write a food blog”, I said, after my friend had shown me some of her favorite bloggers. I had begun working on on several food-photography projects and had always been a writer. I sat at my computer staring at a Blogspot template and Swigs and Grinds was born.

A few short months after the blog was hatched, I began to work from home, doing photo shoots, writing, recipe testing and shabby chic-ing furniture. My children were 10, 8, and 6 years old at the time, which meant that I was usually cooking three meals a day at home. I began to write about my life and the “recipes” such as they were, that were produced in my 1930’s plantation house kitchen, as well as the events and the stories that accompanied them.

Then, five years ago, I stepped back into the food world professionally, taking over a cafe space in a residential condominium building in downtown Honolulu. The last five years have been spent fully in the trenches of my cafe kitchen. I have been the chef, the waitress, the CEO, the janitor, the marketing department, the shopper, the dishwasher, and everything in-between. It was five years of feeding the very best people as we became a part of each other’s lives, while I honed my skills in the kitchen. During that time I also began to build Swigs and Grinds into my catering and private chef business.

I have since moved on from my cafe space to focus on Swigs and Grinds Events & Catering, which includes some exciting pop up collaborations as well as providing cooking classes, catering, and private chef services to my clients.

During my years in the cafe trenches, my beloved blog became sadly neglected. Although there was no shortage of content being produced, it began to be pooled in the quick form of Instagram, which worked better for an exhausted mother of three with not much down time. (See our Insta account for some visuals of the last five years of sexy food).

I have missed the photojournalistic side of Swigs and Grinds more and more lately. I have deeply missed the writing, the recording, the interviewing, the diving deeper into the joys and the turmoil of eating, drinking and being merry. I am so happy to have recently launched a new website and some new branding, I have a new schedule and a new work vibe, and so so many exciting things on the horizon that the words are now bubbling to the surface and I am so happy to have this shiny new space to spill them forth.

I am excited that you have found this tribe of eaters and drinkers and people who are merry! We look forward to sharing recipes, stories, interviews, adventures, reviews, and hopefully a sexy beverage and a sexy bite to eat together! Welcome to the feeding frenzy, we are happy you are here.

And since you ARE here, drop us a comment and say hello. We’d love to know how you found us, what you’re into and how we can connect!

Cheers,

Heidi B.