Farm Country Kitchen

Quietly tucked in a nook of West Main Street lies one of Riverhead's best kept culinary secrets but be careful if you sneeze you might miss it. Often mistaken for someone's home, the only thing beckoning drivers towards Farm Country Kitchen is a free standing chalkboard displaying its name, oh and the 15 vehicles fighting over limited parking.

After finally finding a spot at the gas station across the street (which I'm not sure your allowed to do), follow the stone pathway draped with bamboo trees to what looks like the front door of your grandmother's country home. If the scent of fresh baked cookies doesn't lure you in on its own, the view overlooking the tranquil Peconic River will. Plus the picturesque display of precious ducklings bobbing behind their mother and squirrels playing tag up the giant pear tree is free of charge.

Farm Country Kitchen may be a mystery to many but this eatery is my all time favorite place to dine. On the rare occasion that I have an evening off I'm first in line for the limited balcony seating. With only about 12 tables you quickly make friends with your hungry neighbor. Last Friday I pounced on the opportunity to be served for a change and took my dad out to an absurdly late birthday dinner (April...August, easily interchangeable).

At first I was hesitant to bring my father's taste buds to my culinary happy place since they definitely belong to a food critic in another life, not to mention one that only liked authentic Italian food and couldn't have the different items on his plate touch each other without having a minor panic attack. But I figured with a menu that changes seasonally there had to be something to entice that iron-willed palate.

Ducking through the front door, the entranceway looks like the cover of a Town and Country Magazine. When we walked in the staff welcomed us like we were an old dear friend they hadn't seen in ages (even though I have brought my boyfriend there the weekend before) and escorted us to a quaint wrought iron table outside. We read through the mouthwatering menu over a bottle of chilled red wine we brought from home.

Although I need my toes to count the number of times I have been here, I stayed true to my astrological traits and could not make a decision. The waitress, who actually did remind me of my grandmother, read us the nightly specials which confused my palate even more. I decided to step away from my usual appetizer-the fried artichoke hearts which are lightly crisped and served with a delectable horseradish dipping sauce that dances down your taste buds- and finally settled on the Sophia Salad to start.

The vinegary scent of arugula bit my nose as it came out of the kitchen. Topped with luscious roasted red peppers, fresh mozzarella cheese, carrots, cabbage, juicy baby tomatoes and fried artichoke hearts (I had to have them somewhere) the salad was gone in minutes.

Our discussion was halted when our entrees walked through the door. My dad got the Chicken Shiitake dish and when they placed it in front of him I thought I was going to fall off my already wobbly chair. Bite size pieces of boneless chicken were bathing in a garlic and shallot white wine sauce over creamy risotto bordered by crunchy asparagus. Everything was touching each other! But he dug in with no hesitation, the succulent and rustic flavors quieting those obstinate taste buds.

I ordered the Cajun Seared Salmon, a dish that I have gotten once or twice before but this time it was served differently. I had gotten it once in the winter and it came dressed in a berry reduction sauce laying next to creamy risotto, strawberries, blueberries and a medley of mixed vegetables. On this breezy summer evening, it came next to a sweet quinoa salad and fresh asparagus.

Although the chef creates one of the most amazing blueberry pies I have ever had, we were too full to fit another morsel of food into our bodies. I left pleasantly plumper then when I walked in and happy that my dining choice had conquered my father's finicky palate.

"Everything but the Kitchen Sink"

I have not forsaken you!

First and foremost I must apologize for my inability to share with you the inner details of my fabulous life in the Hamptons...oh wait, that's because I don't have one.

This season is the three months out of the year where people come to take advantage of the gorgeous weather, their summer Fridays, and their beach houses.  It is also the one quarter of the year where I can take advantage of those people's wallets.

As many of you know I work for an interior designer on Main Street in Westhampton Beach during the day. To make some extra cash, once my day of decorating has come to a chaotic end, I hop in my car and shoot over the Rumba Rum Bar  in Hampton Bays where I plaster on a bright smile, button up my (hideous) Hawaiian shirt and serve Prickly Pear margaritas and grilled artichokes to people that actually get to enjoy their summer. I get home around 12:30-1 in the morning, rinse off the dried dirty bus bin water that splashed all over my legs, hit the pillow, wake up and do it all over again Monday through Thursday.

On my days off I tend to turn off my brain cells and bask in whatever sunlight I can find. However as my father so courteously reminded me there are a lot of hours in a week and even though I feel like most of my days consist of bouncing from one job to the next and trying to balance family, friends, boyfriend and personal time, I can dedicate at least one of them to my true passion: writing.

So, now that I have invited you all to my pity party we can move on.

Amid all the discombobulation that ensues throughout my work week, the one thing I can control is what I eat so I always make a point to pack myself a healthy lunch. Even though the deli across the street from my office has the most AMAZING whole wheat everything flagels I have ever bitten into and a crepe place called Cafe Mambo just opened up around the corner that has a nutella and banana medley that calls my name, I know that when I have a protein-packed nutritious mid day meal I feel like I can trek through my 14-hour day on a high note.

My (which I am sure is many people's) predicament is that I like to snooze as long as I possibly can in the morning barely leaving myself enough time to make a cup of coffee let alone a gourmet spread. Plus my office is half showroom half workplace and my boss prefers to teeter more on the showroom side since we don't have any the typical office appliances like a microwave, water cooler, or toaster oven. What I wouldn't give for a Keurig machine next to the $3,000 French antique mahogany bar.

My options break down to either a salad or a sandwich. Luckily for me the former is my favorite food group (most likely because it doesn't involve any actual cooking). Those create-your-own salad bars are my happy place. When I die, my personal heaven will be a 24-hour salad buffet with every vegetable, nut, and salad dressing ever imagined (and it will all be calorie free). But while I am still here on Earth I might as well share some of my quick lunch concoctions.

My salads look like I literally picked up the refrigerator and dumped all its contents into my light blue tupperware (that I fight my mother for because it truly is the perfect size). It lives up to the cliche "everything but the kitchen sink." And it is so easy and quick because I toss whatever I want over a bed of crunchy lettuce and call it creative.

Tuesday I got home from the restaurant at about 12:45 sticky, sweaty, and cranky. Although exhaustion was leading me straight to my pillow, my healthful subconscious rerouted me to the kitchen. Opening the refrigerator I quickly assessed my options. I lined my bowl with crisp Romaine lettuce then began to chop every piece of produce in the vegetable drawer like an herbivorous butcher. It was like a five year old's worst nightmare.

Juicy beets, English cucumbers, bright carrots (for crunch-so when I close my eyes I could imagine garlic croutons), red onions, sweet August corn, and leftover roasted red peppers and eggplant that were marinated in Italian dressing and grilled (which I did not do, thanks mom!). I pulled the Nature's Promise extra firm tofu from its container and threw in a cup for protein, hoping nature would keep its promise. Adding chickpeas for a punch of extra fiber, I put oil and vinegar in a miniature container and called it a night.

The next evening I sauntered through the door pulling stray bar napkins and run away straws out of my bag and faced the kitchen with the same conundrum. Washing out my same light blue bowl, I ripped up my old friend Romaine and started from scratch. I added a diced hard boiled egg (which again I did not make, thanks mom!), a quarter of a creamy avocado, baby carrots, some crunchy jicama, one diced baby bell cheese (almost with the wax on because I was bordering on delirium) and a handful of pumpkin seeds. Since the top of my tupperware snapped on without any extra force I decided to add leftover sauteed kale.

These "everything but the kitchen sink" salads are simple, brainless and steer me away from the MANY unhealthy lunch options that encompass my office like an obesity-inducing army. It does help to have a mother that prepares dinner every night therefore leaving me with a plethora of leftovers to toss over my palette of lettuce but as long as you can safely use a knife (which sometimes I still have difficulty with) and can successfully open the refrigerator, making a healthy lunch is just as easy as choosing between sesame and everything.

Mango Madness

My wisdom teeth don't exist, I guess that's not so strange. I am also missing my second molars on the bottom- okay, maybe that is a little weird and according to my dentist something she has never seen before. Apparently when you bite down and your teeth don't have anything to hit they continue growing, therefore I'm slowly turning into a backtooth vampire. You can't tell just by looking at them but on an X-ray those back top molars look like they are the overbearing father to the rest of my teeth. I had talked to my dentist about implants (not the silicon kind) but since my mouth seems to be the same size as a ferrets', I didn't have enough space on the bottom to put them in.

I decided to just yank the suckers out. My panic stricken self went in on Tuesday and all the anxieties I managed to muster were numbed by a few shots of Novocain. I have three tattoos and I was deathly afraid to get my teeth pulled. Despite the stomach churning cracking sound I heard and the dull pressure to my jaw bone the actual process only took about three minutes. The recovery however took much longer.

My mom's contraption to ice my face with total hand mobility

I thought missing wisdom teeth was a blessing in disguise since I would never have to get them pulled but obviously the dentistry deities had a different plan for me as did my fragile stomach. Tuesday I came home and seemed perfectly fine besides the red soaked gauze pushing my cheeks out to look like a chipmunk harboring acorns. At night, the pain spread like the Black Plague and I turned to my PRESCRIBED Vicodan and 800 mg Motrin. I woke up the next morning to my room spinning and a nausea that slapped me in the face every time I sat up. I became well introduced to my bathroom floor. Apparently my body couldn't handle high doses of medication. The downside: now the only thing to relieve the stupefying pain in my mouth was regular old Aleve but the upside is now I know I will never be addicted to painkillers. 

I quickly took to the habits of a narcoleptic and floated in and out of sleep (and nauseousness). The sun kissed color I had worked so hard to attain this weekend rushed from my face and the thought of food actually disgusted me (which rarely if ever happens). I couldn't chew the normal queasiness quieting staples like crackers and toast. But don't feel too bad for me, I had all glorious soft delicacies at my finger tips- pudding, ice cream, mashed potatoes, all things loaded with sugar and carbohydrates and also all things I couldn't keep down.

My saving grace: my mango madness smoothie. I combined fresh cut up mangos, a handful of over ripened strawberries, a heaping spoon full of Hagen Daaz All Natural Mango Sorbet and about a half a cup of Almond Milk and sent it for a spin in my Magic Bullet.  

Obviously smoothies are interchangeable based on your palate preference but this one seemed to work for me. It was light and refreshing and my stomach accepted it. Plus it is loaded with nutrients yet low in calories. Mangos contain 80% of your daily Vitamin C intake and the Mango Sorbet is only 150 calories for a whole cup. I would suggest this smoothie even if your not experiencing extreme nausea and you aren't missing a total of eight teeth. The only positive spin I can put on this experience is I found a new go to breakfast smoothie and the scale says I lost three pounds.

Mini Mood Modifiers

I leave my driveway at 9:53 to get to work by 10. I can go to the gym, shower, blow dry my hair and make myself an elaborate breakfast all in the same time it takes my father to sit on the LIRR and commute to his job in Manhattan. Part of me is dying to work in New York--to immerse myself in the atmosphere, to have delis, gyms, salons, and Forever 21 at my fingertips, to become saturated in that perpetual commotion. On the other hand, I thoroughly enjoy the extra $400 I save in commute and being able to hit my snooze button 25 times without waking up in a panic that I missed my train.

However, on occasion, I have to join the daily grind and trek my way into Manhattan for work. I go in to wait for deliveries, I make sure electricians come and paint over outlets and hang thousand dollar photographs, I bring in Egyptian bed sheets and bring home trinkets and glass side tables. 

I typically don't mind the drive, rush hour never actually killed anyone although some may beg to differ, but Tuesday morning "bumper-to-bumper traffic"obtained an entirely new meaning for me. One of my friends graciously accompanied me on my journey so we could access the Almighty HOV lane but due to the torrential downpour that relinquished all drivers' capabilities to control a car it took us 3 hours to get to the Mid Town Tunnel. A trip that usually takes me, alone, in regular morning traffic, about an hour and a half. I still remember the license plate number of the car in front of us because I stared at it unwavering for 45 minutes while we were at a stand still. 

Frustrated and severely disgruntled I dropped my friend off at work and sped to a magnificent townhouse on the upper east side. The only things inside this five story Manhattan mansion was wallpaper and kitchen appliances yet I still had to drag my jaw up the stairs. After dropping off about $1,000 worth of pillow fillers and mattress pads, I booked it down to the West Village to another apartment I would never be able to afford. 

Finally at 3:30, I scooped up my dad and joined the rest of civilization as we all tried to fit onto one not so Long Island. Needless to say when I got home I was cranky, tired and hungry. Instead of sticking my head into the ziplock bag filled with leftover Easter candy or finishing the contents of a recently opened Skippy jar (the extra large version), I whipped up a quick fix I found on Hungry-girl.com to relieve my throbbing sweet tooth without having to go to the gym twice the next day. 

Personally, I think peanut butter and chocolate is one of the most ingenious concoctions ever created. It's like the Sunny and Cher of the dessert world. With only three ingredients this low-fat yet flavorful snack is a quick satisfying treat to perk up anyone's bad day.

I always thought 100 calorie packs were such a tease. Either they tasted like the a bland copycat of the real version or they have the flavor element but you eat them all before you even completely open the tiny package. Alone, I though the Nabisco Oreo thin crisps were a solid representation of the former group- they tasted like chocolate flavored mini-frisbees. But if you add a dollop of chunky peanut butter and low fat cool whip- it magically turns those insipid impersonators into a mouthwatering dessert. 

Disregard the jar of Hellman's Mayo in the background- that is not part of this recipe, it was part of my father's dinner.

When your miniature masterpieces are assembled, place them in the freezer for a few hours and enjoy. And no need to fight the inherent feeling of guilt if you devour the entire plate, according to Hungry Girl you can savor ALL ten of them for only 188 calories. Since when do you get to have your dessert and eat it too!

Let Me Tell Ya About Nutella

I have an unhealthy obsession with healthy food.

I know its a sick thing to admit but I actually enjoy eating vegetables. When I walk through the aisles at the supermarket I get sucked into the products that contain "whole grains" or are "made with skim milk." I buy things just because they say "less fat than the leading brand." I often need to be yanked from the organic section because I would spend my entire life savings on Cascadian Farms cereal and Food Should Taste Good sweet potato chips. If there is a God up there, he will soon have pity on my soul and put a Trader Joe's or Whole Foods within a 15 mile radius of my house.

Now don't get me wrong, I am a girl that loves her well done french fries and juicy cheeseburgers with the works, but I am on a constant search for healthy alternatives to my favorite fatty foods but still taste like the real deal. I don't want to torture my taste buds with chips that taste like cardboard. Stripping food of its flavor takes the fun out of eating and I don't believe that you should sacrifice pleasing your palate just to appease your waistline.

If you ask anyone that truly knows me, they know that I love food. My boyfriend asks me everyday what I ate for lunch. I know he actually doesn't care but he knows I get some strange joy out of explaining the components of my salad or my new concoction of jicama and guacamole 100 calorie packs. I may not remember to feed the dog or take the garbage out but I do remember the amazing Gemelli pasta dish with capers, grilled calamari, and kalamata olives in a red sauce that I had in the city with my mom three weeks ago.

Since I seem to have every weekend spilling into July booked out of the Hamptons and off Long Island I didn't want my blog to feel neglected. So I am taking my deep affection for healthy food, mixing it with my mediocre cooking skills, and adding another layer to my blog.

Once a week I will try to update my readers on any new recipes I find or ideas that pop into my head and my hilarious attempt to create it. I am no Rachel Ray or Giada De Laurentiis. I may have the same love for the Food Network that a Spanish grandmother has for her telenovelas but the extent of my culinary prowess doesn't go much further than pushing the start button on the microwave. I will give myself credit in the sense that I am pretty good at putting things together. I am rather world renowned for my creative salads and I can make a delectable sandwich, but once you actually have to turn the stove on and get ingredients to blend, I surrender my oven mitts.

Therefore, this should be interesting.

The first appearance to this new foodie side to myself is my attempt to recreate a dessert my family and I had at Edgewater Restaurant in Hampton Bays. My former place of summer employment, as well as my father's, this authentic Italian hot spot overlooking the Shinnecock canal is where we tend to end up for every birthday, celebration, and plain old Saturday night meal. With a line out the door every night of the week, you always leave with a smile on your face as well as lunch for the next day. Last weekend we celebrated my dad's birthday and the owner so graciously sent over just about every dessert on the menu. As I kissed my diet goodbye over tiramisu, tartufo and peanut butter pie our waitress dropped a new delicious concoction in the middle of our table. Focaccia wedges with nutella and berries. So simple, yet so mouth watering.

It was so scrumptious that my mother and I tried to re-produce it for a Mother's Day dessert (p.s. Happy belated Mother's Day to all the mommies out there). We found a simple recipe online for focaccia bread, but added cinnamon to the mix. When the dough had risen we cut it into three pieces, flattened it out and threw them on the grill. (This is where I learned that while igniting a grill the dials must be on low and the lid must be open otherwise there is a strong possibility it will explode. You learn something new everyday). We let them grill until crispy (or relatively burnt)- about 10 minutes on each side.

Post-grilling we let them cool and stuck two of them in the freezer to revisit at another time. Once they were room temperature, we smothered them in nutella, low fat cool whip, and blackberries and raspberries. Another concoction we thought of for future desserts would be marscapone cheese, strawberries and agave nectar or even greek yogurt and caramelized bananas. 

The end result wasn't too bad! It definitely wasn't restaurant quality, the focaccia wasn't nearly as crispy as it should be but anything covered in nutella isn't worth complaining over. If you have once small piece I would consider this a pretty healthy alternative to a slice of Oreo cheesecake or an ice cream sundae, I mean come on it has fruit on it, but of course we devoured the entire thing. Maybe that's why today when I shook my salad container to distribute my dressing my gut jiggled just as much as the contents of my tupperware.

Chocolate Cheesecake Coma

Traditional Pizza Rustica oozing with ham, proscuitto, ricotta and all things cured meat and Italian dairy, breadcrumb stuffed artichokes, savory meatballs in marinara, fork tender peices of pork shoulder, steaming red lasagna and our lonely attempt at a "light" option in vegetable white lasagna; after Easter dinner, I wish I had jumped in on that whole Jesus diet and fasted for 40 days. Then I probably wouldn't feel the need to desperately pull up the top of my leggings to hide my food baby belly.

Tomorrow it is back to fresh fruit, oatmeal and grilled chicken. As soon as I heard the Keurig revving up like a caffeine infused motor and my mom walking towards the kitchen carrying that simple white box those nutritious notions were quickly knocked from my health concious mind.

Holey Moses Cheesecake is tucked behind runways and construction signs at Gabreski Airport in Westhampton Beach, NY. Family owned and happily operated you will always leave this tiny yellow sugar sanctuary with a pie in hand and a smile on your face. They have everything from peach cobbler and apple crumb to key lime pie and oreo cheesecake, but this year my mother brought home the Holy Grail of Holey Moses- the chocolate mouse cheesecake.

I am not the biggest fan of cheesecake in general but you could put chocolate on top of chicken feet and it would appease my inner fat kid. This creamy whipped piece of heaven sits on top of a perfect crumbly graham cracker crust and even though at this point I might as well have take a slice and applied it directly to my love handles, I savored every bite of my extra large piece (which meshed wonderfully with my chocolate glazed donut flavored cup of coffee...okay I think I have an addiction).

So since I am so full the only words now coming to my mind are "fluffy pillows" and "down comforters" I have to say goodnight. I hope you all had a fantastic Easter with your friends and family and the next time you happen to find yourself in Westhampton Beach stop in at Holey Moses and pick up a pie. I promise you won't be disappointed. (Try the Black Forest Cheesecake too!)

Getting Lucky on Long Island

Every night I pray that the next morning I am woken up by Mother Nature's avian alarm and that the sun's warm fingertips will caress me out of dream world. My sundresses are hanging in the closet aching to be worn and flip flops have emerged from underneath the passenger seat of my car. I think I've been hiding from my blog for the past two months because I've been too busy counting down the days until I feel the sand between my toes and the smiley face stickers plastered to my face (reference to the Boardy Barn for those of you who haven't experienced its glory). Its April and I still have on wool socks, my Eskimo boots, and turtlenecks. But even though the monotony of my weekends hasn't been blog worthy, last weekend was definitely worth sharing with the world.

Luckily I don't have to board a plane to see any of my friends from college, so we usually try to plan a monthly get together. Months earlier we had purchased tickets to see Lil Wayne and Nicki Minaj at Nassau Coliseum on March 27th, so last weekend four of my girlfriends boarded the legendary double decker train for a fantastic weekend on Long Island. Since my friends and I seem to have a serious infatuation with food we tend to base our gatherings around where we will be stuffing our faces. For all of you who have a similar obsession you must indulge a few meals in Huntington. 

First stop on our culinary journey was Pancho Villas home to the most amazing pomegranate margaritas that have ever graced my taste buds. We started off with a pitcher of pink frozen goodness and I welcomed the brain freeze. It had just enough tequila to leave you warm and tingly but not too much that the valet has to help your friends carry you to the car. Even though Pancho Villas' claim to fame is their "sizzling fajitas" I abided by my meatless Catholic boundaries and got the vegetarian combination. A crispy taco packed with creamy fresh guacamole and crunchy lettuce, a warm flour tortilla stuffed with smooth refried beans and melted cheese accompanied by a heaping scoop of rice, salsa and endless tortilla chips satisfied my Mexican craving for under ten bucks! Is your mouth watering yet? Keep reading. 

After burning those calories off bar hopping, we soon replaced them the next morning at Toast & Co. Tucked on a side street of Downtown Huntington, their menu offers a funky twist on comfort food and classic dishes. Since I have only ever been there for breakfast I can vouch for the first page of their enormous menu, although their creative sandwiches such as "Shrimp and Guacamole BLT" and inventive entrees such as "What a Crock of Mac 'n' Cheese" seem like they are definitely worth coming back for. 

My friend that lives in Huntington walked in like she was the Queen of England; Toast was packed with people eating, tucked in the nooks and crannies of the restaurant, but magically a table for five opened up. We were ushered to the neon orange table like royalty. We sipped on chocolate milks, coffee and tea and analyzed each item with growling stomachs and aching heads. The options were endless- Ricotta Lemon Pancakes with chocolate ganache and hazelnuts, Blueberry cream cheese stuffed French Toast or Eggs with Scallion Bisquits were just a few of the tantalizing options listed on this mouthwatering breakfast menu. As usual, I was overwhelmed with options and opted for a create-your-own omelet (which thinking about it now sounds like an oxymoron). But next time I am going for the veggie skillet, a hodgepodge of steaming vegetables, sweet potato homefries, and over easy eggs all blanketed in melted cheese. Oh, and a mimosa!
Still not drooling?

We continued on our edacious endeavor to Jericho Cider Mill where cars line Route 106 to pay homage to this tiny apple sanctuary. If you are lucky enough to snag one of the 10 parking spots, you will nearly be knocked down by the sweet scent of fresh baked pies. But we weren't here for the apple crumb or even the apple turnovers, we had frapples on our minds. Served in a simple styrofoam cup, this healthy Slurpee is an ingenious concoction of frozen apple cider that puts a new spin on a Thanksgiving favorite. And get a large, trust me.



Live hAPPLEy

 After letting our inner gluttons run rampant for two days it was finally Sunday evening and the concert we had been looking forward to for months was here, but of course we needed to eat first. Sapsuckers Hops and Grub is a relatively new restaurant that may look like any other dimly lit pub, but has a menu that gives any five star eatery a run for their money. Organic and local ingredients give this cozy bar an upscale feel and the extensive beer menu will take your palate on an international tour without ever leaving your seat. Amongst the homemade black bean soup, wild boar sausage dogs, and gorgonzola burgers, I settled upon the Cuban sandwich. Served with a crunchy pickle and rosemary and thyme tossed french fries, my sandwich put all other Cubans to shame. I pulled apart my toasted ciabatta bread to a spider's web of Swiss cheese. It was the perfect start to an even better night.




So pretty and unsuspecting


When we parked at Nassau Coliseum, we hopped on line, emptied our pockets and walked through a metal detector, just like any other normal concert or airplane boarding procedure. After scanning our tickets we tried to find our seats and found ourselves walking upstairs- understandable since we opted for the $107 tickets, I'd assume we would be towards the back. Row L, row M, row N, more stairs and more stairs; by the time we made it to our seats I had developed acrophobia. We were two rows away from the last possible row in the entire stadium. If I stood on my seat I could graze the ceiling with my head. Accepting our position we settled into our seats for the opening act, when an attractive guy in a gray jacket approached us.

"Are you guys huge Lil' Wayne fans?"

We looked at each trying to decipher that was really suppose to be. What was his motive? They all have one.

He asked us again,

"Are you guys Lil Wayne fans?"

But this time he held up the purple V.I.P. pass hanging from his neck. My bravest friend (aka the one sitting closest to him) spoke for the group, "Uh yeah." The second she closed her mouth he handed her four tickets: seat 11-14 row 1.

Smitten with disbelief, my heart dropped into my stomach as we followed our prince charming down section by section, security guard by security guard to the front row. This is the kind of thing that usually happens to my mom's coworker's daughter or my cousin's friend from school, some kind of exclusive luck that always happens to a friend of a friend, but never to me. I have that there's-a-hair-in-my-sandwich or I-spilled-coffee-on-my-shirt-before-a-huge-presentation kind of luck.

When the concert began Lil Wayne was raised from beneath the stage two feet away from our seats. We were so close I was blinded by his silver studded teeth. When he lowered his sunglasses I could see his pupils. If we were any closer the chain hanging from his crocodile patterned pants would have hit me in the face! Okay not really but you can sense my excitement. I have never experienced a live performance up close and personal. This is what being wealthy must feel like. We had even hit the rap star motherload.  A plethora of unannounced performers showed up throughout the show such as Busta Ryhmes, Ludacris, Birdman and Dj Khaleed. Even if you hate Lil Wayne and all things rap related (coughdadcough) I know there is a teeny tiny pang of envy nestled inside you. Thank you to our concert savior, if I knew your name I would name my first born after you.

Come see the seals!

Maybe it is Mother Nature’s unforgiving release of all things blusterous and frigid that makes me believe the Mayan's foresight could possibly be true. “A winter storm warning is in effect for your area” and “we will see the accumulation of at least 8-10 inches” have become customary phrases in meteorologists' vocabulary this winter. Snow days were fabulous when I was in school, but now I saunter outside dressed like Ralphie from “A Christmas Story” and the only thing I can show for it is aching muscles and 98 dollars cut from my bi-weekly paycheck. I’ve never had a stronger inclination to stomp through snow angels and flick out the dark taunting eyes of every snowman that lines my street. 

Stubborn snowflakes refusing to melt off my windshield

 I always mocked the “snow birds” that traveled to Florida to hibernate in the winter months. I was proud to be a New Englander and was adamant about the importance of the change of seasons. “The winter makes you appreciate the summer.” “If you have too much of one thing, it looses its meaning.” Well after the forth snowstorm in one month, lounging on the beach in Miami with a daiquiri glued to my hand seems like heaven right about now.

But despite my strong adversity to this white purgatory, I decided to join my friend and her father one Saturday morning at 8am on a seal walk. 

Whenever friends or family come to visit, they are always astonished by the “wildlife” out here, especially if they come from a place where the closest thing they have to a natural animal presence is setting mousetraps in their basements. 

In the summer chirping birds are my alarm clock. I eat my breakfast amongst bunnies nibbling on our lawn and squirrels playing tag. Even in the winter, I am still awe struck at the beautiful simplicity in a family of deer standing proudly our lawn, as if they own it. But I never knew the waters surrounding Long Island were so alive.

So I yanked myself out of bed at 7:30 on a Saturday (I know, I know), bundled myself up to my eyeballs, and met my friend and her father at Cupsogue Beach.

Dune Road is this long stretch of asphalt spanning from Hampton Bays to Center Moriches that separates the ocean from the bay. It is overflowing with extravagant mansions and holds some of the highest property value in the world. Cupsogue is one of the only beaches on Dune Road that are open to the public for only $10. You do not have to be a member, unlike many of the exclusive and expensive beach clubs that are scattered throughout Dune Road. You do not have to be a resident of Westhampton Beach or even of Southampton Town.

So with none of these limitations holding anyone from laying out their towel and slopping on the sunscreen with a prime ocean side view, you can only imagine how crowded Cupsogue Beach is in the summer. And to add to the madness, the part of the beach that borders the bay is open to RVs, trailers, and campers to drive up, park, and play.

This was the first time I had ever been to Cupsogue with three sweatshirts on and leggings under my jeans. It was the first time I could hear myself think. It was the first time I didn’t have to suppress the inherent need to scream when a family full of “citidiots” set up their belongings so close to me, I could take sandwiches out of their cooler without leaving my beach chair.

I have never seen the point of going to the beach in the winter since my sole purpose for going was to get as dark as the melanin in my body would allow, but the serenity and peacefulness of this picturesque landscape was worth the numbness taking over my toes. We walked through a barely plowed path in search for seals.

My friend had seen this seal walk advertised in our local paper, so we figured there would be a group leader or at least other people. We were even nervous we wouldn’t be able to take part since we didn’t register but we were the only warm blooded bodies within miles.

We trekked along the bay side through shin high snow until we saw something out on the sand bar. My friend's father said they were just black birds but binoculars proved him wrong. Regardless of the fact that you needed one of those cameras with a 20 ft lens or a canoe to see them up close, we had found seals! There were at least 15 of them just basking in the winter sun, lazily passing the day away. We noticed a baby seal swimming closer to us and was frightened when he popped his head out of the water to come face to face with a seagull.

They're out there, I swear!

We continued walking down the path, trying to get a closer look and instead of finding the typical human footprints masking the beach, this sand was decorated with duck prints as well as what we, self-proclaimed marine biologists for the day, concluded to be seal prints.

Even though I was losing feeling in three quarters of my extremities and I am not the biggest fan of sea life, this made one day of my winter coma a little more bearable. The seals reminded me of pudgy water puppies and I got to experience the sanctity of this enchanting atmosphere. It also gave me a reason to drink a heaping cup of hot chocolate with lots of whipped cream. Only 145 days until summer but whose counting. 

Get Inked

The buzzing sounds like an incessant mosquito resting on my eardrum. Most say the noise is the worst part. The common cliche of mind versus matter runs through my head as I wait my turn. The noise rests only for the slender needle to gather more liquid ink. Instead of sucking blood, this tool punctures the skin and drags vibrant blues, greens, and oranges transforming the boring tan color of flesh into an artistic masterpiece. After 45 minutes of perfecting my idea, I roll up my T-shirt, lay on my side and inhale as deeply as possible, trying to create as much space between my rib cage and the tender thin skin that protects it.

For those of you who know me, you are well aware that I am very fond of tattoos and so is my father. He has seven while prior to last week I had two. He has his religious leg displaying an intricate Christ head, a cross wrapped in a "In Memory of Mom" banner and "In Memory of Dad" intertwined through a rose-cross hybrid.

His other leg has less of a theme, but if I had to pick one I would say it his Tribute leg. He has my name as well as my brother's in thick cursive letters, a giant horse with protruding muscles standing tall on its hind legs, and the multi-colored Autism Awareness Ribbon.

Not all people like tattoos, in fact my mom thinks his legs look like comics strips but beauty is in the eye of those who can take the pain. Tattooing is truly an art form, a honest expression of self and the amount of detail and complexity that goes into forming these epidermic showpieces, looks like they were created with a fine tuned pencil rather than a bobbing needle.

All of my father's tattoos have special meaning to him as do mine. He took me for my first tattoo on my 18th birthday, I guess you can call it one of the ways we bond. My first tattoo was the polychromatic ribbon my father has above his ankle. I remember walking into this tattoo parlor in Sayville, NY my stomach twisted up like a carnival pretzel. I signed a waiver and watched as this burly man with hair almost longer than mine, sanitized the entirety of the room. He cleaned and covered everything from the tools he was using to the phone cord that hung on the wall. He shaved my hip, cleaned the area and geared up the machinery that would permanently paint my flesh. Maybe it was the spot of my tattoo, but it didn't necessarily hurt. It felt more like he was rubbing a piece of sandpaper on my hip.

Seventy-five dollars and twenty five minutes later I walked out an addict.

Less than a year later I was ready for tattoo number two. My friend had a cousin who was a tattoo artist, so on a steamy summer day we went together, both getting secondary pigmentations. I repeated the cleansing process this time on the inside of my foot and gripped the chair so hard I put holes in the bottom. There was more fatty tissue on my hip, more flesh to absorb the needles' wrath. Flexing my foot, I felt like he had stabbed me with a blunt object and was literally dragging it through my tendons. After five minutes, which felt like five days, I limped away painfully content with "Monti" branded on my left foot forever.

I vowed to myself I was done. Two sounded like a good number and nothing else really moved me enough to paste it indelibly on my body. The Autism Awareness Ribbon was a tribute to my 17 year old brother who has autism. The intermingling puzzle pieces decorated my hip and reminded me of every struggle, lesson, and journey he has taken my family on. It may just be a pretty ribbon but it represents the open-mindedness, selflessness and patience Nicholas singlehandedly instilled in me; it might just be ink on skin but it symbolizes that baby steps for some can be leaps and bounds for others. To me, it personifies the real meaning of sacrifice.

There are only three Monti women in my entire family, one in each generation. I have Cohen cousins and DeSalvo cousins, but I am the lone female Monti. Thanks to tradition, if I ever decide to engage in that whole marriage idea, it will erase Monti from my license, my bills, and the last name scribbled on my future children's math tests. My brother is the only other Monti in our generation and I have a strong feeling he probably won't be saying "I do" before a priest anytime in the near future. We cant even get him to accept the "cookie" on Sundays, let alone get him into the church and the closest he has come to a relationship is carrying around a decrepit picture of some girl in his class that he tore out of his school yearbook. So if I do decide to take part in the sanctity of marriage, even though my last name will legally change I'll always have it with me.

It wasn't until the last month of school when a saying stirred something inside me; put the way I view the world into words. My boyfriend, who has a tattoo of his own, had an idea for a new one: "Count life's blessings, not its problems." It struck me. My entire life I have been conditioned to see the brighter side of things. I have been forced to see the glass as half full, to look past the tribulations and see the silver lining even if it was buried beneath tears and trauma. Optimism has been carved into my brain whether I liked it or not.

I sat on the idea for a few months and finally a few weeks after my 22nd birthday I walked into the Devil's Rose in Bluepoint, NY with my hands shaking. Even though I already had two tattoos, that familiar buzzing dragged up my two vastly different experiences, fairly distressing and relatively traumatizing. The man that did my first tattoo left his first parlor in Sayville, and with a new partner, they started their own.

Typically when you walk into a tattoo parlor you are bombarded with skulls, pictorial half naked pin up girls and a sound system blasting screaming voices that never should have gotten a record deal, but Devil's Rose is different. Its somewhat vintage feel was less dark and intimidating than the other places I had been. There were random knickknacks on the walls, turquoise bar stools, and three rooms separated by old changing screens. Even though Devil's Rose is fairly new, it is inviting and friendly unlike many other tattoo parlors that try to fit that stereotypical dark and evil image.

I met with Eric, who had cut off all his hair since I last saw him, and after three drawings he perfected my next tattoo. I lay on the cold cushioned table and stretched my arm towards the opposite side of the room. Buzzing ensued and so did the torture. It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be until that needle crept directly over my ribs.

Peaceful or about to die?

The fact that my arm cupped my ear was not only making me lose sensation in that shoulder but seemed to amplify the sounds I heard inside my body. It felt as if the needle plunged right through my flesh and I could hear it vibrating the bone. Every single one of my muscles tensed, ceased, and cried for mercy but I did not say a word. It was so worth it. 

Puffy and bloody :)

Whether it is one of those domino effect days where you wake up with a huge pimple, put sour milk in your cereal, get a flat tire on your way to work and then get there and realize its Saturday or when it seems like your being battered mercilessly by life and can not see the light at the end of that eternal tunnel, I can look down and always be reminded to count all the blessings in my life rather than to harp on all its problems. It can ALWAYS be worse. 

OH MY GOD ITS SANTA!

As I scoured every Chamber of Commerce website throughout the whole eastern end of the island for an engaging activity to take part in, I have come to the realization that the cold blistered hands of winter boredom are starting to suffocate the Hamptons. Its official…summer is just a cozy memory that is failing to warm up my tripled socked feet and stark white complexion.

As the hours of daylight dwindle so do the opportunities of things to do. I mean you can only indulge in a creamy greasy far from healthy dining experience so many times before you need to exchange your skinny jeans for maternity pants.

Going to the movies gets old when you repeat seeing flicks just because “its something to do” and the woman that rips your ticket starts recognizing you as the one that always gets peanut M&M’s.

I’m sure bars are remotely the same in any town but since the population here shrinks throughout the winter, there are less innocent by standers to help you avoid forced conversation with the girl that sat behind you in Mr. Broich’s earth science class junior year. No need to pay for a high school reunion there is one every Thursday night at Buckley’s in Hampton Bays.

I needed to engage myself in something different. Despite my love for the Hamptons and all the things it (usually) has to offer, I refuse to become accustom to the repetitiveness and uniformity that has become a Saturday night.

Problem: Monotony

Solution: Santa con.

Despite the fact that temperatures above 30 are no longer a possibility and it has already snowed twice even though the calendar keeps reminding me its still technically fall, this season has something very special to offer: Christmas! And what better way to start off the holiday season than with a Santa Claus convention.

According to the website, SantaCon is “a non-denominational, non-commercial, non-political and non-sensical Santa Claus convention that occurs once a year for absolutely no reason.” The night before the big event some mysterious Santacon leader posts about 12 starting points all over Manhattan, Queens, Brooklyn, and Hoboken. Commencing at 10 a.m. (college style) this anti-bar crawl (every time someone calls it a bar crawl a sugar plum fairy dies) begins a 12-hour drinking binge throughout one of the most entertaining and lively cities in the world.

Sanatacon is held in 179 cities in 24 countries but it only seems fitting that in New York City would you be walking down the street and look up to hundreds of intoxicated Santa Claus’ chanting inappropriate versions of Christmas carols and substituting milk and cookies for questionable beverages in brown paper bags and slices of pizza. 

My friends and I, sporting antlers and “Hi, my name is (insert reindeer here)” name tags, hopped on the 9:57 train out of Speonk with bagels and train libations. Even though we missed the starting point, Rudolph friend was receiving updates via twitter about the next bar sites.

Santacon was the epitome of social media. Whoever was posting updates managed to organize and usher hundreds of people all over Manhattan, all through a few 160-character displays. 

After the first pit stop (which we missed) the Santa tweeter posted the next destination to be Central Park. After sporadically spotting a few fellow Santas here and there on the subway, we screeched to a halt at the 77^th exit and followed a couple of guys dressed up in red suits and beards. As we got closer to the park, the color red started infringing on my line of sight. It was like Manhattan suddenly had a red, white and black nosebleed. 

It was like Santa was multiplying. Indian chief Santa, taco Santa, robot Santa, skanky Santa, male genitalia Santa, hockey Santa and World Cup Santa who was petitioning to have the 2026 World Cup at the North Pole converged from all directions. The Christmas spirit surged through the Upper East Side as a sea of red washed over Central Park. Camaraderie was established instantaneously due to a similar interest in alcohol and Santa suits.

But the outfits weren’t just limited to St. Nick copycats. Girls were wrapped up as gifts addressed to men from God, dreidels represented the Jewish community, and reindeer galloped through the park with snap-on snouts and artificial hooves. It was actually a true testament to creativity.

One of the best parts was the spectators that had no idea what was going on. On our way to the next bar, one thoroughly confused elderly woman stopped us. Somewhat agitated she wouldn’t let us proceed on our jolly crawl without informing her why she did not know about this Santa Claus convention. As we worked our way back through the subways towards the West Village little children’s faces lit up with excitement as hundreds of Santas stepped onto the platform. It was every five year old’s dream! Too bad for them the only gifts these men in red could offer were slurred words and empty cans.

When we finally got downtown it was bursting at its seams with Santas. Bleeker Street is renowned for its pub scene, all bars within walking distance of each other and one more fun then the next. And I’m sure that’s true, if we could get into them. We settled on a Mexican restaurant where the two bartenders looked a mix of extremely overwhelmed and slightly scared of these dollar flinging Santa Claus’ desperate to continue their Christmas buzz. Standing at the front of the pack, my friends and I waited a half hour without being served.

It was so ridiculously crowded the only place where we could quench our thirst was at delis and an empty restaurant called Café Espanol. Even McDonalds was over populated with reindeer and snowmen. We decided to escape the wild world of Santaland to an uncanny getaway: Times Square. We enjoyed the rest of our evening at the Heartland Brewery and singing “Rudolph the red nose reindeer” loudly for all to hear, as we were herded through 42^nd street. 

Its Just Hair

Webster's dictionary defines hair as
1. any of the numerous fine, usually cylindrical keratinous filaments growing from the skin of humans and animals
2. a filamentous outgrowth of the epidermis

TLC Style reported in an article about the physics behind hair coloring, that except for the few cells growing at the root, hair is, in laments terms, dead tissue.

So hair is actually pretty disgusting, biologically speaking, and I was sporting an obscene amount of dark brown dead tissues in strand-like form. But I loved my dark brown dead tissue.

Family photo (minus Nicholas) at my cousin Amanda's absolutely fabulous wedding.

I've always loved my hair; we had a delightfully symbiotic relationship. It kept me warm through the blistery winter wrapping its thick sturdy strands around my neck like a botanical scarf. It was always in a magnificent mood but even when it was having a bad day it would still let me manage it by blasting it with hot air and sticking it between two scalding metal plates. It didn't get angry with my 14-year-old self when I ironed it; it patiently waited its turn after dad's jeans and mom's collared shirts. Lately it was long enough to cover up an exposed bra strap or too much cleavage. It was versatile and flexible, two qualities hard to find in people let alone hair. It looked good pin straight or in curls.

In return I would let it breathe on the weekends, free of product and hot tools. I tried to steer clear of my boyfriend's incessant need to pluck the poor white ones from its brothers and sisters. I thought I had a decent balance of natural oils and cleanliness, even though my parents probably beg to differ.

It boosted my self confidence. Sometimes I would pretend I was in one of those Pantene Pro-V commercials; the ones where women would flip their long luxurious shiny hair back and forth as it cascaded down their backs like furry waterfalls. My hair wasn't just expired cells, it was my sexy blanket. Any time I had a zit the size of Lake Tahoe, I thought at least I have pretty hair. Whenever I felt like my love handles were big enough to have their own area code I thought to myself its okay at least people compliment my hair. Simply, it made me feel hot. (Wow I sound vain).

But it was that Webster's dictionary definition that I needed to repeat over and over in my head when I walked into Toni's Barber Shop on Mill Road in Westhampton Beach. People always gawk at me when I tell them I, a woman, get my hair cut at a barber shop. Well, for your information barbers no more than how to shape up side burns and give buzz cuts.

Toni's is this tiny building tucked tightly behind Westhampton Beach town and its overflowing with local culture, smiling faces, and wagging tails (Mildred and Bernie, Toni's two dogs are always happy to entertain customers). Toni's gives Westhampton a feisty undertone of authenticity. I feel like I'm walking into a friend's living room, its cozy and inviting and moderately priced. I'm sorry but it is absolutely ridiculous to pay $70 for a haircut and I've gotten some of the best haircuts of my life in this Westhampton Beach treasure.

I have been going to Toni's for over four years so the girls there understand how I am connected to my hair and how my father is as well. He told me if I cut my hair off he was changing the locks on our doors. This coming from a man that forbids me to tuck my hair behind my ear at the dinner table in fear of a strand being set free and making its way all the way across the table into his salad. I would assume short hair would be accepted by him, its less surface area he'd have to worry about but no, "short hair is for old ladies and Doris Day." (Not like I know who that is).

Well thankfully his opinion was busy picking up my brother from school and I took the first of our three appointments. That TLC style report was replaying over and over in my head, along with another realization I had conjured in the car.

Thanksgiving and Christmas are right around the corner and I often feel that the real meaning of the holiday spirit gets lost behind toy trucks and cranberry sauce. I've always loved my hair and the way it made me feel about myself but there are millions of children that don't have the decision to wear their hair curly or straight, up or down. Instead they have to decide which cancer treatment will be the most aggressive or how to explain to their gawking classmates what alopceia areata is (AA is the medical description of unwelcome and involuntary hair loss from the head and body).

I got to enjoy my hair for 22 years, its someone else's turn.

So as Toni separated my hair into four braids I felt my legs start to quiver. A pit grew in the center of my stomach, the same familiar brick I get before I have to speak in front of a class or get on an airplane. I tried to keep my anxiety inside, I mean its just hair, at least I have the luxury of mine growing back. As she picked up those shiny sharp silver scissors, my hands went numb. Snip, snip, snip...I closed my eyes.

When I opened them again, those four braids were lounging on the counter among the stuffed cars and tootsie pops, ready to be wrapped and shipped off to Locks of Love- a non-profit organization that creates wigs for financially disadvantaged children suffering from any type of medical hair loss.

I parted ways with my dark brown dead tissue and felt a warmness surge through my body, but this emotion wasn't one stemming from apprehension. This flutter came from serenity; I helped someone. I hopefully helped a little girl gain the self-assurance I felt when I had looked in the mirror. Hopefully I helped someone get through the day without having to shield themselves from ignorant stares. Maybe I made someone's day just a little bit easier.

And when I went home, my key still worked!

Vortexes, Shimmies, and Corkscrews

After a very unhealthy weekend of deliciously thick clam chowder, goat cheese and avocado grilled cheeses and more vodka than my liver can probably handle post-college, I returned from a birthday weekend in Boston, Massachusetts feeling bloated and hungover.

ON A SIDE NOTE: My friends and I are not allowed to travel long distance in the same car. If you follow this blog you remember the multiple tire catastrophe en route to and from Baltimore. This trip was a different driver and a different car and yet we still managed to get ourselves into a fender bender. Trying to catch a 6:30 ferry out of Port Jeff, our chauffeur, MB, slowed down to get off the exit and was rear-ended. We were completely unharmed, my first thought at the bump in the back was a blown tire of course, but the other driver lost control of the car and pummeled through a Long Island Expressway sign. After MB got out of the car to swap insurances and we found that the young girl was physically unharmed, we all inappropriately broke out in hysterical laughter since the automobile Gods obviously think it's funny to torment on our road trips.

And back to the purpose of this post.

On Mondays nights for the past month my mother and I have been attending a Hula Hoopdancing class at St. Mary's Church on Ponquogue Ave in Hampton Bays. At first I laughed at the idea thinking hula hooping was only a pastime of five year old girls and probably cheerleaders, but a woman I work with  swore to me she left the class sorer than any day at the gym.

So Monday night at 6 p.m., we waltz into the bland beige rec room at St. Marys. It hardly seemed like a place to work out; there's no sound system, no mirrors, and no crazy gym rats ballistically pumping themselves up in the corner (I can live without the latter). Despite the bad lighting and children's artistic interpretations of Jesus, their was a vibrant sparkle coming from the corner of the room; a mix of the hand-crafted multi-colored weighted hula hoops used during class and the inviting smile of the beautiful instructor: Jami Goleski.

This petite woman, with not an ounce of body fat might I add, greeted us with such enthusiasm and energy, I handed my $15 without even realizing it. Hoop dancing is a relatively new workout to seize the interest of fitness-minded women. Unlike other cardio-oriented aerobic classes where you follow the instructor's every move for the entire class, hoop dancing merges instruction with individual practice. Its a class for beginners and advanced hoopers alike.

During the first class, I picked up my hoop, placed it around my waist, gave it a spin, and watched it swivel around me right back down to the floor. Next time I put more emphasis into my hooping "technique" which probably mimicked a person about to have a seizure.

After we stretched with our hoops, Jami explained power points to us, either being your belly button and small of your back or either sides of your waist; when the hoop hits those points you give a little push for it to gain momentum. Plus the motion in itself gives your abs a workout that is less painful and just as effective as simple old crunches.

After the first class I had waist hooping down to a perfection...so did the five year old girl in the pink spandex to my left. Since the class envelopes all levels of hoop dancers, Jami teaches more advanced moves for those who are ready or eager to learn. She puts herself in slow motion. She explains hand placements and shows us how to move your whole body in order to gain more velocity for off the body moves. She then gives us the second part of the class to work on what we have learned and she hoops around giving us personal assistance.

Watching Jami hoop dance is like watching a piece of art. It looks so simple, as if the hoop is not a plastic plaything sold in Target but an extension of the body that moves with fluidity and grace. Its more than a just prop, its like another limb. Jami left her profession as a teacher to pursue a rewarding career as a mother. She said she taught herself how to hoop dance through YouTube videos. After 6 months of bruises and pure dedication, she has created Hip-Mama Hula Hoops. She teaches her own classes and creates custom hoops for her students, always with a smile on her face.

Each week we work on the skills we have already mastered and attempt to conquer the next step to becoming a hoopdancing guru, and each week I drive home with pretty purple bruises on the backs of my hands and happily aching abdominals.

Golf Looks Way Easier on Television

I would rather get a root canal then watch the US Open or the Masters, which is saying a lot since I'm petrified of the dentist. As a football fanatic, golf in comparison seems just plain uneventful. Its a group of typically wealthy older men wearing loud checkerboard pants with ostentatious sweater vests getting carted around acres of pretty scenery. They don't even have to do any of their own leg work! They have a young kid (or a homeless man if you're Happy Gilmore) lugging around a golf bag that usually weighs more then they do. After a "long days" work, the winner of the US Open last year took home a check for $1,260,000. Even the person is 60th place took 17,000! All of this money, to get a small white ball in a small round hole.

At least in football it seems like those players earn their multi-million dollar salaries. Contact, violence, fumbles, fancy thoroughly thought out plays, fights; its exciting to watch. No wonder America, the most desensitized nation in the world, is the only country to have this brutally addicting game. Nonetheless, I plop myself on the couch every Sunday to watch grown men rip through running backs and linebackers try to rip off a quarterback's cranium. Despite the barbarian nature behind the sport at least it seems like there's some skill involved. Whether it be Ladainian Tomlinson dancing his way to a first down or Hakeen Nicks makes a one-handed catch through double coverage in the end zone, this is a sport I can appreciate.

My father, being a sports fan in general, loves golf. He wakes up at 5 am on a Saturday in 30 degree weather (wearing shorts) to enjoy this so called game. So one Monday morning (at 8 not 5 thank God), he extended the invitation to play 18 holes with him at the Baiting Hollow Country Club, and by play he meant chauffeur. So it was either drive a golf cart around and hit a few balls or hang out with the cleaning lady that was coming that morning. Even though I'm not the game's biggest fan, I dislike the smell of ammonia even more.

We get to the club and order some breakfast. I got an egg white omelet with peppers, onions, and swiss cheese and my dad got a tower of french toast sticks that looked like they should model in a food magazine, we were off to the driving range to warm up. We stretched and I watched him hit a few balls. Psh simple. I get up there, pretend I'm sitting on a bar stool as my father so hysterically says I should know how to do, straighten my left arm and bend my right. I wind up and swing. Whoosh! I completely miss the ball...again and again and again. By the 10th try I think I must have sprained a muscle in my ribs and a blister is taking over the bottom half of my palm. Discouraged, I get back into the cart.

Golf looks way easier on television.

So on to the first hole we go. My dad makes me stop at what look like metal plates in the ground that have numbers engraved in them. As he using his feet to measure the distance between his ball and those plates, he spits out mental math like a savant. He checks where the hole is on the guide in the cart and carefully chooses his weapon. As we sail over to the green, I get out in an attempt to putt. This has to be easier than the driving range I think to myself; I'm a pro at mini golf. Well there are no clowns heads or secret passages here. Just getting a small white ball into a small round hole, seems easy enough. Guess again.

Golf is a game of opposites. If you try to lift the ball up in the air, it will line drive. If you pull your club back too far to putt and stop short to avoid it catapulting across the green, it will hop over the hole and down the ruff like its desperately running away from you. It's not a game of brute force and strength. It's a game of patience and finesse.  In this game you cant plow down a field simply because you ate more Yodell's and weigh more then the next guy. Its about strategy and delicacy, which is harder to translate through a TV screen than spin moves and 80-yard passes.

At the 14th hole, my father found himself in the sandpit which was positioned slightly underneath the putting green with the hole being on the opposite end. He made his way through the dwarfed desert, multitude of clubs in hand and took his shot. I watched the ball pop up out of the sandpit like a pop-fly at a baseball game, bounce onto the green and slowly roll right into the hole. I never saw that on TV and that was one of the few holes he had gotten a birdie (one stroke below the number of strokes allowed to complete a hole). At the end of the day, he shot a 79, the first time he got below 80 on that course, which I now understand is really difficult to do for the average human being.

Now I'm not saying I'm going to become the next Michelle Wie, but now when the Masters is on the television I won't storm out of the room. I can now watch it through different eyes, ones that have failed miserably at a game I never took the time to understand. I mean I would still choose to watch Justin Tuck flatten Tony Romo like a tortilla, but now I can root for Phil Michelson not just because my dad tells me to. Plus, I found a new way to enjoy a beautiful fall day even if I do wake up the next morning feeling like I've been kicked in the ribs by a donkey.

Don't Be Afraid to Wiggle

It seems oddly inappropriate to sensually shake your hips and gyrate across the carpet of a library, but its perfectly acceptable every Saturday morning at the Zumba class at the Westhampton Beach Public Library. Zumba seems to be the new craze consuming the fitness world, a fusion of Latin and international music that creates a dynamic, calorie-blasting aerobic workout.

Skeptical at first, considering my hips don’t lie about my inability to hold any sort of rhythm, Zumba seemed like a class only suitable for those with dance experience or those with behinds that shake like Beyonce's. One of the waiters I work with is part time server, part time Zumba instructor and is always spinning me around the kitchen trying to convince me to take his class. I know he would be a fabulous teacher but Southampton is a hike and a half from Remsenburg especially if it’s just to go make a fool out of myself.

After perusing the library shelves for movies to soak up some of our free time, Mariela informed me her mother had signed her and herself up for a Zumba class that was only 30 dollars for 8 classes, which is such a steal especially in the Hamptons. I inferred, secretly hoping the class was full, but there were two spots left. One for me, one for my mother, sign me up!

So Saturday morning rolls around and I tear myself out of sweet slumber, throw on workout clothes, and inhale a Chobani Pineapple Greek Yogurt as we run out the door to our first class.

Checking in at the door, there was a wide array of women stretching in front of me; working moms, aged hippies, twenty-somethings to sixty-somethings, overweight and those with a negative BMI. The carpeted room was not nearly large enough to hold this Zumba army. I guess you didn’t have to be a young, fit, and Latina to partake in a Zumba. Taking a spot in the back of the room, I tried to maneuver my eyesight beyond brunette, blond and bald alike to focus on the extremely enthusiastic woman wearing the trademark squiggle on her neon tank top. 

As the music filled the small room, the instructor started with simple moves, tapping your toes, lifting your knees, nothing too complex. The class is a monkey see monkey do technique, stringing together dances steps, high kicks, arm movements and booty shakes, all in sync with the beats flowing from the stereo in the front of the room. It’s such a different experience then going to the gym and running on the treadmill until your legs feel like jelly or spending days in the weight room repetitively lifting and lowering those black rectangular blocks. It was invigorating, constantly changing and just plain fun. And I wasn’t the worst one in the room!

As we rapidly grapevined across the room to Nagila Hava and swiftly shook what all our mama’s gave us to tribal sounding African sounds, sweat surged from every pore my body possessed. Half way through, my shirt was clinging to my collar bone for dear life. My socks began to feel like I had taken them out of the washer before the spin cycle and my hair was wetter than when I get out of the shower. As your body undulates to the thumping and pulsing rhythms, the instructor reminds you: “Don’t be afraid to wiggle ladies!” Her bottom half looked like it was unattached, convulsing like it had it's own spine, its own mind. She was a prime wiggler.

After one of the best workouts of my life for basically $3.75, my mother and I walked back to our car and were distracted by the tops of white tents speckling the Village Green & Gazebo at the beginning of town. The Chamber of Commerce Arts & Crafts show graced the vibrant green lawn, showcasing artisans and vendors selling handcrafted art. There’s everything from stained glass and sculptures to wood furnishing, jewelry and metal work. I fell in love with a necklace made out of silk string and a gorgeous gold ring with turquoise gems.

Besides the breathtaking watercolors and interesting fiber work, the people that attend these shows are entertaining. It’s early enough in autumn that the weekends still create a rustle in the Hamptons, especially on a holiday weekend. From pooches in purses sporting Burberry jackets to burnt old ladies swiping their credit cards so frequently they're probably hotter then the temperature outside; the people are a separate show on their own.

Post-craft show, we continued down Mill Road to another Chamber of Commerce sponsored occasion, this one being weekly: the Westhampton Beach Farmers Market. Every Saturday morning from early April to mid December, the concrete parking lot behind the Fire House transforms into a sensory nirvana.  My best advice for attending this flavorful event is don’t come starving or with your credit card because you will definitely want to spend every last penny you own supporting the local famers. From Fat Ass Fudge to The Apotheca, the Farmer’s Market has enough products to satisfy any interest. Cheesecakes, homemade truffles, locally caught seafood, pickles, gluten-free potato chips, jams, jellies, flowers and more, all invite you to taste test and purchase.

We went to get tomatoes…just tomatoes. We left with raviolis, a homemade foccacia with roasted tomatoes and caramelized onions, fresh lavender and some vegetable I can’t pronounce that is in the broccoli family. On the way home, we realized we never got the tomatoes.