the gala gourmet

In a dimly lit, midtown ballroom, I stood high heeled, spruced, glammed, trying to eek out one more night on the town in a last season Nanette Lepore purple leopard-print dress. There’s a movie star, there’s our gala’s honoree, there’s another movie star, here are many of my friends and colleagues in the theatre world—successful artists doing great work. One is nominated for a Tony Award the following morning, there are artistic directors, musicians, actors, at different levels of prestige, but all with a commitment to that difficult (yet unavoidable) life in the arts, surrounded by the generous few who fund those endeavors.

I will sit through dinner (my sole purpose of being placed next to a prominent board member is to be pretty and charming, perhaps slightly sexy, but of course not outwardly so) entertaining a table of Princeton grads my parents’ age, trying to tactfully and gracefully whisk away inquiries with: “You know, I actually don’t get down to Palm Beach much each winter” and offer empathy for daughters’ Southampton weddings’ oversized guest lists. Tonight is not about my thoughts or ideas or even talent. I am here to smile, to be grateful, to be eye candy.

This benefit was for old school theatre and old school money. Classic, high minded, intellectual, effete.

Two weeks ago I attended the opening of a ground-breaking new rock musical on Broadway and its celebration was much more a Page 6 splash of photo ops. I am bringing up the comparison of these two events not in terms of status, but rather in terms of consciousness, and more specifically, consciousness as it relates to food. In the rockstar world, where my friends are East Village juicing vegans and my clients celeb forward thinking pioneers, in the party’s generous displays of faux-trashy culinary abundance, there were plenty of vegan options on hand.

Although I’ve mentioned here before that I’m not interested in labels, there has been a natural progression in my body and mind’s awareness to the effect of animal products on my physique and also how the impact of what I ingest affects the world on a global scale. There is plenty of information available as to how eating a burger impacts global warming, in fact may be THE biggest negative influence on climate change, and not to mention the way it influences worldwide economics and our use of fossil fuels as a human race. If people are not aware of these correlations, it’s either because they are ignorant of the interconnections or our societal conditioning is so strong that we don’t WANT to be aware of them.

So although at the rockstar soiree I was solidly dedicated toward a vegan bent, by the time my highbrow event rolled by, I had slipped slightly into an easier, more unconscious state of “Oh, one taste won’t hurt.” The week prior I had a bite of my date’s Soho House burger. One night I bought a pint Haagen Dazs cookie dough ice cream. A little touch of parmesean on a ceaser salad with egg in its dressing was allowed entry into my body’s menu.

My deal with myself was to acquiesce when the food was spectacular. Babbo. That every once in a while slice of Joe’s. The gelato from the stellar place when it’s made with artisanal standards.

I am told I am a harsh critic. Fine dining for hundreds of people is difficult, if not impossible. The one time I have ever had superb food-- I mean SUPERB food—at a large event, was a wedding at the Mandarin Oriental in London. One time in a solid 15 years of fancy pants parties.

So, when at the old school gala, in a room of heavy hitters with deep pockets, I saw a slider, making its way to me, presented elegantly on a platter amidst a dozen of its buddies, the small dollop of meat housed in a refined white roll (also usually absent from my diet,) I rationalized: “oh, one doesn’t hurt.” This parlayed itself into other “innocent” transgressions: the salmon appetizer (its color clearly designating it farmed and not wild, and therefore potentially and probably full of toxins, dyes) the cheap champagne, the post event cab drop-off at the gelato spot down the block, rather than the foot of my apartment.

Where I felt it, was not that night, but on that confrontational magic carpet that doesn’t let any slider slide: my yoga mat the next morning. Whether it’s boy trouble or consciousness in cuisine, the showdown with my chakras in my ashtanga practice brings up all and lets me know very very clearly what works and what doesn’t.

I really have absolutely no interest in designating things as “bad” or “good” in terms of “should” or shouldn’t’s.” In my mind, those polarities do not exist, but there is, however, a natural progression toward feeling better for yourself and that I find, in turn, supports the evolution of our world around us. It’s not that vodka, meat, candy of the tangible or media varieties make connection impossible, it’s just that it makes them harder. I have found these things to be an obstacle to higher levels of ease and natural sparkliness. So, it’s not about deprivation, but more about the conscious knowing that—if I eat this, do this, it will affect this.

This can only come with awareness and experimentation. And should and MUST be an organic process of unfolding. A couple of years ago, I had a determined exercise in disaster that was a self-enforced six months of a raw food diet. Its tenets made intellectual sense to me, but its rigors proved to be too much to handle for my body—I wasn’t ready to be there yet. I’m not sure that I ever want or need to be ready to be there.

These things happen slowly. I have used all natural cleaning products for some time now. Recently I entered into an apartment with someone whose cleaning lady had just departed. He inhaled deeply, “doesn’t that smell fantastic?” Lysol lemon permeated the air and I was instantaneously nauseous from its toxicity. I wouldn’t have known this would happen, but it shows how conditioned we can become to chemical and processed scents, products and foods that we fool our bodies into thinking they are normal, even “fresh.”

There are countless books on food affecting levels of consciousness, from yoga sutras dating thousands of years back to the current popularity of Michael Pollen’s books who doesn’t give a whiff of anything holy or spiritual in his eating recommendations, but simply shows us how and why fresh, local and simple is best.

Perhaps for the first time, it is the younger, hipper, more affluent neighborhoods and groupings of people that are making sweeping change. It’s becoming sexy to be in the know. The documentary “Food, Inc.” should be mandatory viewing not just because it’s short, a great overview, accessible and easy to digest, but because it’s what people are talking about. So if conscious consumerism isn’t one’s bag, at least we can make the choice to participate with the cool kids in knowing what the conversation is about.

When we progress into deeper levels of knowing and have an understanding of the more subtle energies of the bodies, one can feel the emotional, physiological and digestive discomforts that processed foods, chemicals and animal products have. For heaven’s sake, philosophy is so boring, the only way that we can use these concepts is to experiment and see what works for ourselves.

The last 36 hours I’ve felt out of sorts with my digestive tract from the Monday evening party in my belly that was the slider and its string of friends. I made it through my yoga practice, but it was uncomfortable at best. My focus was drawn to a tightness in my midsection when that energy may have been better used elsewhere. Life just didn’t flow as effortlessly as I would have liked it to.

Whine. Boo. Snore. Aren’t I supposed to be so clean that these small detours passed though my body even easier? Shouldn’t the toxicities of life be affecting me less, not more?

In reluctant response, I did a mini fruit/veggie (ok, some hummus and chocolate too) focus until I knew the transgressions were out of my body. As soon as I felt them pass, I felt lighter. In tune, turned on, energy back. Alive.

Friday night I have dinner at my fave restaurant that makes the best chicken in town. I haven’t tasted this chicken in nine months and already I’m reasoning with myself. Do I order the chicken, tasting it wholly and consciously with each bite? Blessing and having gratitude with it beforehand? Trying to honor the spirit of the bird and what it means to eat it? Or do I stick to my pinot and a pasta and have one delish bite of my date’s chicken instead, savoring that moment and knowing that my belly and my connection will be more open in the am?

After my 36 hours of stuff and rinse, I sit here now with sports socks in hand, about to run by the Hudson. Not because I have to, but because I WANT to. That energy present may be worth the trade off, in and of itself. Not to mention, my running shorts… well, they’re kinda short and I still think they look pretty good. A bonus not only for myself but for future boyfriends as well. So, even if fossil fuels, global economies and siddha states of consciousness aren’t of interest, it’s nice to know that awareness can contribute to a sweeter physique at any age.

I offer this discourse not because burgers and Fantastic countertop spray are the enemy, but to perhaps stretch our ideas of what we can do for our bodies and our selves. Making an effort to recycle, considering what goes into our mouth and acknowledging a gratitude before we do, are gestures that link us to a higher and wider consciousness. If we knew that choosing quinoa kale salad over chicken would do as much for our evolution as meditation, blessings or acts of kindness, maybe not all at once, but one step, one blog post, one breakfast at a time… would we go there? Could we go there? Will we? Time will tell.

rockin' and rollin'

This past week I was a wee bit of a rockstar. Eons ago, in college, I was known to be the last girl to leave the party and the first one in ballet class the next morning. I’ve had a couple of doozys in the last few years, and some stellar nightlife periods in the city, but as of late, the connection I have to my body and the world on an ongoing basis is more important to me than “chasing” any surface fun. It’s seldom that I drink two evenings in a row these days, and so to go out every single night in a week is as rare a venture as Courtney Love remaining sober for a year.

I usually do 11 backbends at the end of my yoga practice. As my yoga teacher came to assist this afternoon, she said, “only halfway today, right?” When I nodded yes, she threw out a knowing, “I thought so.” The week was apparently emanating from my cells: spelling out: proceed with caution, Mags in recovery mode.

Needless, to say, I am drinking green juice as I type this, and that will remain my menu until I am back at a sparkly 108%.

What I’d like to say, however, is that I have no guilt or remorse associated with this week whatsoever, due to the spectacular company I kept. It’s not that I wanted to go out every night, it’s just that there were a string of time sensitive events, each at high levels of priority for me: openings, best friends moving to foreign lands, congratulatory cocktails, private excitements and developments…

And as I spent time with these people, over Belvederes, Blue Moons, Bushmills, blessings, bike rides, concerts, dinners, workshops, parties, sunsets that turned to sunrises, I grew more and more overjoyed with the beauty that my life has become; filled with a beaming pride in the incredibly ambitious and creative outputs of peeps close to me, and that those surrounding me are some of the sexiest folks around inside and out.

There’s a sense that we are all on the verge of something huge, both collectively and individually. I witness my friends’ successes unfold as we each hold the levels of sincerity and connection between us as the dearest prize. The success is secondary; it’s always been about being true to ourselves, consistently and blindingly, many times arduously, following that fire of restlessness that doesn’t allow one to settle.

Success is, of course, a matter of opinion and perception. I see my friends as successful because they hold themselves to their own truth and highest integrity. Even in their failures or falling short, there is an overarching idea of wanting to do/be better. In any and every aspect of life. Mediocrity and/or complacency does not exist for these few. And these people range from those in the baby steps of organically and nurturingly growing a private practice, to stars whose fame is such that they are asked for autographs when we are out in the world. And certainly, some have success in one huge pie slice of life, but not others, so that balance may be elusive, but in the areas where they are not content, there's an acceptance, but not a resignation, to something less than.

I think the important thing for us to remember, other than (of course) the idea to live in the present moment and lovingly appreciate where we are right now, is that no one ever sees the end result (of whatever success means to you) at the first step. Almost without exception, these people would have told you that five or ten years ago they could not imagine that it would look the way it did. And also almost without exception, they knew something was coming.

This is the most difficult walnut to crack, isn’t it? Particularly when one is immersed in any sort of spiritual or philosophical discourse about what we want out of life and how to get it: That constant ebb and flow of desire vs. attachment.

And although they were around, I’m not interested here in peeking at the rockstars, CEO’s, insanely talented artists or corporate managing directors... I want to speak about my friend Sean. Many of you know last week I was involved with a global affair to bring awareness regarding the issue of human trafficking in India. Sean spearheaded this entire effort, whose main soiree centered with over 200 people in Mysore, India, and was followed in 20 different countries and 50 different cities worldwide. What he accomplished, and the awareness brought to this cause, is nothing short of extraordinary, and my point is: he never had a plan.

Sean was one of my India besties. There was a quartet of us that caused major hub-bub. We loved humor, debating philosophy and each other, so we always seemed to the most vivacious group anywhere. This was not always perceived to be a positive thing, by those who held a soft-spoken devotion to ascetic yogic practices. Toward the end of my time there, I heard that someone called us the party group, and I was never really sure why—no one “partied.” (I drank more liquor in one night last week than I drank during half a year there.) Being wild was having a glass of wine on your day off. The only time I drank vodka during those six months was on my 30th birthday (although, that day was, indeed a party). At the end of the night Sean held my giggly head in his lap and somehow got my body (doused with vodka, and for the first time in its life, unaccustomed to it) back home, dangling off the end of his scooter, my sari skimming the road.

Sean didn’t arrive in India to practice yoga, but ended up in Mysore and decided to hang out there, casually setting up shop in his apartment offering acupuncture to the traveling yogis. He has an incredibly gentle, easy-going touch and a warmly affable demeanor. There is not an inauthentic bone in his body, so naturally people were drawn to him. Getting involved with Odanadi, the anti-trafficking organization that rescues and rehabilitates women and children, was what kept him interested in hanging about.

Honestly? They weren’t really that psyched about it at first. Lots of yogis travel to Mysore (it made #4 on this year’s NY TIMES list of where to head this year)— hundreds, if not thousands a year, all with altruistic visions of seva (service.) And just as abruptly, many leave—herein lies the rub… no one sticks it out long enough to make any kind of lasting change, or just as soon as they become involved to the point of being helpful, they need to return to lives, on pause, back home.

Sean had infinite levels of patience that I could not fathom. He followed that intuition inside of him to take it slowly, build trust, and show them he wasn’t going anywhere. And slowly, slowly, one child, one hour, one afternoon, one day at a time, they let him in. Three years later, he is spearheading a global effort that will absolutely change the course of these children’s lives. We throw the word ‘amazing’ around so casually these days; I believe this is an instance where its full meaning is well warranted.

Sean did not go to India to change the world. In fact, by most New Yorkers perception, his docile, unassuming ways could be thought of as unambitious, unmotivated. Before I learned the very valuable lesson of never trying to coerce a person out of what they wanted to do, I grew increasingly petulant on many occasions when Sean politely declined joining in any sort of gathering I had set up in India. I was going to the trouble of being a social butterfly, and g*$ d^*# it, my friends would join me if I had anything to say about it.

Sean was zen. And at the time I REALLY didn’t like zen. I mean, how could one possibly be zen when there was so much to DO in the world?! But he had the serenity to not listen to his loud, overdramatic, whiny, New York friend, but instead to some quiet voice within him that continued to whisper: stay—be here one day at a time, trust that it will unfold, or let go and embrace the idea it might not, but at the very least, be here and be real. Three years later, he changes the world. Little ol’ funny sweetie British acupuncturist Sean.

So, I’m speaking to myself as much as I’m speaking to you, because I know the majority of the people reading this are friends who have that same wellspring of enthusiasm for something inside of them that may not, as of yet, be tangible.

Although this time I won’t overdo it, I will raise my glass to you, my inspirations. Here’s cheers to unimpeded faith and choosing to build that bridge where one has yet to exist, rather than trodding the path so seemingly clear to the rest. Na zdrowie. To your health, on every extrordinary level.