I’m off to New Orleans tomorrow for the IACP conference and getting more and more excited to revisit my old stomping grounds (I went to Tulane). I probably won’t have time to wander too far from the riverfront on this trip, but still . . . I’m curious to see what’s changed and what remains post-Katrina. One thing I do know, the chefs and other food professionals in New Orleans have been beacons in keeping the city’s spirit alive, and I’m grateful for the opportunity to thank them in person.

In any case, I’ve brought an old article of mine (my first published article, as a matter of fact) out of the archives for the occasion; a piece on the music clubs of the Uptown neighborhood. I was a musician long before I was a writer, and I played guitar in various bands all throughout college at many of the venues profiled in the piece. Sadly, many of these places are gone now–succumbed to competition from chain venues like House of Blues many years before Katrina blew threw. Who knows, though. I have a feeling that on this trip I may discover something entirely new.

Christopher, Noe, Tally and I waved goodbye to Rex this weekend. Then I went inside and cried. We also said adieu to our fridge on Monday which I also cried about—although those were tears of joy (it’s been busted for a month and we’ve been shuttling food back and forth from our backup fridge in the carport . . . such fun in a robe with a kid on the hip). Crying over the loss of a truck and a fridge may seem like over-reacting, but to me it was a turning point, a milestone carved with—YOUR LIFE HAS CHANGED . . . BIG TIME!

You see, seven years ago, Christopher and I put everything we owned in storage, climbed into Rex and watched the San Francisco skyline recede in the rear view mirror. We first headed East for a night with our brand new God-daughter, Kate, and then to spend the turn of the millennium with our dear friends, the Curtins, in Denver. From there on it was South all the way, over the Texas border, down the spine of Central Mexico with all of its beguiling Colonial cities and then skipping over borders from Guatemala to Costa Rica, where we landed for a three month stay. By the time we arrived back in the US seven months later, after traversing the route back up, we were changed people. Christopher said just after we crossed the border into San Diego (and just after I said I felt like we’d gone from being adventurers to being homeless) that he had a sneaking suspicion our journey had only just begun. And he was right.

The seven years since we pulled up stakes have been made up of one deliberate decision after another regarding where we wanted to put them down again—where, with whom, how. The where turned out to be Healdsburg, a place where we had made soulful connections with many wonderful people and which felt home to us down to our very core. So we bought a house, sunk down roots and put up a white picket fence (literally . . . we still laugh about that).

Yet still, every time we got behind the wheel of Rex there would be a frisson of memory of the thrill of the road. As if the curve of the seat was imprinted with the DNA of heart thumping checkpoints; cervezas after a long day of driving dusty desert roads; volcanoes looming beyond undulating tobacco fields; the thrum of cobblestones beneath the wheels and twisted spires silhouetted in the twilight on entering another Colonial city. Many of these moments—and others that were sparked by these—were captured in the collage of photographs on the front of our fridge.

But now Rex, our beat-up, black, gas-guzzling Ford Explorer, our chariot of freedom, is gone . . . along with the fridge that held the snapshot of our Old Life.

Now we have a brand spanking new, white, Toyota Highlander Hybrid . . . with a car seat. Car seat being the operative word and a little peanut named Noemi de Leon Huber being the operative factor of Our New Life. Yet the concept of her adoption—long before we said yes to it, long before she herself was even conceived—was formed seven years ago, in Antigua Guatemala, during our adventures in Rex. They are—our Old Life and New Life—somehow, connected. Now our brand spanking new white refrigerator—in lieu of shots of cathedrals and beaches, boats and jungle—will hold photos of our adorable little daughter as she grows, be a gallery for her artwork and a landing pad for schedules and kiddo contacts. And what shocks me most is, I couldn’t be more thrilled about it.

Christopher’s comment upon re-entry was right on. The journey had just begun . . . and it continues still.

I got a call from my editor at Prevention a few weeks ago asking me to fly to New York for a photo shoot for a feature I’d written about how my time on Corfu impacted the way I live and eat. At first, I said no. I had just been in New York the previous week and was headed to Mexico the following week. The prospect of another cross country trip did not excite me. But I called back and said yes, and I’m so glad I did.

I love being a writer and recipe developer. But my creative involvement with an article ends after I’ve written the piece and the recipes, tested them in my kitchen and hit “send.” Months and months later, I open the magazine and see my words and recipes transformed into a gorgeous visual spread. Until last week, though, I’d never been involved in that part of the process. What fun to be a part of it all!

I showed up at the studio at 9:30 Thursday morning to get my hair and makeup done and the huge, airy loft space was buzzing with activity. Food stylist, Jee, was cooking some of my recipes on one side of the room. On another side, a huge table was filled with earthen bowls and wooden trenchers and stoneware platters presided over by Robyn, the prop stylist. Over by the windows, Marcus was arranging big, white baffles around a rustic wooden table where the food would eventually be arranged.

What was amazing about this crew was how we all had a similar aesthetic and idea for what the shoot should look like. I had heard stories from food stylists in the past about lacquer and hair spray and foam being used, but Jee believed in letting the food’s natural beauty shine through. Robyn’s props were perfect for it, and Marcus used only natural light and a very minimal, rustic setup. It was perfect. It captured what, to me, is the essence of Greece.

When it came time for me to get in front of the camera, Marcus invoked the feeling of Greece. He’d tease me, telling me to look out at all the fishing boats coming into the harbor (the windows looked out on the Hudson), and even had me constructing one of the salads for the piece to capture me in my element — with food.

I had an absolute blast and really hope to work with that whole crew again in the future (I Land Home cookbook?). Check out the results in the August issue of Prevention!

I had intended this blog to be a place to capture ponderings and wandering thoughts as they came to me. But as of late, there hasn’t been much time to let my mind roam. And that’s a very good thing as it turns out.

Three main beacons have been blinking brightly on my horizon these past few months - finishing my first novel, a lot of wonderful work (which you’ll see up on this site as the pieces reach publication) and . . . a baby daughter.

As I type this, my dear friend and novel collaborator, Amy Ziff, is here from New York for the week so we can assist each other in the official ‘birth’ of our novels. Amy and I are old high school friends who reconnected recently and have been supporting, editing, urging and encouraging one another towards the finish line of our respective books. This week, we’re packaging them up to begin shipping to agents. Keep your fingers crossed!

The other big ‘birth’ in my life is the birth of our baby girl, Noemi de Leon Huber, in Guatemala City on November 6. We were officially ‘matched’ with Noe on November 17th and hope to bring her home sometime between April and June. In the meantime, we’ll be going down for a visit next week. As things become more ‘real’ here (crib, nursery, shower . . .) it will be so wonderful to have a three-dimensional image of her to carry in our minds during the long months of waiting ahead - even if she IS adorable in photos.

Henri Nouwen says that waiting “is never a movement from nothing to something. It is always a movement from something to something more.” As I wait to hear responses from agents - a relationship I desire to be integral and long-term - and as Christopher and I wait to bring Noe home, I understand the meaning of these words to a depth that I never have before. And in that sense, what a gift waiting is.

If any of you are interested in following our adoption ‘adventure’, check out my other blog at huberadoption.blogspot.com.