Yes, I have a Storm. No, it is not a good conversation-starter.

Being approached by men is not new for me. Being approached because of my cell phone, however, is new. Were you aware having a Blackberry Storm meant you were part of a club and, upon seeing a member of the opposite having one, should beeline their way and demand a product review? I certainly didn't. 

It was a Friday night and I was out with some friends; dancing, drinking and having a good time. I moved to the side to check NCAA tourney scores because I didn't have the patience to wait for CBS when a random guy suddenly thrusts his Storm between my face and my phone. He eagerly shouts into my ear, completely disregarding my ear drum, "I can't believe you have one! How do you like it?" 

I had a sudden case of deja vu--and not in a good way. The same thing happened to me a few weeks earlier. At the same bar. Different guy though. And I had been text messaging at the time. 

To say I was creeped out and dumbfounded--partly because I was on the receiving end of this not just once but twice within the same month and partly because the guy was awkward--would be an understatement. After pausing to make sure he was serious and to consider my best plan of action, I nodded, slightly smiled and quickly retreated to my friends; checking the entire way to he was not following me. 

Yes, the Storm is a cool phone. But it has been out for three months now. It's no longer an acceptable conversation starter with random strangers (if it even ever was). Move on to something a little more current, like the NCAA tournament. I am much more likely to discuss my bracket with you than my cell phone.

You're talkin' like hot, Hot Tomatoes

I am something of a pizza snob. I was spoiled with the best, growing up in Brooklyn and Staten Island. My favorite pizzerias were always right around the corner from me. The smell of rice balls the size of babies’ heads and garlic knots bigger than my fists always greeted me upon opening the door. The pizza crust was always the perfect balance of crunchy and chewy. You could practically hear the sauce bubbling and brewing in the kitchen and the cheese melting in the brick oven. Yes, I am just salivating at the thought.

Ever since leaving the safe harbor of my home, I have been searching for a suitable replacement. Pizza that fails to meet my standards of excellence does not have the privilege of meeting my tastebuds much less my stomach. The only time I was granted such an improbable possibility was my week-long stay in Italy. Needless to say, I have not eaten a lot of pizza since moving farther than four hours from my favorite pizzerias. And I have not even come close to finding a pizza I can stomach up here in Boston—I do not understand why Upper Crust is such a big deal up here. It’s just not that good.

Until I found Hot Tomatoes in the North End. If it wasn’t a Lenten Friday, I probably would never have even glanced at this place. But it was such a day and the picture of their “forget-me-knots” on their website looked too good to pass it up. So my girlfriends and I wondered the North End until we found the little side street that Hot Tomatoes calls home.

In many ways, it fit my idea of a classic pizzeria: a tiny hole-in-the-wall, neighborhood joint. Specials were hand-written on a chalkboard. There were tables—complete with checkerboard tablecloths—and seats enough for five small parties and only one person taking orders. A party of five—dominated by three children under the age of 10—held court in one corner of the dining room when we walked in the door; even though they were done eating. The toddler left more of her dinner on her high chair, the table and the floor—individually—than in her stomach or, quite surprisingly, on her clothes. The two adults were too enamored with the forget-me-nots to notice. A couple took over a table clearly meant for six people even though a table for two was available. Every other table was filled. So my three friends and I stood in the middle aisle by the door waiting for the children to get their things together and, yes, we were often in the way of people picking up their phoned in orders. So we stood for nearly twenty minutes. If the food wasn’t absolutely delicious, I was ready to rampage.

One major way it didn’t fit my ideal: No rice balls.

Luckily, the food we were served was amazing (and affordable!). FIrst course: garlic forget-me-knots and creamy tomato soup. Entree: "The Whitey" (pizza). Dessert: more garlic forget-me-knots.

The garlic “forget-me-knots” tasted better than they looked in the pictures and we ended up with four orders before the night was through. A perfectly crispy outer layer covered with just the right amount of garlic and olive oil surrounded a chewy, soul-satisfying inside; so fresh from the oven that steam cascaded from our mouths with each first bite. The creamy tomato soup danced delightfully on my taste buds when paired with the knots. This was especially surprising because I don’t normally like tomato soup; even as a condiment.

Since none of us could eat meat—being good Catholics and all—we decided to split “The Whitey:” a white pie with a perfect ratio of handmade ricotta to mozzarella finished with olive oil, spinach and fresh herbs. The crust was thin and crispy with just the right amount of char. The combined toppings were, as a result of respectful handling, creamy and light. As long as pizzerias are inspired by Whitey Bulger to make delicious pizzas, I’m content with his continued elusion of the FBI.

Here goes nothing...

Hello. Hi. I guess this is where I introduce myself and explain the inspiration/purpose of this venture. The funny thing is I have no idea where to begin.

Let’s start with the title. “More is not enough” makes me sound like a glutton or a James Bond villain or both. But I am neither—even though I would love to be 007 baddie. It is, however, the way I want to live my life. That’s probably why I fell in love with those words as the title for this: my first grown-up blog.

Beyond that, I am twenty-four years old—dreading twenty-five; unemployed—dreading my next job; and single—dreading another relationship. After learning just these basic facts, is it any surprise that I am in the midst of the all-too cliché yet all-too ubiquitous quarter-life crisis.

Yet, irony is also ever-present: I am happier in my present state than most of my friends are and I was in the employed state.

And, for now, that is just enough... 

But there will definitely be more.