Clap If You Believe in Donuts!

Inspired by Bitch Cake's wonderful blog that shares her love of Greenpoint, Brooklyn, a new friend and I made our way to Peter Pan Bakery yesterday. Unfortunately, our timing put us there after church had let out, and the racks were all but cleaned out. Greenpoint has a large Polish population and according to my friend J., who grew up in mostly-Polish Detroit, post-church Poles are like donut locusts. Church, Then Donuts; that's the ritual. Who knew? I had been looking forward to racks full of pastel icing and sprinkles and so many to choose from! and it was not to be. Still, there were two Red Velvet Donuts left [see above; again, who knew?!] and one sour cream old-fashioned to share, and they were awesome. I'll come back! 

Measuring my life in espresso spoons

I wanted to do something fun after my trapeze lesson so I stopped into the nearby Stumptown Roasters café at the Ace Hotel and enjoyed a tiny, precious macchiatto made by a cute young hipster dressed like a dandy. It's been fun seeing (and tasting) how people make espresso drinks now that i know how to make them myself. Stumptown takes their beans oh-so seriously and this guy was a craftsman; he may have been friendly, but his product was all snobby artisan. Now, I always do my best as a barista (my colleagues recently named me Most Improved Foamer!) but my efforts are not nearly so highfalutin: If Stumptown beverages are like coddled Italian Greyhounds, mine are like big dumb yellow Labs. But both have their appeal! 

Meanwhile, that twee little cuppa blew a caffeine shotgun blast right through my sternum. Shazam!!

That coffee is for me, by the way

I'm about three months late on this but it was fun making a Mad Men avatar this morning. 

I've never seen even one episode, but I like the samba playing on the site. 

Dude, I'm so Baked

It's funny how your life can change. A few weeks ago I was looking around in Dean and Deluca, and deciding I wanted a treat, I randomly picked up a  "Sweet and Salty" brownie. I don't usually go for a brownie, but it seemed interesting and cost as much as I wanted to pay. I didn't even look at who made it, I just stuck it in my purse and took it home. 

And then. 

Oh, sweet Jesus, the goodness. Having had this brownie, I will never be the same. I'm a fan of chocolatey/salty from way back before Obama made it so and I was eating a perfectly-textured combination of rich, fudgy and tangy. Now I was interested in the label: it was made by Baked, and a quick google search told me they were in Red Hook, Brooklyn. 

Thus, a field trip was born. How was I going to get there and what was I going to have? 

I went on late morning Tuesday, to beat the crowds and because I can. I had an open mind, but I really wanted to try a cupcake, maybe that same Sweet and Salty, maybe the Malted. My recent trip to Cake Man Raven was holding me for Red Velvet, so I would leave that alone. I took the F train to Smith St./9th and took the B77 bus from there. I got off the bus prematurely when we got to Van Brunt St., but the bus drops you right across the street. Look in the right window, you can see my reflection, in the blue coat. Hi!

It was full but not crowded, and everything they had displayed looked delicious. The young man working behind the counter was extremely friendly, I told him I wanted a cupcake and he walked my through my options. From left to right: Sweet and Salty, Aunt Suzie's pistachio, Malted, chocolate with vanilla buttercream [back], chocolate with chocolate buttercream, Red Velvet, vanilla with chocolate buttercream, vanilla with vanilla buttercream. 

He was very enthusiastic about the Sweet and Salty, and of course that was the combo that had brought me here in the first place, so that's what I chose, with a regular coffee. The cute plate was a nice touch:

Yeah, it was stupidly, head-rollingly good. Moist cake with a pleasantly crunchy crust, a salty ganache center, and frosting that was lightly whipped but densely flavored. It packed a punch but was petite enough to encourage seconds; I gave serious thought to a Malted, but erred on the side of the better health choice. Not a problem, I'll definitely be back. 

Ch ch ch, wah wah wah

Jason, we hardly knew ye. I'm sure I'll watch at least five minutes of at least one of these movies today. 

Red Shoes, red hots

I went to see the restored print of The Red Shoes this afternoon 

with a bag of red hot candies in my purse.

Mo' Brooklyn

I've got the time to explore, I'm taking it. Today I walked over the Williamsburg bridge for the first time. 

After my trapeze lesson [that's another post] I took the L to Williamsburg, walked over to Caracas Arepa Bar, [I've been dying to try this place but the East Village location is tiny and usually packed, last time I tried to get in the hostess was a jackass and it put me off trying for awhile. The Brooklyn location is definitely better.] had a delicious lunch and chatted with the friendly waitstaff. The guy behind the bar gave me directions to the bridge, he said he went over almost every day on his bike or skates, with his Venezuelan accent this sounded like "back or skets." I found it easily and had an extremely pleasant stroll over to the Lower East Side. 

Arepa, with beef, beans, cheese, and plantains. Delicious! 

Heading across: 

Manhattan side view: 

Brooklyn/Jersey side view: 

Back home! Great day! 

Brooklyn from 6 to 9

I went out to BAM last night to see the 1962 Agnès Varda film Cleo from 5 to 7. A few weeks ago, on a friend's recommendation, I'd seen Big Dance Theater's Comme Toujours Here I Stand, which was based on the movie, so I was excited to see the original. 

The story is simple: a beautiful but vain and spoiled singer travels around Paris for 2 hours while she waits for hospital test results that will tell her if she has cancer. There are fabulous costume changes and kittens and singing and a bedroom swing, but ultimately it's about mortality and living in the present. I loved it. 

Traveling around Fort Greene in my own present, I got my BAM ticket early then paid a visit to a new independent bookstore that opened recently in the area, Greenlight Bookstore. It was clean and very well-lighted place, beautifully stocked with friendly staff, and I had a happy browse. 

My next stop was to Cake Man Raven to sample his famous red velvet cake. I thought I'd eat my sweet while I watched the movie, but it was too crowded to publicly chow on such a large wedge comfortably. Really, it's a huge piece, my seat neighbors did not need to see or smell me working on this:

I had a few bites before I went in [and texted my friend J. a review: "delicious!"] and then saved the rest for home. I gobbled up half—total yum—then dumped the leftovers. It was a gift to myself for that night only. 

Lattes of love

I am procrastinating about working on a post about my first 6 months of unemployment. Please stand by.

 

Because it would feel negligent to not use at least some of my now-copious free time for good, I've started volunteering at the Housing Works Bookstore. I'm a barista in the café for four hours a week, a pretty glamourous gig as far as free work goes. I've been taught how to use their old espresso machine [I call it Fredo], I'm working on improving my foaming technique and not scalding myself repeatedly. Every time I make a customer a cappuccino and they don't spit it out, it's a victory. 

I like the customers. The bookstore itself is a charitable organization, the books are all donated and the staff is almost entirely by volunteer. Thus, visitors to the café are generally pretty chill, relaxed about services and product rendered. We're in Soho but we're not in "Soho," and everyone who comes to my counter seems to understand that. Of course I'll give them my best, but for me, the relaxed vibe presents the opportunity for a more social interaction. Remember in The Wrestler when Mickey Rourke goes to work in the supermarket deli and he just comes back to life being around people again? He flirts with the old ladies and makes football jokes with the guys, being in service gets his light shining again. 

That's me in the café. It's so fun to play with people and flirt and make them happy. I haven't become a hermit since i've been out of work but I've missed how much I can shine when I'm working with others, when I can perform a service and make someone smile. Here bubbie, have a brownie, we just made them. Let me bring your espresso to you, sir. The Wifi password today is "danceparty." I've started wearing red lipstick for my shift, it makes me feel that much yummier, and for four hours I can be a lush and happy dispenser of sweets. I'm doing good, and it's doing good for me. 

Wasting money

I bought a large tea with milk and sugar for $1.50 from the bodega across the street even though i have tea bags at home, because it tastes better with whole milk and because i wanted to have it made for me. 

*Eye roll*

Pizza, due

I was close enough to Artichoke this morning and I went back for the margherita slice. There was a line this time and it was fun, I enjoyed everyone's enthusiasm and how something so simple felt like an event. The pizza itself was good, but unremarkable; unlike the dip slice, is not worth making a special trip for. My heart still belongs to my local, Sacco. 

Okey Dokey Artichokey

Finally got down to Artichoke for the spinach & artichoke slice my friend S. has been going on about for weeks. He knows i love spinach artichoke dip and he claimed it was just that, on pizza dough. And it was! Mine wasn't as gooey as the pic shown above, the crust was actually more well done than I like. Still, delicious, and vaguely obscene, like having ice cream for your meal instead of dessert. So rich that it feels a little naughty. 

Of course the guy pulled a fresh pie out the minute I'd finished gobbling my slice down, it looked outrageous but no could do, too heavy on mah belly for a double. I'll be back—was worth a special trip, and I need to try the margherita. 

RIP, Irving Penn

This week's second devastating loss. I loved his work like I loved my Nano, but longer. 

About 15 years ago I wrote him a fan letter, I bought special paper at Kate's for the task: heavy and translucent with silvery stars. Dreamy paper for my dreamy words. I was embarrassed, but I was afraid he would die and I'd regret not doing it; I never heard back but now, I don't regret it at all. In 1997 I flew to Chicago to see his work at the Art Institute, the first time I would travel for art. 

Rest in peace, sir. I'll really miss you. 

[shown above: Truman Capote, New York, 1965]

Be Here Now

I've started a meditation practice this week. I figure learning how to be present and grounded in the moment can come in handy now, when I'm prone to making terrifying mental leaps to a bleak, impoverished future. I've made a few feeble attempts at meditation in the past but couldn't ever seem to quiet the jibbering thoughts the Buddhists call "monkey mind" and the physical fidgets that would set in within what felt like the first minute. But I'm feeling really tolerant of myself lately, squishy and open to new experiences and feelings, and I feel comfortable finding my own way to just sit there. That's all it is, really—just sitting there. I went to an intro "class" at a local meditation center this weekend and I felt frustrated by how goal-oriented my fellow sitters were, overly concerned about how they should do it and what was supposed to happen. I felt like they were missing the point entirely: you're just sitting there, present in the moment. That's all that happens. Does it really matter if your eyes are open or closed, or where your hands are? It's not mattering to me right now. I sit up straight and make myself comfortable, close my eyes and Just. Sit. There. For 15 minutes, I let my stomach hang out, breathe through my nose, and remind myself that I'm right there on that pillow. Grounded like a tree, there and then, totally tolerant of whatever happens. I give myself gentle corrections when my thoughts zip off into the future or the past, I try to ignore the passing of minutes and my dog who sits up in front of me, mirroring my posture, wanting my attention. I'm just sitting there, and when I'm done, I feel quiet, relaxed, and gifted. I gave myself 15 minutes in the moment. I hope with continued practice I can give myself more, that I'll learn to tolerate more. 

But that's jumping ahead. 

RIP, Nano

My Ipod died today.

It was nearly 4 years old, i got it as a Christmas gift about 3 weeks after i'd started at Women's Health. I remember thinking this must be a pretty good place to work if they were dispensing such generous, cool gifts. I was seeing someone new and I already had an Ipod, so i made a generous, cool gesture and offered it to my beau. He turned me down, and much later he confessed that it had made him uncomfortable, was too much too soon. So I kept it, good thing, because i eventually lost the other one on a trip to Mexico City. I got a lot of use from it, and a lot of good memories: walking to work, laughing out loud from podcasts of This American Life; all the times i danced to myself, sometimes quietly, sometimes less quietly, always joyfully; all the times i hit play/repeat/play/repeat for songs that i loved; after i lost my job when i laid on the floor of the gym and sobbed out of fear and defeat, courtesy of "Eye of the Tiger." I loved that little 2GB. 

When it couldn't be resuscitated, when ITunes claimed it no longer recognized it, when it fritzed and blinked repeatedly through a cycle of nonsense messages before fading back out, I knew it was time to let go. I took it out of my apartment, thanked it, kissed it, and sent it down the garbage chute. Be well in your next life, tiny one. 

After a proper and respectful mourning period, I'll be ready to move on. Maybe to a shiny new blue one.

Furniture, or "Where Am I?"

I'm in the chair by the window, it's a 50's-style square-shaped club chair with an ottoman, the colors of the two pieces don't match because the ottoman was sold out in the same shade and since they were both supremely on sale I told myself non-matching but complimentary colors would work just fine. The chair is a light gray-blue, it came from a Crate and Barrel set with the sofa. The ottoman is charcoal gray and that they're not the same color is very flattering, actually. A good choice on my part. I got all these pieces last summer, the first "real" pieces of large furniture I've ever bought. I had an old sleeper sofa and love seat that were handed down from friends of my parents when i moved into this apartment, i kept them covered with chenille throws to hide where the off-white fabric became grubby but when the sofa started springing holes it was time for an upgrade. 

Despite the fact that i had overnight guests once a year at most, i liked having that pullout option so i looked online for sleeper couches like the one i had. They were all boring or too expensive but i didn't imagine myself as someone who had more unique furniture, I live in a small space and wanted something that blended in, not something i had to redesign around. I'm not creative like that. But during a visit to Chicago, I asked my friend Jennifer if we could look in the Crate and Barrel we were passing on Michigan Avenue, I saw my swingy new pieces there live for the first time. Not a sleeper! Modern cut! And light blue!!! Could I go there? Could I be that person? We looked at some of the dowdy alternatives i'd checked out on their website but we were pulled back to club land. So much more fun! My friend had couch envy, even! And that was that, I came home and ordered them up, made my non-matching decision and then my new furniture, my new chapter, was on their way. 

But what to do with the old pieces? I don't live in the suburbs, where my husband would drag the items to the curb for a friendly garbage man to tote away. If I could even get my super to help me drag the sleeper and the love seat downstairs, there's no guarantee they'd get picked up: they could become a rotting eyesore on the sidewalk and my super could get fined. The Salvation Army pickup truck had a too-long wait list and wouldn't take the sleeper for fear of potential bedbug threat [I wonder if this happens in the suburbs]. After calling and being rejected by several other charitable organizations—which infuriated me, I'm trying to help here!—I finally paid some guy named José $200 cash to just get that shit out of my apartment. He was just leaving when the elves from Crate and Barrel flew in, did they bit of assembly, and ta dah! New furniture! New life! 

I could see immediately I would need a new coffee table. That came the following week, also from Crate and Barrel. Dark wood with curved legs and a shelf underneath, very sturdy, very adult. I managed to drag my old shite Ikea one to the curb where, according to my doorman, it was hauled away by some guy in less than 10 minutes. 

I think I can, I think I can...

I'm having a hard time committing to this writing practice. Making new posts feels satisfying and righteous and productive—but I'm not doing it. Why not? I open a new page and all that comes out is little personal burps about my day that are better suited for a written diary or my more facile online journal. When I'm not looking for work I spend too much time reading others' online journals, and then Facebook, and then Twitter and then blah blah blah the day has passed and the summer has passed it feels like I've got nothing concrete to show for it. 

Well, fall is here—for real!—and I'm making a concerted effort to take myself back to school. I've pulled down Julia Cameron's The Right to Write from the shelf, and I'm opening myself to writing exercises and memory recollection and whatever have you. I'm going to hold the critic and the editor back and let it flow. It's the effort that matters and it will—just as long as, as my friend Jill would say, I'm banging the keys. 

Remembering Caroline

I'm communing with the late Caroline Knapp today. I've pulled her books from the shelf [two of them are actually under my alarm clock] and am in my chair by the window rereading my favorite passages from Pack of Two, Appetites, The Merry Recluse, and Drinking, A Love Story. And feeling sad that this incredibly gifted writer died way too young at 42. Her struggles to recover from anorexia and alcoholism become so much more poignant when read knowing what I know, that Death is just ahead. I feel her mortality, and my own, more significantly. Life is short, we must reach out, get help. Though I sympathize with those particular challenges, I can more specifically relate to her questions about loneliness and lifestyle choices: her wonderings about how much time alone is too much, how much love for one's dog is too much, how does one know they're living their life the "right" way, especially when it looks different from everyone else's. These can be painful and confusing feelings and Knapp gave them the most tender and eloquent voice. In sharing her weaknesses she became strong, and I know I'm not the other one who read her work gratefully thinking they'd found a kindred spirit. I know now I'm not the only one, period. I am most thankful for what she was able to articulate while she was with us, and she is much missed. 

Observing silence

This is all I feel like saying today. It's raining, the nation is mourning, and I'm in a mood. 

A Dutch treat

I generally keep pretty well abreast of current museum exhibitions but was pleasantly surprised to be in the Met for today's opening of their Johannes Vermeer show. The Milkmaid, on loan from the Rijksmuseum, is the stunning centerpiece and several other lesser-known but still inspiring works are featured. I first saw this painting when I visited Amsterdam with my mother in 2005—I have the milkmaid's likeness on a refrigerator magnet, my mom got her on a trivet—seeing it again this afternoon made me very happy. It really is an incredible piece in any context, but knowing Vermeer was able to achieve that representation of light and those colors with homemade paint always makes my jaw drop. Totally edible! 

The Vermeers will be at the Met until November 29. 

Valderiiii, valderaaaa

A knapsack on my back!

Did a lot of hiking this summer. I joined the group Outdoor Bound on a few of their day trips, and took several treks with friends who have a car. Said friends and I both have copies of the excellent resource book "60 Hikes Within 60 Miles" and we'd each got a chance to choose the destination.

I love this pic, taken on a 4th of July hike with Outdoor Bound, to Terrace Pond in Wawayanda State Park in New Jersey [that's me in the orange shorts, third from the top]: 

I took the Full Moon Hike with Outdoor Bound, as well as a memorable Hikes and Hounds trip where dogs were included. [Alas, Biscuit is not a hiker, but he was represented with a photo on my pack.]

My friends and I hiked most often on Mondays [free weekdays, yay!], sometimes we took advantage of the prolonged daylight hours and set out later in the afternoon. At my peak I went out four times times in 10 days: the full moon hike [5 miles], Storm King mountain [6 miles], the dog hike [7.5 miles], and the Teatown Lake Reserve [5.5 miles]. After a short vacation, this past Monday we went out to Jenny Jump State Park in New Jersey a walked a very pleasant 5.5-miler. 

It's incredible that you can drive out of Manhattan and an hour or so later be in the deep woods. The ferny greens and craggy outcroppings are transportive and other-worldly, I've been known to repeatedly exclaim “this is very Peter Jackson!” Even when you're watching your feet while scrambling over rocks, it's so soothing, and quiet. Nature sounds instead of city sounds. Green instead of granite. Even when it's really hard, huffing up a steep incline, it's heavenly. Looking forward to more this fall! 

Val-dera-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!

Back from the deep

Yeah yeah, i said i was going to be posting more regularly and I haven't. Late August got right sleepy for job searching so I packed myself and the pup off to the beach until the 31st, best decision ever. Here's my collected daily FB posts from that lovely, lovely time: 

Deep Island Day 1: the watch is off.

Deep Island Day 2: two birds doing call and response outside my window early this morning, sounded like "Secret, Secret, Secret, Secret!" "Cheeseburger, Cheeseburger, Cheeseburger, Cheeseburger!"

Deep Island Day 3: Hurricane Bill is making tumultuous surf. At some point i'll get in there beyond the old lady dip and splash.

Deep Island Day 4: making chocolate lunch cake this afternoon. Will need to diet upon return to the mainland.

Deep Island Day 5: Took my morning coffee Otis Redding-style, sitting on the dock of the bay.

Deep Island Day 6: Going out to dinner tonight, will have to put on shoes.

Deep Island Day 7: Dog and cat have forged a peaceful co-existence. It's all good.

Deep Island Day 8: Aye, storm's a-brewin'. Ominous, dark storm clouds over the bay, but pink, tranquil skies over the ocean. Let's watch.

Deep Island Day 9: Romantic rainy...Friday? It's Friday, right?

Deep Island Day 10: I'd be laughing all the way to the beach if it wasn't raining.

Deep Island Day 11: back in the sarong again.

Deep Island Day 12: Cool morning beach walk under streaky apricot sky. The real world beckons, but not until 5:30.

Happy birthday!

Yesterday it was my birthday

I hung one more year on the line

I should be depressed, my life's a mess

But I'm having a good time

OK, so my birthday was really two days ago. But I think this Paul Simon lyric is incredibly apt—I'm still feeling pretty sunnyside up for someone with no job and no real income. I like to spread my birthday celebration out over several days and this year it was even sweeter for having the free time to have bistro breakfast with a friend one day and an afternoon hike and picnic lunch another. I've stayed late at the beach, gone for afterschool cupcakes, and lingered at Starbuck's, still believing that opportunities lie just ahead. Hope and gratitude are alive and well. 

It's going to be a good year. 

Into the woods

Dig my new flashlight: 

I'm going on a full moon hike tomorrow night and I'm responsible for my own lighting, the small skinny one i keep at home to fish dog toys out from under the bed isn't going to cut it out in the woods. I'm terribly excited, we're going to roast marshmallows—haven't done that in years, I prefer mine just lightly tanned—and we're invited to take a midnight swim. Not sure about the latter: on one hand it would be an incredible tactile experience; on the other, it's just soooooo Friday the 13th. Everyone knows it's the midnight lake swimmers who get it! 

Today's small pleasure

A much-needed pedicure, and Jelly Apple polish. I love when you can't stop admiring your feet. 

Whoopie!

On Wednesdays and Saturdays from May through October a small farmer's market sets up across the street from my apartment. Taking up just one side of one block, [nothing like the scale and grandeur of the Union Square market] it nonetheless has beautiful things and gets a decent amount of traffic, and has become a very enjoyable feature of my community. With my days now free, I like to take Biscuit and my coffee over to sit and people/produce watch; I love how that simple activity feels so lovely and rich: enough, as if it were a day's event. Biscuit putters around nibbling on the grass and I sit, with the sun on my back on a good day, thinking that life is wonderful and I'm the luckiest girl on earth. I don't usually buy much—though last summer i got into a bit of a Boston lettuce habit—I usually just like to soak in the sights and smells. I've become friendly with a woman who works there named Liz; she's usually at the cooking booth, making something with fresh ingredients and sharing the recipes with the passersby. Last Saturday she had peach salsa, today she had a cool pasta primavera, both were delicious. The corn was especially fragrant today, I tried some yellow watermelon, and the Amish dairy farmer had pumpkin whoopie pies—which, as high on life and simple foodie pleasure as I was, I could not pass up. 

Though I was originally struck by the pumpkin I felt it would be negligent to not also try the chocolate, so this sampler was perfect. Both were outstanding [made by Amish farmers, how could they not be? Really!] but the pumpkin was superior, as special and celebratory as I wanted it to be.