“roaring twenties.”
st. germain cocktail: st. germain, champagne, lemon twist.
On Sunday, I exited my apartment building into a sweltering early afternoon, taking in the summer sun and heat that had thankfully returned to us. My hair was adorned with a feather; my clothes mixed plaid and stripes. A few blocks later, two friends and I stepped aboard a ferry: they wore black and ruffles, oversized earrings, statement headbands of peacock feathers and shine. We had all painted our lips a deep red.
The steamy August day marked my first trip to the automobile-free Governors Island. It is not quite a tourist ground like those other islands south of Manhattan, and it is not a place for dwelling like Roosevelt or Staten. On the ride across the East River, barely long enough to take in the city view, the passengers were a sight for confused eyes: half dressed in comfortable tourism clothes, American flag stickers fixed to their lapels – a sign of their ticket for the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, and the boat we all shared. The other half, like my friends and I, were playing dress-up, 1920s style.
I wasn’t sure where or when I was as I entered the island’s rectangular green, fencing in a jazz band, a dance floor, a handful of ancient yet sparkling Fords, a few booths peddling cloche hats and cameo rings. I gazed over the expanse, brimming with countless twentysomethings lounging on picnic blankets, elderflower cocktails in hand, picnic baskets strewn to their sides.
It felt like a film set, a time warp, and old-fashioned fun all in one. Men in vests and flat hats led modestly-dressed women onto the dance floor. At one point, there was an actual game of tug-o-war; at another, a parade of period swimsuit-clad “bathing beauties.” The only indication of the modern day came from digital cameras: an occasion such as this begged for photography.
Everyone was drinking, whether they lined up at the makeshift bar for champagne cocktails or pulled bottles of wine from their picnic baskets. No one seemed to mind the 90+ degree heat. We were all too content.
My friends and I lounged at a picnic table later in the afternoon, sipping our second round and discussing just how wonderful this day had been. In the sun, we celebrated the roaring twenties – the twentieth century decade that we never experienced, and this decade of our lives that we are so thrilled to be living.
“local daydreams.”
muesli with almonds, banana, and berries; french press coffee.
I like daydreaming. Perhaps because I don’t sleep enough, so my mind needs another way to flex its imaginative muscles.
I browsed the Union Square Greenmarket this weekend, arriving not soon before the vendors packed up their goods to leave. The timing meant I scored some deals: a bag of 6 bell peppers for $2; 3.5 pints of berries for $8. [I ruined the savings when I went wild at the sight of heirloom tomatoes, but that's not the point here.]
As I strolled from stand to stand, choosing produce at its height – peaches, plums, purslane – I thought how nice it would be to purchase all my groceries here, week after week. Not only the fruits and the vegetables, but the local eggs and the whole milk yogurt and the hand-crafted breads.
I envisioned myself with my reusable totes, nearly all of which have been “borrowed” from my mom’s stash, piling everything fresh and local into their folds. I’d ignore the reality that my Asian grocer sells half the items for less of a price, and I’d revel instead in my knowledge of how delicious in season goods taste.
As I prepared this breakfast, the result of an invasion of berries on my refrigerator’s bottom shelf, I couldn’t help but mull this fantasy. I do visit farmers markets, but certainly not for every item I buy each week. That concept is an ideal – perhaps the ideal, where each and every one of us would only eat what was made available by the farmers in our city and the time of the year.
I know the ideal is only a daydream. My adoration for dining and desire to share meals with friends and acquaintances inevitably puts me in the realm of non-farm-fresh food. But I do my best, and I continue to become more attached to my local daydreams.
I figure: if I never had a thing to dream about, to strive for, life wouldn’t be nearly as interesting.
♦♦♦
berry breakfast muesli
- ½ c rolled oats
- ¼ c raw almonds
- 1 t cinnamon
- ½ t vanilla extract
- ¼ c plain yogurt
- ½ c soy milk, divided
- 1 banana, sliced
- as many berries as your heart desires
Mix together oats, almonds, cinnamon, vanilla, yogurt, and ¼ c soy milk. Soak in fridge overnight. In morning, add remaining soy milk and stir well. Add banana and berries. Best enjoyed with strong coffee alongside.
“al fresco.”
crab crusted halibut with braised artichoke hearts, shaved asparagus, spring pea and citrus vinaigrette; cheddar-bacon biscuit and joel gott cabernet sauvignon in the background.
I think I’d eat every meal outside, if I could. Under the stars, in the sun, feeling the breeze, watching crowds walk or stand or run by. [I suppose this is in a world where it is a perpetual summer. No one likes to eat outside in the cold.]
Perhaps the affinity for food al fresco is due to the endless memory I associate with it.
There was my first outdoor dining experience – in Maine, of course – when my parents and the parents of our close family friends deemed we children old enough to dine alone. We walked triumphantly to the center of that safe little town, perched ourselves on the raised porch of La Pizzeria, and ordered slices of cheese pizza. My cousin doused his triangle in half the container of parmesan cheese, and we four chowed together in the sun, in summer, in a first taste of independence.
There was picnicking in high school, in the park behind a good friend’s house, where we carried chocolate chip cookies and buttered popcorn onto the grass, eventually forgetting the food to pelt each other with water balloons. Khaki shorts and braided hair dripping, we felt nothing but carefree: in our teens, but still young.
There was the first – of many – sidewalk meals in Europe. Visiting a close friend in Parisian October, we settled on a table in the Latin Quarter, sipping wine at 19 years old for the pure enjoyment of accompanying dinner with some red. The menu was devoid of English, and so I ordered my crepe half blind. I do recall that I recognized the words for “chocolate mousse” later in that meal. The air felt unseasonably warm that night. I felt older.
There were afternoons spent with my fashion editor boss, when we’d break for twenty minutes, simultaneously exhausted and invigorated by hours of lugging Ikea bags stuffed with Miu Miu and Dior and a little H&M across Prague’s center. We would sit outside in coats at Coffee Heaven, the Eastern European version of Starbucks, and she would smoke her brown cigarette, and I would sip an Americano, skipping lunch.
And then, there was last Friday night at Cafeteria, passed with my sister to celebrate the end of a work week and to share a few moments together outside our apartment walls. We honored our family mantra of experiencing the restaurant, and so we sat outside, as half of Cafeteria’s space exists on the sidewalk of Seventh Avenue. A bottle of Napa cabernet between us, we shared our food, cleaned our plates, and occupied our table far past sunset.
I always seem to remember al fresco meals just a little bit better than others, as though I am really in the world, rather than hidden inside four walls.
“electricity.”
flight #3: california zinfandels times three.
There is an electric violin on stage. It is red, small, angular. Holding it in the air is a rather thin, lanky Asian woman, owning her rebel ‘tude with a black slip dress and gothic hair that falls into her eyes. She is racing her bow across her instrument like a criminal sprinting out prison doors.
She is also smiling. So am I.
There are twelve wine glasses on my table. Across its two-foot width sits my friend Danielle, swirling pour number three of flight number one: the first red of the evening. We don’t know the other two people around our four-top, but we are sitting together and sharing this cramped space. The man to my right is white-haired and husky-voiced; the woman accompanying him must be half his age. We learn she is a fashion designer. We’re not sure how they came to be here, together.
There are other musicians on stage: guitars, drums. Sometimes one man sings; sometimes the violinist harmonizes with her voice. The music is loud: it fills the cavernous space, it bounces from tall glass to tall glass.
Three sets and nine generous pours go by. The electricity is pulsing everywhere: in the band onstage, in the crowd’s applause, in my head as yet another sip of wine passes my lips. A flatbread, full of spinach, sundried tomatoes, and ricotta, eventually becomes an 11PM necessity. I should mention: it is Tuesday.
This is the life stimulation I crave. The work day behind me didn’t matter; neither did the yoga class the next morning. I simply lived in a moment, brimming with wine and sound and friendship and food and life.
City Winery: I hope to return to you soon.
“urban/suburban.”
roasted baby potatoes with tarragon-dijon pesto; big salad of kale, heirlooms, zucchini, cannellini beans, mustard vinaigrette.
I realized recently that this week marks my seven year anniversary of officially moving to the city. While those years have been interrupted by college summers back in suburbia, semesters abroad, and my post-collegiate year in Central Europe, New York has been my answer to “Where are you from?” for several years now.
I knew from the age of nine that I wanted to pick up the old family roots in the city. There is little about my suburban upbringing that I’ve ever found enticing: the necessity of cars, the uniform clothing, the lack of art, the mediocre chain restaurants. I need to be in a place where I can wear a flowered skirt with a studded belt and rain boots without attracting stares of confusion. And so, I live in New York.
Last weekend, however, brought me to suburbia. Sitting over breakfast at my mom’s Connecticut kitchen table, the surface hidden under countless Bon Appetits as we discussed cooking plans for Rosh Hashanah, Mom and I got to talking about tarragon.
You see, she had some in her refrigerator, sharing space in a small bag with dill, thyme, and basil. She had picked it from her neighbor’s garden – a neighbor who told her, “Judy, feel free to walk over and take herbs for yourself whenever you’d like.”
That concept is so sweet and suburban.
Here in my urban apartment, my knowledge of my neighbors is minimal. The morning yapping – wailing, really – of the dog next door has clued me in to the existence of their pet. The 2 AM laughter seeping through my bedroom vent has given me an unfortunate awareness of the two girls upstairs. But I don’t know their names, and I can’t identify their faces.
Filling my grocery basket with weekly produce last Sunday, I felt inspired to purchase some tarragon. My ounce of the herb had no neighborly tale behind it. It was not home-grown, not even from a farmers market. It came in a package, sold to me by one of the city’s many Asian grocers in a twenty-four hour supermarket.
I’d guess my mom’s local tarragon tasted better than mine. But that is a concession I make in my urban life: I trade fresh air and gardening space for public parks and produce that must be purchased, not home-grown. [Of course, we have countless farmers markets to fill that void.]
Still, I got my herb, transformed by food processor and oil into my favorite summer condiment. Someday, in the apartment that I will own, I will have a terrace, and it will house a few potted plants. Basil, oregano, perhaps one stalk of tomatoes. And tarragon, I think, for a little something interesting.
♦♦♦
tarragon-dijon pesto
- ~1 ounce fresh tarragon
- 1/4 c flax oil [a similarly nutty oil, like walnut or sunflower would substitute nicely]
- 1/4 c walnuts
- juice of half a lemon
- 1 clove garlic, minced
- 1/4 t sea salt
- pepper to taste
Blend all ingredients in a food processor.
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about. thank you for visiting the whole plate! i'm leslie, and this blog is my way of navigating twentysomething life one meal at a time. i usually require a glass of wine alongside.
questions? comments? email me: thewholeplateblog@gmail.com
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