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 [...]]]> “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.

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: [...]]]> “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.

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 [...]]]> “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.

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 [...]]]> “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.

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 [...]]]> “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.

kale and millet tossed in flax oil, lemon juice, and sea salt; topped by bell pepper, portobello mushroom, heirloom tomato, chickpeas, pumpkin seeds, avocado, sundried tomatoes, tarragon pesto.

As someone to whom aesthetics mean an awful lot, I am not exactly the neatest person.   Mentally, I am an organizational machine.  Outwardly, I [...]]]> “mish mosh.”

kale and millet tossed in flax oil, lemon juice, and sea salt; topped by bell pepper, portobello mushroom, heirloom tomato, chickpeas, pumpkin seeds, avocado, sundried tomatoes, tarragon pesto.

As someone to whom aesthetics mean an awful lot, I am not exactly the neatest person.   Mentally, I am an organizational machine.  Outwardly, I like to think I look put together.  But.

I carry a bottomless pit of a purse, a well of crumpled receipts and pens I thought I lost long ago.  Making my bed is a task I have found arduous since pre-adolescence: I do it, and yet, I find it immensely irritating to pretty up a mattress that will only be disturbed the next time I lay eyes on it.  My clothes tend to spend an equal amount of time on their wire hangers as they do slung across my bedroom chair.  [This is the chair that perhaps you know: the one that seemed a nice complement to your room's decor but serves no actual function, and as a result, it becomes an extension of your closet.]

Then there’s lunch.  Though I prefer to view food in a mindful manner, somehow lunch tends to miss out.  Typically, my midday meal is a haphazard tupperware affair.

It’s rather formulaic, a predictable blend of my favorite leafy greens [kale has my heart], a grain, a legume, a nut or a seed, a medley of vegetables, and plenty of [always homemade] dressing.  I treat the tupperware to fun garnishes, like avocado and hummus and pesto, depending on what is on hand.  I pack it into a container three sizes too small for the amount of  food involved, and then I play the squishing game, forcing the cover to close.

Thrown together as it always is, lunch can seem quite the mess.  It is eaten at my desk, computer screen in front, notepad to one side, papers full of numbers and words to the other.  The meal may be disorderly, but its components are simple.  In this setting, that is all I really need.

Like my cluttered dressers and messy bed, I don’t mind the lunch mess.  The disarray satisfies my hunger.  It is whole and real and healthy.  It is colorful, which makes me smile.  It always leaves me content, and it saves me a heck of a lot of money.

Messes and mish moshes always have their place.  I’m looking forward to the one waiting for me today.

blackberry gingersnap mini ice cream cone, followed by mini scoops of 99% dark chocolate, duck egg, beet, bourbon-vanilla-sea-salt-caramel, and sweet corn.

When I was a little kid, age in the single digits, I loved dolls. It started with those squeezable characters in the cabbage patch, and it moved to [...]]]> “doll-sized.”

blackberry gingersnap mini ice cream cone, followed by mini scoops of 99% dark chocolate, duck egg, beet, bourbon-vanilla-sea-salt-caramel, and sweet corn.

When I was a little kid, age in the single digits, I loved dolls. It started with those squeezable characters in the cabbage patch, and it moved to the palm-sized girls of the Wish World.  Eventually, I made my way to the real deal, the doll on the dream list of every female child born in the eighties: an American Girl.

Back when there were just five versions of these expensive toys, I begged for Samantha, “the Victorian beauty.”  Straight A’s for an entire second grade school year finally brought her home to my arms, and immediately, I fell in love.

I played with Samantha every day.  I saved every penny of my allowance for her clothes.  Every birthday, every Chanukkah, I asked for an accessory: her bed, her nightstand, her schoolbooks.  I had outfits that could take her from a 1915 sailboat to a 1995 ice rink.  I changed her shoes; I brushed her hair; I gave her imaginary friends.

I loved that doll so much that I eventually had to mail her to the Pleasant Company Doll Hospital when her head fell off.  [Yes, really.  She came home in a hospital gown with an admittance bracelet and "get well soon" balloon.]

During the long doll phase, my eyes were trained to scope out and spot miniature accoutrements of all kinds.  Though I kept a tidy list of items I liked from the American Girl catalogue, I didn’t discriminate against other appropriately-sized accessories without the logo attached.  Samantha got vintage toothpaste and band-aids from my mom’s childhood drugstore set; she had a little car courtesy of my grandfather’s toy trucks.

As I outgrew hours of pretending, Samantha moved to a neat box under my twin bed.  Yet from preteen to twentysomething, the affinity for the doll-sized has remained.  Perhaps it’s one way in which I refuse to ever grow up: I believe I’d be as happy now as I would have been then to browse the Fifth Avenue American Girl shop.

And perhaps that’s why I found myself drawn to a new event this past Sunday, a dessert interruption on an errand-filled afternoon that took me right back to those days of the dolls.  The distraction: an ice cream tasting at the New Amsterdam Market, a new find I am thrilled to have discovered.  Of the many vendors offering samples that day – wine tasting, hard cider tasting, cheese tasting, bread tasting – the ice cream mattered the most.

Like a trip back to childhood, my companions and I were treated to six tiny scoops in six tiny cones.  The late August humidity melted the cream fast, and so we found ourselves gripping cones fit for my Samantha, artisan ice cream  dripping down our adult hands and tongues licking up every last bit.  [Napkins were nowhere to be found.]

We ate our ice cream with the zeal my childhood self would have – it is one of the few foods I have loved since those doll-playing days.  And yet, the event was decidedly for adults – after all, as an adolescent, my nose turned up even at vanilla [I ate only one flavor: chocolate, plain and simple].  Here, vanilla would have been out of place, as we were treated to vegetable flavors like beet and sweet corn, spice infusions like sea salt and pepper, and pure craziness like hay and duck egg [I tried both, obviously].

I often get caught up in my adult life: the wine, the late nights, the fancy food, the independence.  But after the most grown-up of evenings – playing the role of maid of honor, making a champagne toast on my friend’s wedding day – an hour of sticky fingers and childhood dessert was just the balance I needed.  Too bad my dolls never got mini cones of their own.

platters of vegetables: grilled eggplant, mozzarella, and tuscan salsa; grilled zucchini and yellow squash with rosemary oil; grilled portobello mushrooms with roasted peppers, wilted spinach, and balsamic reduction.

On Saturday, one of my closest friends got married.

Of course, there was an abundance of food at the wedding, all lovely, fresh, and flavorful [...]]]> “when the plate doesn’t matter.”

platters of vegetables: grilled eggplant, mozzarella, and tuscan salsa; grilled zucchini and yellow squash with rosemary oil; grilled portobello mushrooms with roasted peppers, wilted spinach, and balsamic reduction.

On Saturday, one of my closest friends got married.

Of course, there was an abundance of food at the wedding, all lovely, fresh, and flavorful – a nice surprise considering typical fare at gatherings such as these.  Truthfully though, I didn’t think much about my plate.

Before we walked down the mansion’s striking staircase and through the grass that made up the aisle, we in the wedding party were upstairs, readying ourselves in the bridal suite.  Family and friends, we painted deep merlot onto our lips and brushed peach across our cheeks.  We sipped champagne, tied up matching bows across our waists, gushed as women tend to do.  Flashes went off here and there, and for every photo taken, a smile never seemed forced: there was too much excitement, too much joy in that room.

My dad, who was in attendance, often comments that he doesn’t tend to eat much at catered affairs.  Personally, I was distracted.

There was the grandeur of the house: the parlor with its old piano, the pure white of the wraparound porch, the statement made by the central stairs.  There was the atmosphere, set by the sounds of 1940s tunes, the quotes recalling classic films – Casablanca, It’s a Wonderful Life, The Hucksters – adorning every chair, the white wine glasses clinking over and over again.  There was the beam of the groom as the bride walked to meet him.  There was the glow – and it was a real glow – of the bride.

Nearing my 25th birthday, I am not looking for marriage.  But then I think: neither was Laura, and there I was, giving her one last hug before she walked out and said, “I do.”  Life catches you by surprise.

As I filled my dinner plate, after pictures had been taken, toasts had been given, first dance had been completed, I thought once that the food certainly looked wonderful.  But when you’re mulling this new adult adventure, the one that is setting the stage for the rest of a best friend’s life – well, the food on the plate becomes a little insignificant.  So I ate for a short time, my thoughts and attention focused elsewhere.  There was so much other beauty to take in.

salad of kale, young coconut meat, cucumber, arame, basil.  dressed in olive oil, agave, sea salt, pepper.

For some sad reason, most people don’t seem to think coconuts are worth the effort.

I admit, they are intimidating.  They appear rock solid.  They require not only a rather enormous knife to pierce, but also enough skill [...]]]> “making the effort.”

salad of kale, young coconut meat, cucumber, arame, basil.  dressed in olive oil, agave, sea salt, pepper.

For some sad reason, most people don’t seem to think coconuts are worth the effort.

I admit, they are intimidating.  They appear rock solid.  They require not only a rather enormous knife to pierce, but also enough skill to wield that knife with with several sharp blows.  They kind of seem to taunt us with their perfectly pointy tops.

But sometimes, the best food requires a little extra effort.  Fresh beans have to be painstakingly shelled; a great soup has to simmer all afternoon.  Fresh coconuts need to be beaten and hacked.

I don’t let this additional time and exertion phase me, which is a mindset I think I acquired in yoga.  My teacher on Tuesday morning had us doing handstand prep [basically, where you make an L-shape with your body, feet on the wall, hands on the mat.  I legitimately suck at this.].  He reminded us to focus on our intention.

In yoga, you set an intention at the beginning of each class. It can be anything, any reason you might have for making it to the studio that day, unrolling your mat, working out your mind and body.  I don’t pretend to have dramatic insights as I mull an intention – some days I think deeply about why I am there, while others my intention is simply to sweat.  I think sweat is a fine intention, because it is an action that makes me feel good.

When you’re laying on a mat – an hour of practice behind you, breath quivering in your chest, heart rate high but steady, body warm – and your instructor calls out a tough pose, there is always a choice.  You can say, “No, I’ve had enough.  Give me child’s pose.”  [I do this sometimes.]  Or, you can muster the energy from wherever it comes and surprise yourself.  You can say, “Yes, I will try.”  When you are able to do so, the feeling of accomplishment is rather special.

That is how I felt about this salad.  I saw the coconut on the shelf at Whole Foods and decided it was a task I could face.  Though I knew I would have to work a little harder to get it onto my plate, I made the choice, because I knew the end result would be worth it.

It was a treat, really, and all the more satisfying because of the effort involved.  I imagine on that future day when I find myself upside down in yoga, supported by my arm strength in a handstand, I will feel much the same way.