The Ties that bind

Friday evening, Big Daughter flew off to Belgrade for a three week visit with her father. Given our recent changes, little one and Carl both took it hard. We have established a smooth routine between our two homes. It's possible that Big Daughter's trip kicked up the realization of the change. She had a hard time at JFK on Friday night. Luckily, she was accompanied by her dog, Gigi. Little one asked why we didn't go to Belgrade as well. Big Daughter's absence hit me on Sunday. It was a wrenching feeling. I kept thinking I would lose my keys and be locked out of the apartment. After awhile, it occurred to me that if this happened, I could call the locksmith. He had recently changed the lock at the E. Village apartment, when we first moved in, (all the while talking about his bird, a cockatoo which is driving him crazy.) Between the holidays, the city feels empty. This morning, when I stopped at Jacques Torres Chocolate at 350 Hudson, on King Street, for a wicked, a spicy hot chocolate, the space felt cavernous and empty. After a while, customers began trickling in. I am slightly bereft, but know that such is the consequence of ties that bind. My friend, Lady E. was reassuring and observed that these are "old" feelings, i.e. evoking the numerous trips that Big Daughter took, when it was just she and I. Saturday, I invited Lady E. to a belated birthday lunch at Saravannas -I should add the Bhavan to its title - at 26th street and Lexington Avenue. It was a nice treat, following several make-up sessions with clients. After missing Lady E.'s surprise birthday, when Big Daughter was in the E.R., Saravanna's fit the bill. Lady E. loved their chai, and the South Indian thali, an assortment of several, spicy, vegetarian offerings arranged circularly on a metal tray. They are centered around a dish of rice, and some papadum. Of course, we also ordered the Mini Tiffin, with a Masala Dosa and some dips. I liked the feeling of home. Despite a huge number of people waiting, we were welcomed, and seated quickly. It's nice to be a regular. Lady E. was interested to hear that the atmosphere -lively Indian families -reminded me of my childhood in Africa. She remembered going to elementary school in Hong Kong with mostly Indian children. I nibbled on all the desserts, and felt content. During this time of transition, comfort is found in old habits. Yesterday, I found solace in visiting the Duane Reade at 2nd Street and Avenue B to buy Hello Kitty band aids, for little one's next mishap. Every customer looked like a member of that band, The Killers. I'm certain it is the hippest Duane Reade in the entire country, including L.A. Courtesy of Santa, little one received a miniature baking set, replete with miniature cookie cutters, shaped like hearts, crescents, four leaf clovers and circles, a baking sheet and a little rolling pin. She was curious about my method of communicating with Santa, and only partially convinced that I did so via email. We made the peanut butter cookie dough on Friday- since those ingredients were at hand -and then chilled the dough. Yesterday, was the appointed day to roll out the dough, cut the shapes and bake the cookies. They actually turned out well. I used some maple-flavored peanut butter from the The Peanut Butter and Company. They are at 240 Sullivan Street, between Bleecker and West Third, in the West Village. I like to eat their peanut butter plain, sometimes before bed, if I skipped dinner. I had bought a five pack of flavored peanut butters at the recent NYC Chocolate Show. Using the Mighty Maple allowed us to skip the sugar, and the little miniature cookies were not overly sweet. Before baking, we took a little trip to Pearl River Trading, my favorite new emporium at 477 Broadway, below Broome, to get a step-stool. Without it, little one couldn't reach the counter in our minuscule East Village kitchen. As we walked through Chinatown, we made sure to get an iced tea at Egg Custard King II, Mott Street between Canal and Bayard, right below Canal. We find the M9 bus to Chatham Square is our easiest option of travel, if little one resists walking. I was able to restrain her from clamoring for additional purchases, despite her admiration of elaborate fountains and intricate stone Buddhas, as we perused the wares on the second floor at Pearl River Trading. She liked seeing the selection of jewelry boxes, from which I chose Big Daughter's Christmas present. We also stopped at the tea room on the 2nd floor balcony, and smelled the different types of tea, but did not partake. On our return trip, we stopped at Saxelby Cheese at the Essex Market, Delancey and Essex, to pick up some sharp cheddar and maple smoked Gouda. Carrying the stool, the Sunday NY Times, the cheese, and some fruit from Chinatown was slightly challenging, but we were still able to stop for a phone card, so we could call Big Daughter, later in the day.

Sugar lollipops, hot chocolate and cold fingers

At times, Christmas feels like a mirage this holiday season. Since yesterday, I've dodged several unsettling moments. Yesterday morning, an introductory meeting suddenly became aggressive, and slightly hostile. Afterwards, as I bought a hot chocolate at La Colombe d'Or, 319 Church at Lispenard street in Tribeca, an irritable woman, wearing strikingly beautiful rings, glowered at me. As I fumbled for my change, I apologized to the counterman for my cold fingers. The glowering woman loudly stated, "it's not cold out," and I smiled at her. As I walked home from my office tonight, for a brief heart-stopping minute, a young man refused to let me walk by him. In a playful, yet menacing manner, he said "I'm just playing wid you." In each case, I opted for grace, and continued on unscathed. We find the Christmas spirit in the most unlikely places. Last evening, Big Daughter and I visited St. Vincent Hospital's emergency room. She had complained of excruciating pain for a day and a half,  and I insisted it get checked out. We arrived at 5 p.m., and she was discharged at midnight, diagnosed with a kidney infection.  Our time in the E.R. was not bruising nor frightening. It served instead, as an affirmation of human kindness. When Big Daughter was finally admitted to the E.R., it was so crowded, her bed was the third, in a lane that staff would normally walk. As she cried from the pain, I cradled her. Waiting for the doctor, we gazed at the sea of hospital beds surrounding us, each with its unique story. The E.R. staff were efficient, yet overwhelmingly kind and gentle. Despite the pervasive aura of pain and discomfort, there was a sense of community. Everyone was unfailingly polite and considerate. To our right, was a long row of several men of varying ages. One of them was sporting a large black eye. I heard him say ruefully on his cellphone, "I started the fight." The doctor finished her initial exam of Big Daughter, and went off to order tests. Mr. Black Eye called out to me, "Excuse me, do you work in fashion?" Big Daughter momentarily forgot her pain, and said "she looks like Nina Garcia, right? That's what people always say." A few minutes later, the man to his left - who looked like a old revolutionary - said "this reminds me of communist Russia." He caught my eye, and we began laughing together. Later a young resident walking by smiled, and said, "it looks like you all are having a party back there." We were talking to our newest neighbors, a screenwriter and his sweet, loving wife, who had just flown in from L.A. He was unable to eat without pain, and due to travel to Aruba this morning. In that moment, our stories were all the same - we were seeking comfort for those we loved. Young Sir C., Big Daughter's boyfriend, arrived around 8:30 p.m. When they whisked her off for a CAT scan, we joked at our sudden sense of dislocation, and awaited her return. The angry, psychotic man behind us began mumbling "white trash," and the nurse told him to hush. She and I looked at each other and smiled, as we shook our heads. Young Sir C went out to buy snacks. He returned with baby bell cheese, mozzarella sticks and oranges, and a Pepsi. We ended up eating dinner at Veselka's, Second Avenue and 9th street in the East Village, at 1 a.m.. They ordered pierogis, and I had a glass each of seltzer, and homemade apple cider. I ordered Kutya, a Ukranian dish with wheat berries, raisins, honey and poppy seed. It was not too sweet, but very rich in flavor. I couldn't finish it. Next week, our family will eat together, for the first time since our break-up. In the spirit of harmony and friendship, we will join Young Sir C, Carl, and our dear friends, Lady S, and Sir H, and their twins, at Sal Anthony's Lanzas, First Avenue and 10th street in the East Village. Our annual Christmas Eve dinner.  It has been fun to buy the presents that are handed out at dinner. On a recent Monday, little one's school celebrated a religious holiday. We used the opportunity to visit Kiosk, a whimsical store in Soho, 95 Spring Street, between Broadway and Mercer. It's been on my radar screen for awhile. The wind was unstintingly fierce on Lafayette Street, and I suggested we get Chai at Hampton Chutney, on Prince and Lafayette. Little one rebuffed me, and requested a visit to Think Coffee, 248 Mercer street, on the campus of New York University. She likes their Chai Latte, because the barista piles it high with whipped cream, especially for her. For that reason, little one told me, "I love him." She also ordered a surprisingly tasty sandwich of green apple slices and brie, on a baguette. We were adrift in an ocean of college students. I thought of Big Daughter at class at New School. Astoundingly, little one finished the entire sandwich. I complimented her on her good choice. At Kiosk, we were delighted to find balsa gliders, popsicle stick building kits, old-fashioned sugar lollipops and brightly-colored plastic birds from Mexico which tweet, when filled with water. She spied a vintage copy of Twas the Night Before Christmas, and sang the verses, as I paid for the gifts. When we got home, as instructed, little one placed the lollipops in the fridge until Christmas Eve, so they would not melt beforehand.

Sweet milky tea and the impermanence of things

Little one is sick today. Carl called me last night to say she had a 100 degree fever. This morning, on his way to work, he brought her home. Tomorrow is her school Christmas concert. Hopefully she will recover in time to play "Jolly Saint Nicholas," for her piano recital. When Big Daughter would have sick days as a child, I would stress out about the conflicts between work and single motherhood. Eventually, I realized that being home with her allowed us to rest together -outside of scheduled school breaks. The working life, combined with family, can do that. It's been comforting and painful to return to the E. Village apartment. While I love the eternal mystery of crossing Avenue B and entering Tompkins Square Park, I didn't expect to return with a larger family, minus a partner. With the help of several good friends,  Big Daughter emptied her closet at the Tribeca apartment on Tuesday. On my way to help fold clothes, and pack breakables, I had such a knot in my shoulder, I dropped in at Fishion Herb Center, 107 Mott street, between Canal and Hester streets, for a 15 minute shiatsu massage. Last year, I had a weekly massage appointment at Fision with Esther, after Lady C., a former work colleague-now friend, told  me about them. Afterwards, I stopped at Egg Custard King, on Mott street, just below Canal, for an iced milk tea. After two round trips, Big Daughter finished the task. She texted me about treating her friends to dinner. I offered to reimburse her, if they ate "cheap." As part of "moving costs," Carl graciously covered the cost of their meal, Spanish food at a restaurant on Clinton and Avenue B. Little one was with them, and clamored for more "chicharrones," when they arrived home. Yesterday afternoon and evening, Big Daughter did an amazing job organizing her "boutique" closet. She's also been sick since Saturday, but simply soldiers on. Last Sunday, my friend Miss E., and fellow single parent, met me for lunch to catch up on recent events. From Avenue B, we walked west on E. 9th street, until the wind got too strong, and then took the M8 bus to Christopher street, the last stop. We were heading over to Atrium, a tea room on Little  W. 12th street, in the Meat Market. It was closed. I remembered a prolonged wait for our change, during our last visit. As we walked past Pastis, I suggested Jarnac, a tiny french bistro on Washington at 328 West 12th Street, between Greenwich and Washington streets. Last winter, I went there with Carl to try their cassoulet. We walked up the street to look at The Paris Commune, at 99 Bank Street. I like their gingerbread. It was too crowded, so we walked back to Jarnac. The restaurant was cozy, and the tables nestled close together. We sat by the window, between a table of two couples, and a couple with their twenty-something daughter, and her boyfriend. He looked as if he just woke up. A younger version of Adrien Brody. The two couples were animatedly discussing the economic downturn, and their upcoming trip to Chile, not in that order. They had just been to church, and complimented the pastor's sermon, while discussing the worsening crisis to come. I was struck by the impermanence of things. We never leave our families, but perhaps we amend the things we cannot change.  Miss E. ordered a latte, and a breakfast burrito. I seriously considered a tamale. With my erratic appetite,  I opted for the comfort of sliced steak with a potato pancake, and English breakfast tea. The servings were generous, and we both took food home. Despite the tea bag, I appreciated the tiny teapot, and made sure my tea was milky and sweet. It was a late Sunday afternoon, and the chill was not oppressive. Miss E. observed that I was very clear about things.

The demise of the slow cooker and other stories -part 2

Since the demise of the slow cooker, our family has teetered precariously on the edge. Carl and I tried, but failed, to defuse the simmering anger between us. On Sunday, during an interminably rainy day, Big Daughter, little one and I returned to my East Village apartment, where Big Daughter grew up. Now, there are three of us. As the family member who yells, I'd learned, in recent years, to contain this bad habit. Three weeks ago, early on a Monday morning, I found myself yelling again. Not a good thing for the family, nor for me. Despite the gift of several gentle conversations over lunch, dinner and afternoon tea, the family crisis continued unabated. One memorable conversation was with my friend, and former co-worker, Lady C. Over the summer, she'd introduced me to Lovely Lady, a quirky cafe on Elizabeth Street, between Prince and Spring Streets in Nolita. A few Saturdays ago, I found Lovely Lady shuttered and closed, after a recent fire. I wasn't surprised. When I'm in crisis, my little universe usually goes into flux. I see this as a signal of impending change. We found our way to Room 118, a comfortable little bar/restaurant, just around the corner. As we sat at the bar and reviewed my career transition and the family crisis, Lady C. listened quietly. Being a pragmatic person, she was reflective about the many transitions. Exactly one year ago, she and I negotiated an intensely stressful period at my program, prior to her departure. My resignation validated our hard work, and her earlier and difficult departure. Endings can have that effect. Their meanings often emerge much later. As we talked, Lady C. had two beers, and I finished half of a strawberry capirinha prepared with muddled strawberries. Eventually we decided to share crispy deep fried potato croquettes, pork shumai and a very fresh, bracing ceviche. The bar food at Room 118 is excellent, and the bartender was low-key but attentive. The following Monday, Lady M. and I met for lunch at Inoteca, at the corner of Rivington and Stanton Streets on the Lower Eastside. I arrived a few minutes early, and was told by the staff, that the restaurant would open in 15 minutes. It was a stilted welcome. Lady M. confirmed hearing the same thing, when she arrived 5 minutes after me. It was cold that day, and there was no room at the inn. Given the recent economic downturn, we expected to be ushered in enthusiastically. Due to my scrambled state, we opted to have lunch there anyway. I ordered the cheese plate with condiments. Despite my stated dislike of blue cheese, a blue gorgonzala was included. The waitress graciously offered to change it, but it was too late in the meal. Lady M. had a panini and we each drank an Aranciata. I brought home an order of polenta. Lady M. was very balanced as she acknowledged the many negotiations of couples, within the context of family and work. Later that week, I met Lady S., one of my oldest friends, at Podunk, on E. 5th Street, between Second Avenue and Bowery, for tea and conversation. It's easy to talk to Lady S., because she never takes sides. She also has a great sense of humor -even when it seems like Humpty Dumpty is soon to fall off the wall. This can be very helpful, when someone like me is upset. In the middle of our conversation, Big Daughter called. She's been struggling with our family crisis, and had a brief, but necessary meltdown on the phone. Being a mother, partner and an individual can be a bit difficult. Sometimes, I simply hope for a little piece of me. I found that for an hour on Thursday afternoon at Cha An, the East Village Japanese tea room on E. 9th, between Second and Third Avenues. Instead of my usual choice of six appetizers, I opted for the sweets and tea. There were two miniature scones, one tiny green tea macaroon, and a sliver of pound cake -all accompanied by very fresh whipped cream and a little container of berries. Prior to that, I was served two sandwiches on miniature, bagel-like rolls -one with salmon and the other with melted butter and raspberries. I ate the salmon, and a tiny corner of the bread and raspberry. As I bit into it, it was warm and yeasty -but best in the smallest doses. I brought home one scone and the pound cake. Sometimes sweet things make me itch, and that's what happened later on that afternoon. We are no longer a family who eats together. Big Daughter has returned to her favorite E. Village haunts for dinner; 7A and Odessa. Carl met little one and I for breakfast at Chatham Square, our breakfast haunt for dim sum, the other morning. When little one complained of a stomach ache, I was sympathetic. I agreed that it's difficult to eat, when everything changes. After hearing that, little one found her appetite and began eating her sticky rice and shrimp dumplings. I drank my iced tea and Carl said he wasn't hungry.

Moments of reflection and Chaiwalla

Carl made a delicious turkey dinner on Saturday evening. To compliment the roasted turkey, I found two great recipes in this month's Gourmet magazine; one for green beans and the other for roasted yukon potatoes. They were quick and easy to prepare, but most importantly, tasted really good. That morning, I obtained a verbal recipe for homemade cranberry sauce with lemon zest, from a mother at little one's ballet class. Cranberry sauce is actually easy to make. I had the idea it was very time-consuming. My former work colleague, and good friend, Lady C., came bearing her darling new baby Ella, her husband, Sir M., and cupcakes from Cheeks Bakery on Metropolitan Avenue, on the edge of the South side of Williamsburg and Greenpoint. I generally visit Melanie, the baker at Cheeks, at least twice a week to chat. I also bring home good things for breakfast. It was a big treat to be on the receiving end of the vanilla and chocolate cupcakes. Big Daughter was also pleased. She had asked me to bake cupcakes, but I was a bit strapped for time. Early Saturday morning, there was a brief, but unmemorable commotion, when I asked Carl to take little one to ballet, since I had two early-morning clients. He was fixated on slow cooking the turkey, and momentarily flummoxed at the interruption - until he realized that he could run home from ballet, and resume the task. Flexibility is a learned technique, and in our home, a negotiation. By Sunday morning, I was ready to sit back and look out the window during our usual car trip. Since the laundry room at Carl's building is being renovated, as part of an overall building upgrade, I figured we'd drive the laundry over to my old laundromat in the East Village. Carl's building lobby is looking pretty swanky these days. The doormen, who have been in the building for years, are now wearing uniforms. Carl signed his lease in 1974, when Tribeca was a barren, wind-swept desert of few people and many tall buildings. In the early 1980s, I would visit my best friend Lady C., at 175 Franklin. She was right across from what-used-to-be Riverrun, and next to the now-defunct Socrates Diner. I remember squeezing my very pregnant belly into a booth at Socrates, when we met for lunch, just prior to the arrival of Big Daughter. Later, when Big Daughter was an infant, and then an adorable and spunky toddler, I would frequently visit Ms. R, my very first employer. She hired me as an editorial assistant/secretary at Plenum Press on Spring Street, between Varick and Sixth Avenue. Under Ms. R's influence, I learned about Sunday morning brunch at Capsuto Frere's on Desbrosses street. Sitting on the sliver of outside balcony and eating smoked trout, I was taking another kind of Sunday drive. Shopping at Bergdorfs and dinner at the Watts Happen Inn on Watts street, were also courtesy of Ms. R. She introduced me to the Ear Inn, which still holds strong, although I rarely visit. In those days, Tribeca felt like the Wild West, and the Ear Inn it's local saloon. I almost expected the NY version of Billy the Kid to show up. When we went out dancing on Thursday evenings at Area, a nightclub on Hudson Street, we often saw Matt Dillon and Mickey Rourke in the crowd. Back then, they were like urban cowboys. It's only fitting therefore, that Sunday's drive ended up at Chaiwalla, a tea cafe located in Salisbury, Connecticut, which has been a favorite of mine for a long time since Lady C. and I visited Chaiwallas back in the 80s. Could it really have been that long ago? I checked with Elspeth, my dear friend and proprietress of Podunk, a tea room on E. 5th between Second and Bowery. She said it very well may be. Elspeth was a neighbor of Chaiwalla's, once upon a time, before bringing tea to us lucky people in the E. Village and NYC. Lady C. used to know the owners of El Teddys, the Mexican restaurant on W. Broadway at Franklin, that-is-now Tribbles, the home/garden store. That particular trip, she borrowed the car from El Teddy's owner, and off we went. I came back with a beautiful wrought-iron table and two chairs, which Lady C.'s then-fiance graciously hoisted on a rope, through the living-room window of my tiny E. Village apartment. At that time, I also had an extremely elegant trunk and rug belonging to Lady C. Trained as an architect, she had the eye of an interior designer (and was often hired to redo interiors). Memories can be so specific and comforting. Salisbury still feels like it did, that late Saturday afternoon in the late fall, full of smoky light and early autumn chill. As we drove through Kent, Connecticut and along the Housatonic River on Sunday, I thought of life in the 1980s. I was not yet a mother, and very much floating about in the heady days of graffiti art, punk and E. Village and breakfast at Odessa, learning social manners particular to NYC. Prior to Lady C., I had lived with Miss F., a former couture model who provided me entree to NYC hot spots like Area, the Roxy, The World and so on. I was a wide-eyed naif, but smart enough to go along and observe the scene. These days, Big Daughter has access to the hot spots. She's more of a homebody -between college, work and her dog, Gigi (who really likes eating cat food). When Big Daughter jokes about taking me out, I laugh off the invitation. Staying out late is too hard for me, and I can only manage about two sips of alcohol. We didn't drink in the 80s either. Back to the Sunday drive. As we drove out of NYC, and avoided the marathon traffic, I googled directions to The Aldrich Museum of Art in Ridgefield Connecticut. We ended up taking the Tappan Zee bridge up to Katonah and then heading over to Connecticut. Not a memorable ride, but the trip through Kent, Connecticut was all the more spectacular afterwards. The Aldrich is a very modern, open space. One of the current exhibits featured celebrity photographs by the painter Elizabeth Peyton. Her friends were in the pictures - people like Marc Jacobs, for example. I think her paintings are presently at the New Museum in NYC. In the gift shop -always a required stop -little one found two books, and what she called a "lunar module." I bought Colorstrology, a book linking your birthday to your color. I looked up the birthday/colors of different people. Carl's was described as "deep and probing." Big Daughter was described as a hard-worker and being "born for the limelight," and little one was described as "charismatic and jovial but definitely not a pushover." From the Aldrich, we drove east to Chaiwalla, past forests of brilliant acid-washed foliage, and the meandering Housatonic River. Little one was hungry, so we stopped in Kent and got her a snack, but I felt like a fish out of water. It was just a little bit too preppy for my tastes. Salisbury was another 30 minutes of absolutely beautiful scenery. At Chaiwallas we sat by a large bay window in the back, overlooking a sloping lawn with one table and two chairs in the early twilight. Little one and I headed in, while Carl sorted out which part of the paper he wanted. When he entered, the cake plate fell onto the floor, and there was a brief silence before the waiter picked it up. Carl and I shared an Indian spiced tea. Little one started crying when I initially said she must choose between a Chai float (Chai tea with chai ice cream) and cheese toast, saying "but I want it so much." She ended up with two orders of cheese toast (melted Cheddar open face on toast) and ate the ice cream out of the float. As we drank our tea, another glass was dropped on the floor, and the owner laughed as she picked it up. I had just enough cash to cover our afternoon tea break. On these outings, Carl pays for the car and I pay for the day's activities. The sun was setting, and the windows were slightly foggy. The two patrons closest to us were making plans, and across the room, I could hear snippets of poetry being read aloud by different members of a small class. As the day wound up, and dusk approached, the prospect of leaving my program seemed manageable. November 28 is my last day. Although I love the program, it's time to move on. One circle closing, another opening, and still the comfort of Chaiwalla.

The demise of the Slow Cooker and Other Stories

Little one spent the day with me at work yesterday. She was slightly under the weather, and I didn't want to call in sick. It's uncanny how she knows when I need to slow down. Big Daughter used to do that as well, when she was younger. They insist on spending a day, when time begins speeding by in a blur, and I'm also standing at the brink of getting sick. In the mid-afternoon, Carl met us at Podunk at East 5th Street, between Second and Bowery, to collect her, since I had private clients in the evening. As I ordered tea, Elspeth smiled when I chose Lapsong Souchong. She observed that Carl ordered it as well. I see this as a good sign, since he did throw out the Weil Spring Cooker - Yom Kippur and atonement notwithstanding. After Big Daughter brought a sweet little Toy Yorkie home, there was some commotion. Although Big Daughter had been talking about a dog, none of us knew it was imminent. It could have been worse; a baby, wild parties -the list is endless. We got off easy with a dog. Maybe Carl was afraid he would cook the dog in the slow cooker, so I shouldn't mourn. If the dog is staying, what's a slow cooker. My fantasies about preparing an array of soups and stews for fall, all without fuss, is the least of it. I was especially excited make an apple crumble in the slow cooker. Following its violent disposal - supposedly early one Saturday morning- my appetite disappeared. Since then, it's been all about snacks. On Columbus Day, Carl, little one and I grimly headed upstate for a day's drive. Despite feeling a deep sense of exhaustion, fall foliage appealed to me, and the change of pace was important. Prior to leaving the city, I suggested breakfast at Gottino, an organic enoteca/wine bar at 52 Greenwich Street, near Perry Street. My friend Lady E. and I had stopped in Sunday for a late afternoon snack and for the first time in days, I felt some peace. The bowls of walnuts on the bar were a nice touch, and the mid-summer weather created a particular ambiance. A few weeks prior, after a work meeting, I briefly hesitated outside Gottino, but continued walking. On Sunday, my internal GPS pointed us there. The counterman was a friendly young guy, with a lot of positive energy. He enthusiastically, and generously, helped me figure out the right drink for my rattled, post-mortem, slow cooker nerves. After offering me several tastes of his favorite wines, -one too dry, one too acidic-he finally suggested champagne and sour cherry juice. It was perfectly fizzy, and sweet, and a few sips did the trick. When Big Daughter was tiny, I would buy various fruit syrups at the East Village Ukrainian butchers and mix them with seltzer. Here again was that familiar taste, but with a slightly sedating effect. Lady E. and I shared a pumpkin ricotta omelet and chicken sausage with heirloom tomatoes. As we talked over the week's events, the animated sounds of conversation floated in from the small backyard. The counterman verified that Gottino gets "foolishly crowded" on weekday evenings. He handed me the breakfast menu, pointing out a few of his favorites. The next morning as we entered, I chastised Carl for bringing in his deli coffee, as we seated ourselves at the counter. Little one and I opted for the mint tea, which I had Sunday afternoon before leaving. It was wild, strong and sweet. I also ordered fresh-squeezed orange juice, which was served in a small glass flask, accompanied by a small glass of ice. It tasted like just-picked tangerines. For a minute, I imagined a little pensione on the Island of Capri. Little one asked for sunny side eggs, and I ordered several toasts -one with cinnamon and sugar, one roasted apples, one with ricotta and cherries. Carl ordered a grapefruit covered with blackberries, and other kinds of fruit. He couldn't get over the grapefruit, which seemed more like an orange. Little one asked the chef - I think it was Jody Williams herself - about a little green leaf, garnishing her eggs. Ms. Williams, she of gentle manner, and absolute delight in good food, explained it was sage. Little one was handed a piece of sage, and asked to inhale it's aromatic, and earthy aroma. As we were leaving, Ms. Williams remarked to little one that she was thinking about after-school snacks. When she mentioned Funnel cakes, I said adults might like them too, and she smiled. Afterwards we drove into Brooklyn to collect our Lady D., our friend, and occasional caregiver of little one. She lives near Prospect Park, and I was struck by its regal presence on surrounding neighborhoods. Lady D. also wanted to see fall foliage. En route, we stopped at the Alternative Baker in Rosendale. Despite a sign, that advised a closing time of noon, the proprietor was amenable to serving us. With a beret perched jauntily on his head, he seemed slightly out-of-place in quiet Rosendale. After reading several local news articles about the bakery, I learned that the proprietor had lived and worked in Paris, prior to opening the bakery. Lady D. opted for a Belgian Hot Chocolate. Somehow, the girls ended up drinking the hot chocolate, which was sublime. I was appreciative of the proprietor's refusal to prepare a half-order of the Hot Chocolate for little one. He agreed to heat some milk with the left over chocolate, which worked out fine. I ordered a tiny lemon tea cake, and mostly inhaled it. Lady D. and Carl shared a blueberry tea cake, and little one ordered a mini-pizza. Before leaving, Carl checked out the Rosendale Cafe. He explained that it was well-known for featuring musicians from the 1960s and 70s, who fell on difficult times. Afterwards, we drove over to High Falls to say hello to Sean at Blue Cashew, the kitchen/pharmacy we visited last week. Outside of the store, there were three bikers; one man, two women, and their perfectly-groomed Maltese dog, and their motorcycles, eating lunch in front of the Blue Cashew. They advised that the front entrance was closed, and I experienced a brief whiff of menace. We made our way to the side entrance, and said hello to Sean. He suggested that we take a hike around Lake Minnewaska, a large glacier lake about 45 minutes away. When we arrived, the parking lot was pretty crowded, and there were several families hiking an-hour long loop. The setting was beautiful. From many points, the splendor of the Catskills was in full view. As we walked, I still felt a sense of disquiet. Little one noted that it was a long hike. Back in the city, we took Lady D. to Saravannas, our favorite South Indian restaurant on 26th street and Lexington Avenue. Eating Dosas and South Indian sweets, I regained my sense of balance. I decided to take my chai tea to go, and reheat it in the morning.

Practicality and its many pleasures

After a mix-up with my massage appointment at Namaste, a tranquil Yoga and massage studio on Grand Street, right off Havemeyer street in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, I was heading back to the office last week, when I spied the Potato Cafe at 254 South 2nd Street, (literally at the corner of Havemeyer). Mr. D., a friend, and former staff member at my program, had recommended the cafe, as we walked to Tipico for lunch on a hot summer day. With the advent of fall temperatures, the idea of a baked potatoes was a comforting alternative to the missed massage. On a whim, I decided to visit. The cafe is a tiny, charming space with several wooden tables and chairs. In the front window, several Mr. Potatohead dolls stand at attention, dressed in varied and colorful garb. There was outside seating, but I preferred the cozy inside vibe. The counter woman was friendly and welcoming, and gave me a warm smile. As I perused the chalkboard menu above the counter, I debated between a healthy potato salad and a baked potato with cheddar and bacon. At her suggestion, I ordered the latter. Several neighborhood regulars wandered in while I was waiting for my order. I was impressed when the counter woman came out front, and gently apologized to one of them, about the lack of a hummus plate. Moments later, the counter man brought my steaming hot, baked potato. It was split in half and covered with melted cheese and bacon. Without burning my tongue, I ate most of the cheese and bacon topping, and a third of the potato -and felt completely satisfied. Near one of the tables, there was a large, unopened box of Idaho potatoes. During tough economic times, one can always turn to the humble potato. This theme of practicality resurfaced when Carl expressed a desire to cook in honor of Rosh Hashanah. Being secular in their Jewishness, his family prefers to celebrate the holidays with friends, after the actual day has passed. In that spirit, and after a particularly grueling meeting at work on Friday afternoon, I decided to purchase a slow cooker for him. It would be an early birthday present, and assist him in cooking brisket. As a rule Carl doesn't like presents. (As confirmation of this, he has already tried to put the slow cooker on the balcony. At least he didn't throw it away). At this point, I would say that Carl needs to atone for his inability to accept gifts, but that's another story. Anyway, buying a slow cooker ended up being a bigger deal than I anticipated. After my meeting, I looked around the Williams Sonoma store on Seventh Ave and 15th street, and then walked to the Broadway Panhandler on West 8th street, between Mercer and Broadway. At Broadway Panhandler, I approached a gruff, yet kindly salesperson, and asked him to show me the slow cookers. There was a choice of two. After a few minutes, I decided on the Weil Spring Pressure Cooker. As we discussed its merits, another sales person told me - unprompted - what a great choice I had made. Later as I paid, the cashier also said I'd made a great choice. He informed me that this pressure cooker was affiliated with Dr. Andrew Weil, the noted health guru. I thought Weil was the Swiss manufacturer. It took some effort to transport the pressure cooker home, but I made it. The next morning, armed with a recipe for Beef Bourguignonne that I found online, Carl, little one and I visited the East Village Ukrainian butcher shop on 2nd Avenue, between 8th and 9th streets, after eating breakfast at Veselka. The butcher showed us a beautiful slab of beef, but refused to slice it into 1 inch pieces. Instead, he instructed us to brown the beef, and then put it into the pressure cooker, with the sauteed vegetables. Carl swallowed slightly at the price, $20/lb, but coughed up the $68.20. Afterwards, he took a minute to look at the rest of the cuts of meat. I was impatient to get home. Little one and I had my acupuncture, and her ballet. During the cab ride home, I pointed out that dinner for 8 computed to $8/per person, and a meal cannot be provided for a penny. Carl started laughing. The day before, I had placed an order for kugel- one potato, one cheese- at the Second Avenue deli at 33rd Street and Second Avenue. I was told that one kugel would feed two people. It actually feeds four, and both were very good. Most people liked the potato. In Tribeca, Carl raced over to the green market to buy vegetables, because he needed to cook the beef bourguignonne for six hours. It was already 10 a.m, and our guests were expected between 6 and 6:30 that evening. It was a race against the clock, but Carl made it. He persevered even when part of the cork fell in the bottle of pinot noir, an important ingredient. Later that evening, our guests pronounced the finished product to be excellent. Carl confessed that "slow cooking" was his favorite way to prepare food. Sunday, we took a day trip to go apple picking, and the theme of practicality continued. Armed with the name of an orchard, and exit 18, from our dear friend, Lady M., we meandered through New Paltz and continued past Mohunk Mountain House. It was a beautiful fall day, and the leaves were in hues of green, gold and rust. Along the way, we found the Blue Cashew, an amazing kitchen/pharmacy store selling items for dining/kitchen/home, just outside of High Falls. I spied silverware in the window and asked Carl to stop. Just before dinner Saturday evening, I found only two forks (and was forced to borrow forks from the neighbor -which are still in our kitchen!). At Blue Cashew, http://www.bluecashew.com/, we purchased some modern-looking, affordable, dishwasher-safe silverware, and six inexpensive simple, elegant drinking glasses. The gracious and friendly owner directed us to an orchard down the road. Somehow we ended up at a quirky, little orchard, which can be found online at http://www.mr.apples.com/. The proprietor, Mr. Philip Apple, had a wry sense of humor. He was reading the paper with classical music in the background. As we paid for our bag, he said "the apples are three miles down the way." When we looked startled, he laughed, and pointed to the many apple trees across the parking lot. As we walked off towards the orchard, he called us back to get a long handled apple picker. Little one was in heaven as we tramped around the wild apple trees, which are not sprayed. We tasted, then picked apples from several different trees. Around us, I overheard families and children giggling and laughing, as they picked apples. Alice in Wonderland gone apple picking in the garden of Eden. Afterwards we drove over to the Village Inn in Krumville, where we met Big Daughter, her boyfriend,Young Sir C, and his parents for a late lunch, along with friends coming in from the city. The friends arrived in style, landing alongside the restaurant in a sleek black helicopter. As the helicopter's propellers whirred, it created strong waves on the nearby lake. For a minute, I felt like crying. The engine's loudness momentarily transported me back to a childhood memory of fleeing Lagos in the midst of the Biafran War, as we were hustled onto an an Air France jet, late at night. The moment passed. We greeted the new arrivals, and settled in for a leisurely lunch on the porch. It was a beautiful, early fall afternoon, and the sun played hide and seek as it darted in and out of the clouds.

The family that eats together stays together

Big Daughter insists that our family eat together several times a week. This is a good thing, and I credit her father, and his family, for setting this standard. During our recent summer visit to Belgrade and the Dalmatian Coast, we all ate dinner together almost every evening, always with her grandfather. It was family time in the most basic sense. Little one was encouraged to try a little bit of everything. Given our disparate NYC schedules, we usually find three nights to eat together, again at Big Daughter's request. A few nights each week, little one and I usually decamp to my E. Village apartment. Located adjacent to Tompkins Square Park, it's become both a country home, so to speak, and a place of refuge. Big Daughter is living at home, while she attends Eugene Lang, which is part of the New School. In a reversal of roles, I travel across town, while she stays put. Given her long-time schedule of two months of every summer vacation in Belgrade, this is understandable. Carl grumbles that Big Daughter will remain with us when married. I suspect he's actually happy about the idea. In fact, most weekday mornings are quite exciting, as Carl and Big Daughter prepare for work and school. But back to dinner. In our family, I occasionally use dinner as a way to celebrate recent accomplishments. This summer, despite numerous obstacles, I maintained financial stability at my program. To honor my efforts, Big Daughter has been offering me dinner. Her company, and that of her younger sister, is my greatest treat. In that spirit, I suggested that we meet at Perbacco, an Italian restaurant at 234 E. 4th Street between avenues A and B, on Monday evening. This restaurant has generated significant buzz. It is also close to the E. Village apartment. Big Daughter was initially suspicious about the amount of food we'd be served. She correctly noted that small portions are the norm at many of my choices. I reassured her that Perbacco's menu is quite extensive. Dinner is important to Big Daughter in the way that breakfast is to me. She was waiting outside of the restaurant, when we arrived, and little one was happy to see her. The hostess did not smile as she seated us against the back wall, next to two women in the middle of their meal. After I returned from the ladies room, Big Daughter had switched seats. She wrinkled her nose, and mimed that little one's feet smelled. Little one was none too pleased, but did not react. Instead, pen in hand, she concentrated on playing hangman, a favorite dinnertime activity. I sat down on Big Daughter's almost empty Spanish latte from Think Coffee, and narrowly escaped a coffee bath on my new bag, constructed of Japanese rice paper, in a deep shade of pink. Shortly afterwards, a young couple was seated next to us. They were torn between discussing their medical training and eavesdropping on our conversation. Perbacco is an anomaly. It is a neighborhood restaurant, and slightly funky to boot, yet clearly maintains a very sophisticated pedigree. Coming out of the kitchen, I observed plates of food artistically arranged, yet deconstructed on the plate. Our waiter had a strong Italian accent. Down-to-earth and welcoming in manner, he rattled off the specials. When I selected the dinner special of pumpkin ginger soup with crumbled panchetta, he nodded approvingly. When asked to choose between the cheese croquettes and the Emilian style parmigiana cheese pie, he suggested the croquettes. Without asking, he said "no olives, right" as we ordered the fusili pasta with tomato sauce with mozzarella for little one. He, and Big Daughter, gently steered little one away from a rich-sounding ravioli. Big Daughter and I settled on the Parmesan creme brulee. She selected the chicken entree and I also ordered a glass of red wine. A basket of bread sticks, resting on top of small slices of bread arrived, along with a small dish of olives in olive oil. I ate most ofthe bread sticks, while Big Daughter took surreptitious sips of the red wine. The young couple next to us discussed problems at their hospital. Little one urged us not to "call out" the words, as we guessed according to her clues. She cried when Big Daughter yelled out "cat." Big Daughter discussed affairs of the heart. It was clear that she is truly loved, as evidenced by the recent gift of an adorable stuffed monkey. Little one likes to hug this monkey, when she gets home from school, and before she leaves in the morning. The fusili arrived first. The silverware was wrapped in a white, cloth napkin. As I handed little one a fork, the knife fell to the floor. It just missed my big toe. Almost immediately, a waiter arrived bearing a clean knife. While little one ate half of of her fusili, Big Daughter nibbled on pieces of melted mozzarella mixed in the pomodoro sauce. The croquettes surpassed our expectations. Served on a small salad of cubed celery, pears and walnuts, the soft and crunchy tastes complimented each other. We shared the Parmesan creme brulee, and left almost nothing in the dish. The slightly caramelized crust was a great counterpoint to the creaminess of the cheese. After a few bites, I was full, but began eating my soup. The manager, who was keeping a close eye on diners, encouraged me to slide the panchetta, scattered along one edge of bowl, into the soup. It looked like crumbled salt, and added texture and taste. Since Saturday, I'd been craving soup and I was glad I waited. The waiter explained that the garnish of small seaweed-like strands floating atop the soup, were actually thinly-sliced, fried eggplant skin. Big Daughter compared Perbacco to Moto, our favorite, Chicago-based, new-age foodie restaurant. She ate almost all of her chicken, which was rolled into small, tubular shapes. On the edge of the plate, sat an undulating ribbon of carrot, which I kept thinking was pasta. Little one and I shared the dessert called Chocolate Variable. As per the waiter, it was a series of chocolate bites paired with different counter-tastes. There was a tiny, ethereal birds nest, filled with a chocolate mango and sea-salt flavored mousse (we found this so-so), a dark chocolate passion fruit semifreddo (we liked this), a doll-size chocolate coffee-bean cake (we loved this), white chocolate with jasmine tea bom-bom, (we didn't like this), and some square shavings of dark chocolate with olive oil and lavender, which little one consumed on the inhale. On our way out, we encountered the hostess, still unsmiling, outside of the restaurant. Across the street, the restaurant E.U. was mostly empty. In the early evening darkness, their table votives flickered in a ghostly manner and I thought of Edgar Alan Poe. After we kissed goodbye, Big Daughter began walking back to Tribeca, and little one and I made our way to e. 8th street.

Tried and True (or maybe Tired and wondering about truth)

Little one has finally fallen asleep. As she drifts off, she likes to place her finger in my belly button, which was our main connection when she was in utero. Big Daughter has skipped uptown to have dinner with Young Sir C, who finally finished work. While waiting to leave, she joined little one on the couch, to watch the tail end of a Disney movie. This meant that bedtime loomed farther on the horizon before becoming a reality. Carl is at the gym. After I arrived home, he correctly pointed out that bedtime would become a struggle, once I was present. There were a few false starts while little one settled down. First, she needed to tell me about the new music teacher and the morning trip to the fire station; "they had three alarms, and finally we left." She's concerned about how to save our three cats in event of a fire and Carl had assured her, we have four sets of hands between us. Lying next to her, I was able to reflect on the intense energy of the day and once she fell asleep, tiptoed off to write about it. A mistral blew into work today-perhaps summer's end? - and wreaked havoc on technical and human systems. To add insult to injury, my fancy new Iphone kept weaving in and out of service, as I made my way through the East Village, from the J train stop on Essex/Delancey to Cha An, my favorite Japanese tea room at 230 E. 9th street, between Second and Third Avenue. Perhaps the full, harvest moon interrupted all basic connections. Nonetheless, I was grateful for the brief moment of silence. Cha An is reached by a flight of stairs to the second floor, which offers a particular, and reassuring sense of order. At the top, there is a curtain, divided in two parts, and I enter a calm interior with a decor of soothing dark wood. There is an unseen boundary between the tea room and the outside world -which lies literally at the bottom of the stairs. In recent weeks, I've rediscovered a simple solace at Cha An. I generally sit at the front counter, adjacent to a long wooden bar. A large rice cooker sits squat, and the waitresses move about preparing tea orders. Further back, two chefs, one male, one female, prepare the food in an open-air kitchen. Midway through my meal, the female chef ate her dinner at the far end of the counter. The sound of her laughter floated over me, as I occasionally looked up from the newspaper to watch a large mixer whirring round. In recent weeks, I've been ordering six mini appetizers and tea. Last week, I chose a pot of Keemun tea and received an elegant, yet gentle selection of the following: crunchy green beans, a piece of salmon, one piece of curried shrimp, pickled eggplant and a simple, tangy cabbage salad. Directly in front of me, was a large glass cookie jar filled with green tea cookies in flavors of chocolate and green tea. As I paid the bill, I ordered one green tea chocolate cookie to go and nibbled the corner. This afternoon, I opted for the summer special, the Okayu set, and selected a Ceylon Pekoe tea, with milk and sugar. The set included rice with a cold bonito broth, cold mackerel with ginger, seaweed, pickled cucumber, and a perfectly tiny, wrinkled -and exquisitely sour -pickled red plum. The rice was a beautiful pinky white, with small pieces of chopped yamu (Japanese potato), sesame seeds and greens floating about with two frozen cubes of fish broth on top. The ice cubes slowly melted, as I was eating and the bracingly fresh flavors provided a tremendous sense of well-being. Taste can be so transporting that angst is forgotten. As I interspersed the rice with tastes of the small appetizers, multiple flavors literally "popped" on my tongue and I forgot the day's upheaval. A trip to Japan is becoming a serious reality (Lady L. are you listening?) In past visits, dessert was an amazing black sesame flan with a crunchy wafer - a small sea studded with texture. Today it was a millefleur pastry, with a symmetrical, yet miniature scoop of raspberry ice cream, studded with chunks of fresh raspberry, and crowned with architecturally-balanced wafers. Finishing my dessert, I suddenly realized that I didn't have enough cash. The waitress merely smiled when I mentioned a quick trip to the bank. When I came back, my tea was slightly cold, next to the scattered sections of the New York Times. I took one last sip, gathered the paper, asked for a green tea chocolate cookie to go and headed out with a clear mind.

Phantoms and the magic of US Open Tennis

Since last week, Carl has been holed up in Queens at U.S. Open Tennis. At this time of year, he's like a cowboy who's finally found his horse after a long absence. I hope that there's no symbolic subtext to that statement, but he does literally gallop to the Open via the No. 7 train. Once again, Carl is a phantom. He slips out of the house during the coolest part of the early morning, and returns late at night, after the sun's intense heat has subsided. Naturally, little one, Big Daughter and I -along with many others- traveled out to Flushing Meadows in search of both Carl and tennis. Due to him, we are under the spell of Tennis with Carl. Nine years ago, I had never watched a tennis match. Big Daughter was also unaware, due to her annual summer trip to Serbia. She too is entranced, and remembers meeting top-ranked Jelena Jankovic (a Serbian player) while we vacationed, several years ago in South Beach. I'm stymied by my recollection of charging around the Open with a six month old. How I did that, I have no idea. For me, the advent of the Open heralds the end of summer -and is about time passing. Invariably, the breeze blowing around the grounds has a touch of coolness. It hints -ever so slightly - of fall and winter coats and seasons changing. At the same time, I liken being a spectator at the matches to being at the beach, with the court as ocean. This year, a general malaise permeated my usual adventurous tendencies and I was woefully uninspired about food field trips. Hence my local explorations around 111th street. A few years ago, I dragged Carl to an amazing Mexican restaurant at 89th and Broadway, in the shadow of the elevated tracks. We were the only "gringos" there and I was thrilled when they brought over plates of sliced radish, along with slices of lemon for the Coronas, as we waited for our tacos. In other years, we've stopped in Jackson Heights for Indian buffet, at Delhi Palace, 74th street and Roosevelt, just past the Jackson Diner. It's been incarnated multiple times, but the food is solid North Indian and fresh. Between matches, we've also walked over to the Lemon Ice King in Corona and Empanada del Parque at 108th street. Not only are the empanadas amazing, there's a great picture of Jackie Onassis on the wall. Over the years Carl and I arrived at two primary understandings. Namely, that I can eat between matches, and it's not a bad thing to sit in Court side seats. We are not the bourgeoisie, though we breathe the rarefied air of those with money to spend. Yes, it does feel different to sit in an B Loge or Court side and I like it. People watching the fans -not just the tennis players -is always fun. All kind of hats are utilized by a large percentage of both male and female tennis watchers. So is preppy clothing, i.e. a lot of conservative-looking men wear pants and shorts in faded pastel colors, mostly pale orange. Fashion at the U.S. Open is another topic entirely and encompasses a complete mix of styles -the fanny pack to the Birkin bag -and everything in between. Shallow as it may be, I do think carefully about my own outfits -downtown with some sophistication and maximum coolness -since it's so hot in the direct sun. But back to food. This year we skipped our usual field trip to Flushing ( places like SpicynTasty and funky little bakeries with great fried bread and dumplings). I was content to concentrate on eating at a few of the myriad Ecuadorean restaurants. A family favorite was the Queens Coffee shop, located at the corner of 111th, adjacent to the subway stairs on Broadway. After several pre-tennis meals there, I became intimately acquainted with Humitos (a very satisfying tamale with a sweet filling of cheese and corn), a soupy beef stew with lots of potatoes, sides of sweet plantains and a typical Ecuadorean-style green salad with ceviche-like topping of tomatoes, onions and cilantro. Being so hyped about his favorite event, Carl would deny hunger, and then finish my beef stew and all the rice. One day, I tried a blackberry shake with milk, and was instantly refreshed. Another day, I wandered over to a local bakery, just one block up Broadway. I snooped around a bit, and then bought a cheese-filled empanada and several crispy pretzel-like cookies. The empanada was steaming hot and mostly cheese with the lightest outside casing. The cookies were similar to Taralluci, the Italian cookies made with olive oil and fennel (that we recently ate at One Dominick at 6th Avenue/Dominick street on the edge of Soho. Similarly, these cookies weren't sweet, and were satisfyingly crunchy. Little one tends to stick with her favorite, sunny-side eggs. Big Daughter opted for the Spanish Omelet with sweet plantains (and then said it was a bit too rich). If I'm lucky enough to watch tennis with Carl, I can usually finagle a foray to one "fancy" restaurant at the U.S. Open. This year, I was interested in trying the Wine Bar, an open air Italian cafe. It debuted with great fanfare by the giant Scoreboard located near the East gate. The owners are a well-regarded chef and his wife, who own an Italian restaurant, Spiagga in Chicago. After sitting court side, and watching James Blake and Venus Williams quickly dispatch their opponents, we wanted something light to eat. There were just two open seats, placing our backs in the path of the afternoon sun. I ordered two salads, one with mozzarella and tomatoes, and the other with shaved artichokes and hearts of palms. Several patrons were drinking a glass of Rose, so I ordered one and promptly added ice cubes. Patrons could watch the staff preparing food in the center of the cafe. There was an anti-climatic, European feel to the place, which contrasted with the revved up, carnival-like atmosphere of the main food courts and the crowds. Carl was pleasantly surprised by the quality and taste of the food and we both took a sip of the Rose. After a few sips, we felt the combination of the sun and the Rose, the Open was working its magic.

In mid-to-late August, it's my habit to visit Diner, at Berry and Broadway in Williamsburg, Brooklyn and order their heirloom tomato salad for lunch. Usually served with a simple bread salad, the heirloom tomatoes reign supreme in late summer. This time, after consultation with the waitress -who actually remembered me from a spring visit with Big Daughter- I also ordered a melon salad with prosciutto and heirloom tomatoes. The melon slices were translucent, and had a light pink, flesh color. In size, they made me think of Cavaillon melons -which I used to order at Grand Central's Oyster Bar back in the days at the U.N. The taste was completely different though, refreshing and light. The plate looked like a still life. Alongside the melon were two perfectly-shaped red circles, that looked like plums. They too were heirloom tomatoes. As I was eating, a table of three arrived and one of them asked what I was eating. I described both salads and he also opted for the melon salad (and mistook the tomatoes for plums). We were seated so closely, I couldn't help but overhear their conversation as I ate. It was all about art, but without attitude. Diner can be a bit sceney, not quite boho-squatter, but with a clientele moneyed enough to look homeless by choice. This table seemed to be the real thing. Serious young Latino men, who put their heart into their art, by the sound of it. Years ago, when Big Daughter was a baby and we lived on N. 5th street in Greenpoint, everyone referred to Williamsburg as the "South Side," (in a West Side musical kind of way). An invisible wall divided the north and south sides, and you crossed the divide at your own peril. I have nothing against the recent inhabitants of Williamsburg; mostly young and beautifully/creatively dressed. Nonetheless, my late summer lunch felt a bit more meaningful, because it harkened back to the genuine ferment of the 1980s East Village art scene. It brought back memories as I listened to their discussion about fellow artists in Miami and Genoa, Italy. A few weeks ago, I had a similar experience when we dined, en family, with Young Sir C, (Big Daughter's companion), at Trestle On Tenth, a Swiss restaurant at 24th street and Tenth Avenue. Big Daughter had just returned from Belgrade and it was a testy time in our household. She and I usually negotiate issues of re-entry during our first few weeks together under the same roof. I'd been meaning to try Trestle on Tenth for a good while, and this seemed the perfect moment. I was pleased to see that they place a premium on neighborhood "regulars." It was a gentle contrast to the fancy dining scene that so often defines Chelsea. As a steady stream of patrons trickled in, many were seated in the backyard garden. We sat next to the front window, with a direct view of Tenth Avenue and battled our way through a fiery political discussion about the recent capture of Karadzic. It seems apropos that we were eating on neutral territory. As we read the descriptions on the menu, we became hungrier, and the food did not disappoint. Carl ordered one each of the sides for the table; grilled asparagus with goat cheese and almonds, green beans with lovage and tomato, gratineed pizokel (little dumplings) with onions and gruyere and beets, and we devoured them all. I chose chilled tomato soup with crabmeat, basil and corn (and gave Carl the crabmeat because it's too rich for me) and a butter lettuce salad with bacon and buttermilk dressing (which was large enough for everyone to taste). It was refreshing on a warm summer night. Big Daughter ordered Roasted Chicken with seasonal vegetables in consomme and Carl followed suit. Young Sir C opted for the smoked and roasted pork loin with corn, green and wax beans and yellow squash and pronounced it outstanding. Little one shared my soup and Carl's chicken, and then promptly fell asleep on my lap after eating her dinner. We were too full for dessert but they also looked wonderful. Soon, I plan to visit for breakfast and order just the chocolate tart and a tea.

Love for food and Cartier Love Bracelets

U.S. Open Tennis is a few weeks away and by this time, Carl has usually turned into a whirlwind ghost; now you see him, now you don't. In our family, we are used to seeing -but not speaking - to Carl, as he gets in gear for his favorite summertime event. In response to my temporary status of head of household, I've insisted that we rent a car every Sunday and drive somewhere, preferably the beach. This has led many people to believe my amazing tan from my recent trip to Croatia has simply improved on it's own. My reasoning is that Carl will recharge during the drive, and after swimming in the mighty Atlantic. More importantly, during these excursions, I am hoping he will actually talk to us. He's usually more verbal on the return leg of the day trip, but I'm working around this. Last weekend, he spontaneously suggested that we drive to Orient Point, one of my favorite beaches located at the eastern most point of the North Fork. I've been visiting Orient Point since 1982, and generally take a day pilgrimage in the late Spring, to start summer and during late fall, to commemorate summers end. Driving the narrow spit of land to the beach area is like being in Maine, with marshes on one side, and a piercing blue and calm ocean on the other. Most of the beach goers are Greek and Russian and the aromas wafting off the barbecue's are pretty amazing. Beach goers must walk past the barbecue area to get to the beach, and it's always a sensory experience. Some people seem to bring their entire kitchen. There are always a few anglers at the far end of the beach, and Carl and little one love to check out their catch. Last Sunday, I looked over and saw little one reeling in a fish. There are two traditions on the ride home; the purchase of smoked fish from Alice's Fish Shop in Greenport, and homemade ice cream at Magic Mountain in Mattituck. I generally stay away from ice cream, due to all the aftertastes. Not so at Magic Mountain. Their butter pecan is exquisitely creamy and rich. Little one goes into a soporific daze as she eats her ice cream. Due to the gargantuan size of the cone, I generally insist the three of us share one of the huge cones. Aside from our Sunday day trips, I had given up Saturday breakfasts and assumed that Thursday Night Day Night would be cancelled for most of July and August. I am happy to report that Date Night continues. A recent memorable Thursday Night Date Night involved a visit to Cartier (52nd Street/5th Avenue), to look at the Love Bracelet - not the diamond-encrusted one - but the simple gold circle inscribed with love on a silk cord. During a moment of clarity, standing on a beach at our friend's house in Sohola, PA, I requested the bracelet as a symbol of Carl's commitment when he vaporizes before my very eyes. Despite much hemming and hawing up until to the last moment -and an offer of cold, hard cash - we made it to Cartier. Being a person who has never wanted diamonds or pearls, I liked the idea of the Cartier Love bracelet. When I actually saw it in the store, I was pleased to discover that the original Love Bracelet was both affordable and elegant. Most importantly, a significant portion of its cost went to the charity of my choice. Carl was quite taken with the bracelet as well and found it understated. His original reasoning was that when he gives me things, I feel worse afterwards. I agreed that this could be true, since I often must do battle to get gifts from him. I conceded that I may well be resentful after receipt, due to the significant energy expended to get the item. Carl was apparently convinced by my logic. Afterwards, we took the M20 down Broadway in Times Square to Tribeca and headed over to One Dominick (the new cafe at the Hear Theatre). Being fans of Jimmy's No. 43, we wanted to check it out (as it's part of Jimmy Carbone's empire). Despite the unassuming space, we were both taken with the food; I ordered the cheese plate, an assortment of Italian cheeses and an especially refreshing watermelon salad with cubed ricotta and mint (Anguria). Carl ordered Fava beans in a puree, (Fave e Cicoria), which the waitress enthusiastically endorsed - and he loved. We shared a great glass of red wine and ordered another. Little anise flavored biscuits,(Tarralluci), were especially good with apricot preserves to accompany them. One of these days, I'll stop in and try the bread pudding,(Budino) for breakfast. In the meantime, the Love Bracelet never leaves my wrist. Who ever said you couldn't fill up on love for breakfast, lunch and dinner?

Olive Oil Cookies and Silky Water

Big Daughter tells me a chill wind was blowing in Belgrade last week after Karadzic was recently unmasked and jailed. Her father, the Big N., even became part of the story, while escorting Russian media around town to Karadzic's favorite haunts. Big Daughter accompanied him on a fact-finding mission to meet one of Karadzic's teachers from his new life, a leading practitioner of alternative medicine. She was quite impacted by the teacher's belief that Karadzic was caught, because he tripped on his own ego. As per Big Daughter, the teacher explained that Karadzic entrapped himself when he began making his own instruments to measure bio energy levels, as opposed to using instruments made by his mentor. I was thinking about egos after visiting the Louise Bourgeois show at the Guggenheim this weekend with my friend, the tranquil Miss E. The Guggenheim was overrun with tourists and in the long admission line, there was an overall feeling of anticipation and excitement. When confronted by large groups of tourists on city streets, I often feel perturbed. In the museum, I got caught up in the infectious energy of travelers. I've always liked the sculpture of Ms. Bourgeois, and found the curving, circular ramps at the Guggenheim a perfect showcase for her retrospective. Miss E. and I started at the bottom ramp and slowly made our way up. We looked at Bourgeois's Femme Maison paintings, her totemic personages and moved onto her sculptures; phallic and breast motifs carved out of impossibly smooth stone. Melanie Klein would have had a field day. In her writings about the breast and the infant, I'm sure Ms. Klein has referenced Louise Bourgeois. I just haven't read them. As a mother, I completely appreciated the idea of Womanhouse (Femme Maison). Although I think Bourgeois might have been referring to woman's sexuality, I found many meanings. Since returning from our 2 and 1/2 week trip to Belgrade and Croatia, I've been musing on the capacity to be on two continents on the same day. Waking up in Belgrade in the morning and finding myself in NYC that same evening has left me feeling a little stunned. My initial instinct has been to remain close to home. I was also cash-strapped and shell-shocked. Carl has been bewildered by my rapidly-shifting moods. Given his absorption in sports, he is happily immersed in tennis and able to avoid the ups and downs of life's nuances. Plunging back into work, and the requisite demands of motherhood and career left me on a high-wire. As a friend recently noted, the pace of life in Belgrade and Croatia is a gentle one. Until this weekend, even the idea of food was unappealing. I didn't want tea or even chocolate. Luckily, I got my appetite back after Saturday morning acupuncture. Interestingly enough, I wasn't as blissed out as usual (and I was instructed to eat afterwards due to "some underlying weakness.") Miss E. agreed to walk over to Bar Stuzzichini at Broadway and E. 22nd street. I'd read good things about it and figured a hot Saturday afternoon was a good time to visit. It was comfortably populated, and we opted for a table inside, near the front window, adjacent to the bar. We both selected three misti for $17, which included a large, generous glass of Prosecco. I ordered Lasagnette, Pizza Rustica and a Crostini with Ricotta and Honey. Miss E. also ordered Lasagnette, a Crostini with fried egg and Pizza Rustica. Neither of us could drink the Prosecco. We drink very little alcohol and it was too hot. She opted for a iced latte and I requested the house brewed tea with orange and lemon, which was amazing. I poured a little Prosecco in my tea, and it was perfect. The small plates were just right. My favorite was the Lasagnette, a perfect serving of lasagna with pork ragu and the Crostini with Ricotta and honey. Later that evening, Carl agreed to visit Capri Caffe, a new cafe serving Italian food on Church Street at Duane. He was at the gym and asked me to call in the order of penne with sweet cherry tomatoes, olive oil cookies and homemade buffalo mozzarella. We brought most of the food with us on a visit to the summer house of our friends Sir T. and Lady C. in Sohola, Pennsylvania. Their house is set on a beautiful lake with inky black water. The lake water feels like silk when I'm swimming. The best part is rowing their boat across the lake, a few hundred yards from their dock to the beach. The lemon and chocolate cookies disappeared at lunch. At dinner, the mozzarella was combined with pesto and tomatoes and the pasta also disappeared. As he rowed us to the beach, Carl was surprised to hear that I was having an anxiety attack. There were several other guests, and I was feeling a bit lost. Once I began swimming I found my bearings, while Little one and her friend Miss A. splashed around the beach. They loved it when I chased them around the beach, and pretended to drag them in the water. After many entreaties, we had rowed back across the lake to get their rafts but they preferred that I chase them. When we left, it was early evening and the sun was still bright. I looked at a large pine tree leaning sideways amidst the green expanse of shoreline, while a mother deer and two baby fawns ran through the trees.

As I get older, I think fondly of the days when I traveled long distances with few worries. In 1986, when I rented a gite -a farm on a working fruit orchard -close to San Remy de Provence, it never occurred to me to consider any type of problem. Off we went on our Egypt Air flight. In Paris, we collected our rental car and headed down through the Loire Valley, where I still remember the inn where we stayed. My memories are of lights which switched off in the hallway; the handheld shower head in the bathroom down the hall and the food. It was my first introduction to French food in France. After each course, I thought dinner is finished now. But then would come another course- along with the wine in the plain glass bottle. I won't even mention the bountiful Saturday morning markets in the town square. Anyway, as I get older, I am painfully in need of security -and only too aware of possible trouble. At its outset, our recent trip to Belgrade and Croatia involved a fair amount of worry. In my ideal world, any trip out of NYC necessitates back-up, something that I'm sorry to say, I generally live without. I bring to the table a long history of single motherhood combined with significant student loan debt. This originated from my fortituous decision to complete my MSW when Big Daughter was 2. In plain speak, it means that most trips are taken on a wing with a prayer. Despite Carl's generosity in using his Amex miles to purchase return airtickets from NYC-Paris-Belgrade, I was painfully aware of our lack of safety net. While the possibility of Air France going bankrupt seemed remote, I did worry about mishaps during the 15 hour drive to/from Belgrade to Dubrovnik. When the Big N. suggested that little one and I fly to Dubrovnik - while he and Big Daughter drove, I quickly said "no thanks." In my minds-eye, I had a fixed image of little one and I stranded in Dubrovnik -with few resources. After spending a few days in Belgrade, I overcame these fears when I encountered the hospitality of the Big N's friends and family. In those moments, I realized that I was not alone. If something went wrong, there would be support. I attribute the sincerity I encountered to a unique blend of the old and new which exists in Serbia. Belgrade encompasses 20th century modern and old world sensibilities. In every place I visited, family and friendship transcended the many changes which had occurred between myself and the Big N. It didn't matter that little one was not his child, she was still the new grandchild to be fussed over and enjoyed. Of course, Big Daughter was completely loved and exclaimed over as well -with any change in height or hair color duly noted. When she showed her grandfather a picture of Young Sir C, he asked about their future. The drive from the airport to the city perfectly captures this sensibility. The countryside exists in harmonius proximity to the city; neat rows of corn and manicured fields give way slowly to the a vibrant city that radiates outwards from it's city center to leafy pockets of elegant and peaceful residential neighborhoods. In the city center, there is a constant stream of traffic - buses, trolleys, cars and scooters speeding by a mixed architecture of old communist-style buildings side by side with elegant embassies and modern storefronts. Ten minutes away is the Big N's building on Carli Caplina, an intellectual street of precise, three-story buildings in soft or faded pastel colors. Some buildings are newly-plastered, those needing work maintain a regal air. Cars are parked diagonally on sidewalks, and on every corner is the ubiquitous cafe. As I once read in an airline magazine, Belgrade is truly a cafe city. During our forays into the city, Big Daughter often took us to the Dizzy Coca Cola cafe in the center. The three of us would sit and drink blueberry juice (little one), iced coffee (Big Daughter) and mineral water with lemon (me), while we recovered from the dry heat and a shopping expedition. During one memorable walk about town, after buying presents to bring home at the Museum for Ethnography, the three of wandered into the Academy Bookstore on the historic, and striking street, Knez Mihailo.To my surprise, I discovered the book "Half of a Yellow Sun." An account of the writer's experience during the Biafran War, it triggered many childhood memories for me. It seemed appropriate to read this book in Belgrade. Almost every day,we drove by damaged buildings still standing with gaping holes and smashed concrete, evidence of the bombings by NATO forces. Near the end of our strip, little one and I began venturing out to a nearby neighborhood bakery. We discovered little miniature ham sandwiches with a slice of cucumber and tomato, all held firmly in place with a toothpick. She usually ate three of those, but only after we visited Cafe Monte Cristo. The first time little one led me there -by memory - she tripped and skinned her knee as she pointed at it's signature wall of falling water. Once we sat in their comfortable wicker chairs, under the fan spewing icy air, she recovered as she sipped her blueberry juice. The three of us settled into a comfortable routine during our time at the Big N's apartment. In the evening, he considerately stayed with Lady N, his elegant and gracious girlfriend. In the morning, he would return and make coffee for Big Daughter and they would depart for the gym. Little one and I were happy to simply hang out at home for that hour and a half. As we worked on summer homework, or checked email, we could hear snatches of conversations in Serbian floating up from the street. After Big N and Big Daughter returned, we had numerous invitations to visit several of his friends and relatives. Each one of them was welcoming and hospitable -little one was taken in as family immediately (and almost always given a gift of chocolates). His friends lived in different neighborhoods throughout the city, each with it's own distinctive ambiance -some more green and lush, others with a slightly more modern, upscale design -all equally beautiful. After these visits, my favorite part of the day was returning home to eat dinner with the Might J, Big N's father, who lives in the adjacent apartment. Depending on what the cleaning lady had prepared, we would eat a soup with green beans or a rice dish with vegetables, always accompanied by a fresh salad of cucumber and tomatoes and a plate of cheese/salami. In those moments, I was simply grateful to be part of family and community. Later, in the evenings, Big N would slice watermelon and peaches and we would have a late night dessert before sleeping.

Home is Where the Heart is

The old adage to be careful for what you wish comes to mind when I think of our recent trip to Belgrade and the Dalmatian Coast. When I decided that little one and I would accompany Big Daughter to Belgrade this summer, my focus was on seeing Big Daughter and her father, the Big N, in his natural setting. It was time for her to be with both parents and her sibling in his home. After all, the Big N had traveled frequently to NYC during the past 10 years. What I did not expect was to feel like I'd finally come home during this trip. As an adult, it had been 10 years since I last traveled to Paris to collect Big Daughter from one of her summer vacations. After that adventure, for a good period of time, I hunkered down in NYC and stopped moving around so much - and even became too anxious to fly. I'm glad to report those days are officially over. There were several large tour contingents on our flight to Paris. After someone gave away our assigned seats, the three of us were literally the last to board. The airline staff worked hard to seat us together -but Big Daughter ended up squashed between a Nigerian woman who grabbed her every five seconds, due to fear of flying. As we flew across the Atlantic, I thought of numerous family trips to Europe throughout my childhood and adolesence. Our family was always en route to a new destination. My father's summer sabbaticals -at the University of Science and Technology in Kumasi, Ghana and the University of Nigeria at Insukka- were invariably spent in Europe. We visited London, Paris, Amsterdam, Rome, Zurich, Salzburg and Vienna. On the flight from Paris to Belgrade, I peered out of the window when the pilot mentioned that we were flying over Zurich and the Austrian Alps and remembered our month-long stay in the sweet and beautiful town of Mittendorf in the Austrian Alps. The train ride from Zurich to Vienna and Salzburg was exciting, and I can still see the Swiss flags fluttering in the air. It was good to be back in Europe and I felt completely at home. After returning to NYC this past Saturday evening, I am a fish out of water. My heart feels dislocated and my center of gravity is out of whack. Carl is being gentle with me. So far, he's agreed to us going with his mother on a sheep-cheese trip this Sunday and bought tickets, spur of the moment, to a Malian music concert at Avery Fisher Hall this Saturday. He knows these are not traditional after-vacation-blues. I think often of Zaton, the town that Big Daughter and Big N have been staying for the past 8 summers. Big N began visiting Zaton with his ex-wife, the Lovely Lady K. She has land there -her family's summer house was bombed during the war and she is planning to rebuild. For generations, Serbs summered in Zaton, now they are a minority, but still welcome. Just 20 minutes from Dubrovnik, Zaton is truly special and in it's own orbit. Stone houses with orange roofs, sloping down to the seaside surrounded by profusions of brilliantly colored flowers, flowering cacti, lemon, fig and orange trees and the scent of Thyme and Marjoram and Pine perfuming the air. In the early morning, while Big Daughter slept and Big N. drank coffee and read, I would take little one and meander down on a five minute walk to the dock. Once there, I would buy her a breakfast snack and we would cross the street to the beach to sit in swings while she ate, watching the boats bobbing in the sea. The walk back up the steep, narrow roads would make us laugh and little one would beg me to pick her up when it was too steep. I would distract her with the scent of thyme leaves and lemon trees. When we returned, Big Daughter would be up and drinking coffee. We would read and rest a little and then head back out to the beach around 12. The water was a piercing blue/green and clear to the bottom with little fishes swimming around our feet. The pebble beach gently massaged our backs and we would jump in and out of the water all afternoon. It was hot in Zaton. The Mediterranean sun is intense, and in the water it was heaven. Big Daughter and Big N swam all over the place -he swam steadily for two hours daily -she made large circles from the beach to the dock and back. Around 4p.m., we'd head home, shower and make dinner. Big N had brought an electric grill and one morning he took us to the market in Dubrovnik and bought prawns and fresh tuna. I'd seen a huge tuna wheeled by covered with ice. We had a piece of that for dinner along with the prawns. A few evenings, we drove into Dubrovnik for dinner. The high ramparts were imposing and once in the city, it was glistening white stone and filled with light, just as I remembered. Our last night, the family who hosted us, invited us to dinner. We were served their homemade goat cheese, olive oil and wine accompanied by a salad of fresh mussels and calamari. We sat outside by the garden and they told us about a prior visit with long-lost relatives who'd moved to Chile, and recently reconnected with them. Earlier in the evening, little one and I were taken to see the goats, the olive grove and the old Olive press at the family home in the hills, just a few minutes from there. Even the fifteen hour drive from Belgrade to Dubrovnik was spectacular. We twisted and turned on two lane highways carved out of the side of a mountain, with just a guardrail between the car and the mountainside. During the last third of the drive, the mountains met the sea and the horizon was limitless. There was a spiritual quality to the air and light. I could understand why monasteries were carved out of stone in remote settings overlooking the sea -a true homage to something beyond the human spirit. Big N was amazed that little one was calm and contented for the entire 15 hour drive. Big Daughter had made enough mixed Cds to get us through 15 hours. When he couldn't take hip hop anymore, Big N put on Johnny Cash. We stopped in Montenegro at a restaurant owned by a friend of Big N and ate obscenely rich calamari with spinach and potatoes. Big N connected with Zenya, a Russian journalist friend and his family. They had recently hosted the Big N at the family dacha outside of Moscow and were avidly discussing South Ossettia. It was truly a mix of cultures. I had a cramp in my leg (due to a wrongly-executed exercise) and needed to stretch it out. I wandered around a small marketplace of fruits and vegetables while waiting for dinner end ended up buying some ripe green figs for Big Daughter and raspberries. Little one found a Strawberry Shortcake beach towel and Big N went over to haggle. Belgrade had changed in many ways, and yet in other ways, it was completely the same. Despite my 21 year absence, I found that our family had come full circle and reconstituted. After a week with the Big N, little one said of his pending fall trip to NYC,"how will I deal with two daddies in NYC?" As Big N's father said to me, "you've changed but you're still Roni." But that's for the next post.

Noodles and

Exactly one week from today, we'll be flying to Belgrade and I'm in the mindset of the new. Pandora's box has been opened - and examined - and I'm excited about returning to Belgrade, after such a long absence. New York City feels like it did when I flew to Paris to collect Big Daughter in 1995 -summer was in full swing and it was hot. During that flight, the plane stopped to refuel in Newfoundland and everyone got off to buy an ice cream cone -except me. Apparently, that was the tradition of the stopover. I had brought snacks and ended up sharing them with my seatmates, a man and his young son. In return, the father invited me to visit his Champagne winery in Reims. Unfortunately, I was too busy in Paris with Big Daughter but I've always regretted not visiting Reims. It was a novelty for me to spend my first night solo in Paris, as Big Daughter was arriving the next day. I can still remember going to a post office to call her and say hello. After one night in an uncomfortable hotel, I ended up switching to the Hotel Rue Abbe Gregoire, a sweet little hotel I'd read about. The staff fell in love with Big Daughter and after they taught her to say "Bonjour", they would let her answer the phones. My older sister flew in from Japan with a friend to meet us. We only lasted a few days together, but that's another story. Big Daughter and I had fun traveling around Paris on the Metro. For some reason, I was frequently confused for a Parisian. This was slightly embarrassing since I would have liked to respond in French. Instead, I was reduced to saying "No Parlez vous Francais." Nonetheless, I still managed to give some people directions. Confusion and assistance are universal themes. In the spirit of exploration on Saturday morning, little one, Carl and I ventured out to Zuckers (a newish emporium specializing in homemade bagels and smoked fish) on Chambers Street, between West Broadway and Greenwich, at 9 a.m. Saturday morning. It wasn't crowded, and we ate our breakfast seated on high stools along a marble counter near the large front window. While we ate, a steady stream of fathers and children enroute to baseball leagues ordered bagels in all combinations. I opted for a cinnamon raisin bagel with smoked salmon, cream cheese and onion. Little one asked for two sunnyside eggs up with a plain bagel to dip into her yolks. Carl ordered a whole wheat bagel with jam. I mostly ate the smoked salmon and onion. It was a bit too rich with the bagel. Little one loved her eggs and Carl was satisfied. He said it was a typical old-style New York Deli, I felt like I was in Chicago. Afterwards, Carl headed to the gym and little one and I bought flowers at the local greenmarket to repot on our terrace. This is the first weekend I felt settled enough to putter i.e. dig in dirt and repot plants. As I look through the glass door, the sight of the colorful flowers is a sign that summer has arrived. The change of breakfast venue helped settle me and make the transition to new possibilities. For me, trips are never merely a visit to a new place. The act of leaving and returning shifts energy, even before we are on the plane. This week, in that same spirit of adventure, we ate at two new places in Chinatown, after little ones end-of-year school concert on Tuesday, and her piano recital. After the concert, little one and I invited her best friend, little Miss A, and her mother Lady L,. to dinner. Lady L. is used to me and my food fussiness and was anemable to my choice, in this case New Wonton Garden. After dropping little one at school, I always walk by the restaurant. I must admit the 2007 Michelin Guide window sticker intrigued me. Inside, the space has a diner-like feel with formica covered tables and an L-shaped layout. While we ate, groups of stylish young asian teenagers arrived continously. They came seeking hot, steaming bowls of noodles with all kinds of toppings either in groups or as couples. The front of New Wonton Garden is set up for a brisk takeout service. After their moment in the spotlight, Little one and little Miss A. were starving. They shared a bowl of noodles in broth, after they devoured one order of steamed pork dumplings. Lady A ordered a noodle soup with braised beef and I ordered one with Roast Pork and Roast Duck. The soups were amazing and I could understand why the restaurant is open until 2:00 a.m. It's a perfect place to head after a late night. Sir M, Lady L.'s husband is a man about town. He confirmed that a few times, he retired to New Wonton Garden for a bowl of soup, after a late,late night. After giggling and canoodling through dinner, the girls each clamored for their own box of fortune cookie, which are neatly stacked in the window. At $1.50 each, it was hard to say no. Little one was quite revved up after her piano recital this afternoon. Carl and I took her to Noodle Village, a newish restaurant on Mott Street right off Chatham Square. I'd read the Daily News review a few months ago, and had it on my to-try list. It was still early when we arrived, and blessedly cool with pleasant newly-renovated ambience. We shared an order of Mustard Green and Pumpkin Congee which was not heavy in texture, but very light, despite being piping hot. The vegetables were simple and unobtrusive. Most of the dumplings were finished for the day, but Steamed Pork and Chive dumplings were available. Carl is not normally a fan of dumplings but pronounced them very fresh. For dessert, I tried the Warm Egg Custard which was like a flan but lighter and brought the leftovers home for breakfast. In one week, we'll be eating homecooked meals in Belgrade with Big Daughter's father and grandfather. As per our itinerary, we're in Belgrade from June 20-23. Then, we'll drive down to the Adriatic Coast for a week's stay in Zaton, a small seaside village in Croatia, until July 1st or so. My last visit to the Adriatic Coast, we'd stayed at a small inn overlooking the sea. It was like a dream, the tuna was fresh caught, the olive oil was made on site -maybe even the wine - and I was in heaven. I hadn't yet embarked on my food adventures, but thinking back, I believe that was the beginning of the end for me. Once I ate food from the source, I couldn't turn back. I can still remember the drive to the inn. The road was literally carved out of the side of a small mountain and time seemed to be suspended. We came down off that mountain and many things changed.

Chocolate Shakes and Milky Way

Late this afternoon, I stopped in at Panya, a small Japanese bakery on E. 9th Street. I was en route to meet my private clients and wanted a simple, filling treat. Due to time constraints and work responsibilities, I couldn't visit Podunk. I craved something cold and chocolate after eating a great lunch today at Shachi's, a small Venezuelan restaurant on Havemeyer Street, next to my office in Williamsburg. Big Daughter and I shared a salad, fried calamari and two arepas, one with shredded beef and the other with pieces of chorizo and grated cheese. The food was wonderful, especially the arepas. Big Daughter was in heaven. Afterwards, she accompanied me to Namaste, a wonderful Yoga studio and massage studio on Grand Street, right off Havemeyer. I'd mixed up a massage appointment and wanted to apologize in person, and re-schedule. Big Daughter was quite impressed with Namaste, and especially with the gentle energy of Caitlin and Debbie, the two proprietors. We sorted out the massage appointment and now, after our arepas, I wanted something cold and refreshing for dinner. As I walked through the East Village, I was flipping my mental rolodex and thinking chocolate shake, and thought of Panya. They've been on E. 9th street forever and are one storefront away from Hasaki, one of the first original Japanese restaurants on E. 9th street. In the past decade, 9th between Second and Third Avenues, has evolved into Japanese-restaurant-row. I love Panya with a passion and find that I drop in for awhile, drift away but always find my way back. It's a mainstay. As I walk to my 8th street apartment, I always look for Panya as part of my regular route. It's a cross between the home kitchen with an overseas flavor. Going out for Japanese food at Hasaki was a big deal, back in the mid-1980s, when I first moved to NYC. Lady M, the elegant sister of my then-boyfriend Sir M.B., introduced us to Hasaki with a real sense of ceremony. I always liked that about Lady M. When it came to food, she tolerated no wasted moments. As I walked past Hasaki, I remembered her unique sense of aesthetic. From the first moment I saw her, Lady M. embodied a very real sense of what was real and authentic. She was completely inaccessible -in a truly cool way- and epitomized the free-wheeling, creative and adventurous spirit of the gritty Lower East Side. I first met Lady M. on a road trip from Purdue University to Washington D.C. In the early spring of 1979, we were visiting the Congressional offices of Floyd Fithian, the Indiana Congressman. We stopped to visit Lady M. She was wearing a blue Norma Kamali jump suit. It was cold and Lady M. put on a long, puffy down coat. This was before they became ubiquitous. That day I received my first lesson on making visual statements. which I put into practice much later on. Lady M. definitely influenced my sense of style. Personal style is a synergy of time, experience and hard knocks. After all that, I earned the confidence to wear what I wanted. Lady M. mixed it up better than anyone else. Back to Panya, where I was reading the drink listings on their chalkboard. I stopped at a shake called the Milky Way. A large part of Panya's charm is the unfailing politeness of the counter staff. Over the past decade, this factor has remained constant. The first young woman was unable to explain the contents of the Milky Way. She got her counterpart, and he explained that the Milky Way is made up of fruit juice, and a little milk mixed with crushed ice. I asked if chocolate could be substituted for fruit juice and he said of course. I had conjured up a shake tasting exactly like a Milky Way candy bar. The end result was a perfectly flavored, thick chocolate shake for dinner. This week, I've been feeling like a visitor to NYC and I always love that. Monday evening, Miz C.N. and I met for dinner at Lovely Lady, a real gem of a restaurant on Elizabeth between Prince and Spring. It's just up the street from Peasant. Miz C.N. had stumbled on Lovely Lady while showing her future in-laws around. Big Daughter frequently refers to me as "lovely lady" - which is fine by me -so the association was immediately positive. I arrived first and took out the NY Times crossword. I can generally complete the crossword on Monday, Tuesday (and sometimes, Wednesday). A young couple sat down behind me. The boyfriend said "Oh yeah! We just finished doing that, so let us know if you need help." More serendipity. Miz C.N. showed up shortly thereafter and ordered a Pimms with cucumber and mint. It was a Pimms Mojito and tasted yummy. I ordered the sparkling Lambrusco. The waitress warned me it was "balsamic". After not eating for four days, due to a vicious stomach virus which felled our whole family during a two week span, the Lambrusco provided the perfect balance. I finished exactly half of it. Miz C.N. and I decided to share a small order of pineapple fried brown rice, stir fried Tofu with sweet chili sauce and a noodle dish with sauteed red peppers and onions. Everything was terrific. I almost went for the Cranberry bread pudding with challah bread. but remembered that earlier, I ate the chocolate almond frosting atop a red velvet cupcake at Sugar Sweet Sunshine, on Rivington just off Essex. This was after visiting the dentist's office for a cleaning. Go figure. En route to collect little one at school, I wanted frosting. I plan to order the Cranberry bread pudding for lunch on another visit. After dinner, Miz C.N. took me next door for a brief visit to the elegant boutique, Erica Tanov New York. She'd stumbled on it after finding Lovely Lady. I swooned over the distinctive candles and one-of-a-kind necklaces, and encouraged Miz C.N. to try on a beautiful leather bracelet with delicate pewter detailing. It fit her small wrist perfectly. Thankfully, this week there have been no more bouts of anxiety. In a stroke of randomness, both Miz C.N. and Sir D., former staff at the Williamsburg office, had asked to meet for lunch/dinner. It's good to see them doing so well in their new jobs. Their companionship, combined with good food, was a soothing balm. I was reminded of how much we accomplished together, and grateful to realize there's more to come.