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.