Hot mulled cider and the winter of my discontent

In the nick of time, my dear friend, Lady E., called me on Monday to check in. I was tapped out, after hosting little one's birthday party at the Chinatown Y, on Bowery near Houston on Sunday. Despite positive reviews, I worried that the food, from Pizza n Kebabs, 9th street at First Avenue, was late. Carl wanted the pizzas and salad delivered between 1-1:30 p.m. I suggested 12:30. He prevailed. The snacks were gone by 12:30, and I was mortified. My friend Lady S., and her delightful twins mistakenly went to the Y at Hester street. They arrived cold and hungry, after trudging around Chinatown, searching for the party. She was relieved that food remained. Other party goers were clearly having fun. It was hostess anxiety. As the party ended, Carl quickly visited DeRobertis Bakery, First Avenue between 10th and 11th, for an extra birthday cake, and a box of assorted cookies. It was a nice touch. As she departed, Lady S. accepted my offer of the remaining cookies. Several friends observed that little one gave no indication of the recent big changes with our family. She was happy and engaged throughout the party, and even made me dance the cha-cha-cha with her. Lady E. had stopped by with a present, but we didn't have a chance to talk. Monday afternoon, we ended up at Gottino's, 52 Greenwich Avenue at Perry Street, for a late-day snack. Normally, Gottino's is half-full on a weekday afternoon. Martin Luther King's birthday notwithstanding - almost all the seats at the bar were taken. Through the window, the falling snow was a pretty sight. Recently, the cold weather has left me feeling like a beached whale on an especially frozen shore. New York is in a deep freeze. Fortunately, or unfortunately, it evinces my first introduction to the U.S. Arriving in St. Paul, Minnesota, during the heart of winter was no picnic, for a tropical girl. Looming towers of snow lined the streets, accompanied by below-zero wind chill. Sometimes snow can be like ashes. In the parlance of my profession, I've been feeling dysthymic -always irritable. The wonders, or terrors of therapy. At Gottino, I struggled to maintain some optimism. It was hard going, until we received the perfect treat of mulled wine, or Vin Brule, as per Jody Williams, the proprietress. She had arrived while we were eating. Her unabashed enthusiasm was contagious, as she stood at the bar, and proudly surveyed her full house. Ms. Williams explained that small glasses of mulled wine are customarily imbibed by skiers on the slopes of Northern Italy. Earlier, I caught a whiff of something spiced, and warm. After observing the counterman filling a small glass from a silver tureen behind the bar, I asked him about it. He explained what it was, and offered us two glasses. Lady E. does not like alcohol. I assured her that a tiny glass of mulled wine was simply for comfort, and it was. For a brief moment, life tilted back to the side of warmth and sustenance. Thursday morning, en route to Carl's apartment, I stopped for breakfast at Falai, 265 Lafayette Street, just below Prince. Big Daughter was packing the last of her belongings. Since her return from Belgrade, we have been fighting our way through the pain of moving. Today's fight was particularly messy, after my melancholy meal. In a fit of pique, I threw the remote. A silly gesture, since I rarely watch television. Two summers ago, little one, Carl and I frequently ate breakfast at Falai, before her Sunday morning soccer practice at the Pace High School track. All white with glass chandeliers, there is a regal, Italian air. Falai has been redesigned since my last visit. Sitting at the counter, I noticed the precise order of wineglasses, and pans and microwaves. There's a different brand of tea, of which the English Breakfast flavor was very good. I hadn't counted on the feeling of dislocation evoked by my visit. Luckily, I calibrated the milk and sugar to make several perfect cups of tea. Not an easy balance at all.

The New Order and the Big Chill

As Carl and I have settled into a routine of separate homes and a shared child, we find ourselves spending time together with Little one on Saturday afternoons. After her afternoon ballet class, we generally get a snack and run errands. Now that she mostly gets unlimited attention from one parent, Little one appreciates these positive times with both of us - at least once a week. In recent months, I was mostly angry with Carl. It was not good for her, or Big Daughter to observe this. I'm becoming accustomed to my nights apart from Little One. Big Daughter remains in Belgrade, visiting her father and his family. It helps that Sunny's Flowers is close by, at the corner of 102 Second Avenue, corner of 6th Street. I can always buy myself an exquisite bouquet of flowers, like I did yesterday; little miniature pink roses, a tulip with waffled edges and something perfectly green with white blossoms. One block from Sunny's, is Podunk, my favorite tea room on E. 5th street, between 2nd and Bowery. Elspeth, the delightful proprietress, changed the menu over the Christmas break. I love the danish cookies with dipping sauce, a thin frosting that usually drips onto my clothes. Last Saturday, Carl raved over his spicy Malaysian noodles at Egg Custard King II in Chinatown, on Mott Street just off Canal. The staff is sweet with me. I keep ordering iced milk teas, despite the chilly weather. Once we picked up the Zipcar, and headed out of NYC, we were possibly the only fools driving upstate in a snowstorm. Carl had graciously offered to take me to the Theory outlet at Woodbury Commons in Harriman, NY, to purchase a suit. Interviewing requires suits, and I was lacking one. When we exited off the slippery Palisades Parkway, to the more-icy Route 17, Little one began oohing and ahhing at the blizzard-like snow rushing past the car windows. After stopping for gas, Carl became nervous about the low visibility, as he resumed driving. Seeing that we were behind a snow plow, spreading salt on the road, I observed this as positive. Little one began announcing every snow plow that passed. Privately, I began to feel guilty about the whole trip, and wondered if we were on a foolhardy expedition. Ironically, the roads were plowed and clear at Woodbury Commons. Small snowplows continually kept the sidewalks clear for shoppers. Little one enjoyed running in and out of the dressing room, until the saleslady was satisfied with my choice. I began to weary of the search, but she insisted that we find the right size pants, and a properly-fitted jacket. The savings were worth the harrowing trip. A $600 suit for $168. Big Daughter called from Belgrade, as we were heading back to NYC. She checked the suit out online, and approved. The wonders of the Internet. This Saturday, there are myriad errands for little one's birthday party, which is scheduled for Sunday at the Chinatown Y on Bowery at Houston Street. Due to a forecast of bitter cold, I requested that Carl again rent a Zipcar, since we must travel all over the city. My friend Lady S. suggested that we visit both the State News Store, 112 E. 86th Street, between Lexington and Park, and the Children's General Store, at 168 E. 91st Street, for party favors. They reportedly have many small toys to fit in several party favor bags, without breaking the bank. Heading back to the East Village we will order one chocolate, and one strawberry shortcake at De Robertis Italian Bakery, 176 First Avenue between 10th and 11th streets. When I first moved to NYC in 1982, I would spend a fair amount of time in DeRobertis. I remember buying small cookies with fig filling, when I didn't feel well. Then, I discovered their Hot Cross buns for Easter. A small pillow of sweet dough. We had the same cakes at last year's birthday. Despite himself, Carl began laughing, when I suggested that we head out to Bay Ridge to eat at Al Safa, 8002 Fifth Avenue, a Middle-Eastern restaurant in Bay Ridge, and then go to Nablus, a nearby restaurant for Middle Eastern sweets, 6812 Fifth Avenue, after the errands are done. Carl is the last of a dying breed; a New York bachelor through and through. He is content to regain ownership of his space and prepare for March Madness, which is soon approaching. I think of the image of Buffalo roaming the open plains, before the settlers came.

Porchetta, Apple Cider and the New Year

Every year, New Year's Day slams into me like a brick hitting a wall, and I don't even have a hangover. It's not the quietness of the city that bothers me on New Year's Day. There's a deeper feeling - it's like temporarily crossing a narrow strait without direction. Maybe that's why so many people drink the night away. On New Year's Day, my friend Lady E. agreed to meet for lunch. We decided to eat North Indian food at Dhaba, on Lexington Avenue between 27th and 28th streets. Apparently, Dhaba is part of a group of several Indian restaurants in NYC. The decor had a larger-than-life quality. It was very modern, all bold reds and purples, with elegant booths. We declined to sit in the window, and regretted our decision for the meal's duration. Every time the door opened, whoosh, a blast of cold air blew in. The chai tea was served in glasses. We were tickled to get sugar, but no spoon for stirring. We used our knives to mix in the sugar. Dhaba offers several kinds of Indian street snacks called chaat. We selected one called Purani Delhi Ki Papri chaat. It came with semolina, flour chips, chutneys and was sprinkled with pomegranate seeds. We also ordered Aloo Gobi Samosa. Samosas are a triangle of dough filled with mashed potato and spices. When I was a child, my mother would make samosas for us to eat during long road trips in Nigeria. Lastly, we shared a mild curry with chicken, green peppers and onions, with an order of Poori, a big puffed, whole wheat bread. Midway through lunch, I had a mini anxiety attack, but kept it to myself. Afterwards, when Lady E. invited me to join her and friends to see the movie, The Day The Earth Stood Still, I declined. It felt little too close to my truth, but I didn't say that. Little one was with Carl, visiting a friend in New Jersey. Big Daughter was in Belgrade. During the holidays, New York City can feel unkind when family is not nearby. It is a humbling feeling. By contrast, New Year's Eve was low-key. It was nice to stay home and read. After finishing some errands on New Year's Eve, little one and I stopped for roasted pork sandwiches at Porchetta. Located at 110 E. 7th street, between First Avenue and Avenue A, it's a few blocks from the E. Village apartment. In late October, I tried to visit with Carl, but was put off by the crowd. True to form, the small storefront (recently voted No. 1 in New York Magazine's Where to Eat 2009 issue), was bustling. People spilled out of the space, into the doorway and onto the street. To escape the crush, we stood outside, amidst miniature, swirling snowflakes, while we waited for our sandwich. Through the window, a man eating inside at the counter, smiled periodically at us. After awhile, little one was cold. We went back in, and found seats at the counter. I was amused to see that 7th street is developing into it's own little foodie destination. After ordering, several patrons, headed over to Butter Lane, a new bakery specializing in cupcakes with really creamy frosting. The frosting is like a cloud of sweet cream. As they left Porchetta, several of them said "cupcakes", with a question mark. I pointed them across the street, almost to Avenue A. I had stopped in at Butter Lane and purchased one cupcake to go, the Thursday that Big Daughter ended up in the E.R. at St. Vincent's Hospital. After we returned home from the hospital that morning at 1:30 a.m., she was thrilled to eat the cupcake, and pronounced it "amazing." Once our sandwich was ready, little one said she liked the ciabatta roll. I liked the pork. We were content. I didn't mind spending $9 for a sandwich on New Year's Eve. Little one expressed a wish to watch the ball drop at midnight. When I returned home at 8, after seeing two clients, she was fast asleep. Carl had come over to watch her. At our request, he kindly brought Carr's crackers - (my favorite), cheese straws for little one, along with cheddar cheese, salami and one 8 oz bottle of sparkling apple cider. He was worried that he bought too little cheese. Bazzini's, in Tribeca -where he bought the food - drives him crazy. He remembers when they were wholesale, Tribeca was like a desert. I was upset that little one and I would not be able to toast the New Year with that single bottle of apple cider. In the spirit of graciousness, I kept quiet. Sure enough, the cider was finished when I returned. Carl had a New Year's Eve party to attend. He agreed to return in the morning and help me recycle the Christmas tree in Tompkins Square Park, before collecting little one. While she slept, I read Under the Tuscan Sun, by Francis Mayes. My mother had mailed the book to me in late October. It was surprisingly comforting to lie on the couch, and read Ms. Mayes' account of a house restoration, interspersed with recipes and musings on eating porchetta. I'd been planning to make a ragu when Big Daughter gets home, and here was not the recipe.