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.