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.