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.

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.