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.

Spicy Noodles and jellyfish

This afternoon, during my regular Wednesday afternoon tea break at Podunk, Elspeth and I discussed the idea of convergence. Luckily for me, we had this conversation after I finished drinking a highly-refreshing apricot coconut iced tea with blueberries and nibbled on dates stuffed with Gorgonzola cheese, almond tea cakes, cheese biscuits and one delicious chocolate truffle. If I understood Elspeth correctly, convergence is a special moment when things come together -not necessarily due to any specific planning -but as a result of different things aligning. It was helpful for me to hear this as there was another frightening bout of anxiety last week. These moments are also difficult for those around me and the idea of convergence clarified my desire for protection and safety in day-to-day life. This has made for some humorous moments recently. When they briefly forgot my iced chai latte at Cafe Grumpy Saturday morning, I knew I was in trouble when I almost started crying. The main counterman at Cafe Grumpy is - sorry Carl - really cute. He looks really Indian, (apologies if he isn't), is very, very nice -and completely unavailable. Anyway, for some reason, those factors helped me compose myself as he apologetically prepared my chai. Cafe Grumpy is, after all, a temple of coffee. It became clear as I observed another counterman continually doing something, to the top of their very fancy coffee machine. More importantly, I avoided the embarrassment of crying and graciously waited for my tea. Later on, throughout the holiday weekend, several more humorous moments of disappointments occurred. Again, the theme of convergence raising it's little head. Sunday morning, Little one, Carl and I drove out to Sunken Meadow, the United Nations of beaches, on Long Island. It was an absolutely beautiful day. Several of our fellow beach goers commented to each other on the bright, sunny windless day. After we set up shop on our little patch of sand, Carl took little one to the swings, as is his custom. I read for awhile, then wandered down to the beach and observed a Horseshoe Crab scuttling by under the water. After asking my neighbor about it, her son actually picked up the crab and created a small incident. Several people ran over to take pictures and oohed and ahhed. I was wishing that little one could see this and realized that over an hour had passed. At that point, I entertained visions of walking back to NYC and finally, I got dressed and marched over to the swings. I discovered Carl talking to another family and began crying about my abandonment on the beach. The other couple slipped away and Carl looked completely mystified. Suffice it to say, he and little one returned with me to the beach. The next day, Memorial Day, little one, Big Daughter, the Big D, Carl and I were all squashed together on one blanket and one towel. In the spirit of close quarters, Big Daughter and her pal had forgotten their towels. We were at the beach at Wading River State Park, near Riverhead, Long Island. Again, I found myself in an uncertain place. Without mentioning my discomfort, I decided to walk to the water's edge to soothe myself. As I stood there, meditating on the beautiful gradation of green to blue hues of the ocean, I looked down and observed about twenty baby jellyfish floating around my ankles. At that point, I accepted my Kafkaesque state of existence. Discomfort was inevitably in the cards. In an odd way, I found this strangely comforting: a convergence of truth perhaps. Anyway, the day ended on a high note. After driving back to the city, we decided on dinner at our old favorite, Grand Sichuan Restaurant, located at 125 Canal Street, just before the Manhattan Bridge. Carl and I ate there frequently, when we first met. As we waited for our order, we recollected a particularly memorable visit, several summers ago, on a 100 degree day. Big Daughter was on her annual visit to Belgrade and little one was a beautiful idea. After swimming at the Pitt Street pool in the early evening, we had walked over to Grand Sichuan. After dinner, as we prepared to pay, we realized we had no cash. We were requested to leave various articles for collateral; watches, metrocards,jewelry. It had been a few years since we returned. I was eagerly anticipating the Cold Noodles with Sesame Sauce and requested them mildly spicy. After my first bite, I was seized with a fear that I would never get rid of the hot taste in my mouth. Luckily, there was tea smoked duck and Chicken Lo Mein. Carl was happy to finish the noodles and I ordered a Tsing-Tao, which momentarily cooled me off and settled my nerves.

Sweets on a rainy day

In just under one month, little one and I will be traveling with Big Daughter to Belgrade, Serbia to visit the Big N, Big Daughter's father, and his family. It's been 21 years since my last trip to Belgrade. Although I only stayed with the Big N and his family for six months- my life changed immeasurably. I was pondering these changes today, during a wet, rainy lunch-time walk back to my office on the South Side of Williamsburg. Given my fluctuating mood, I opted for two quick stop-offs at Cheeks Bakery and Roebling Tea Room. When negotiating particularly trying moments, a visit to Cheeks is immensely grounding. I'm usually soothed by one or two small treats. Today, I felt the need to arm myself with a myriad of selections - a slice of apple crumble, a lemon curd tart, one plain peanut butter cookie, another peanut butter cookie with raisins and dried cherries, a bag of homemade granola and a walnut scone with a slice of cheddar cheese and pear -all to bring home. There's nothing worse than waking up and finding nothing appealing in the kitchen. After a short chat with Melanie, the exquisitely-talented owner/chief baker at Cheeks, I scooted over to Roebling Tea Room and picked up a significantly peppery Yogi Chai latte. Sufficiently fortified with provisions, but unable to eat more than the slice of cheese and a taste of granola, I reflected on the person I was in 1987. The Big N had graduated Divinity School, and after 5 years in NYC, I was at loose ends. Little did I know how profound our trip would be. Big Daughter arrived just two years later. Although the Big N and I opted to divorce when she was quite young, we remained a family. As I prepare for this trip, I am surprised by the emerging mix of emotions. Carl is a bit mystified by the situation. He tends to take a logical approach to the matter and therefore wonders if Pandora's box should be re-opened. My excitement and anxiety about returning to a place where I was once uncertain and unmoored is tempered by the memories. Belgrade was an amazing place in 1987. For me, it was the twilight of the East and West and a place where I felt loved. Despite my personal angst, I was instantly at home with the friends and family of the Big N. Food was a huge part of the trip and I'm looking forward to becoming reacquainted with Burek (a flaky filo pastry filled with cheese or meat) and the wonderful open-air boats which double as restaurants serving fresh fish on the Dunav River in Belgrade. Tomatoes are a part of every meal, as is the ubiquitous Turkish coffee. I've already googled at least one tea room, and have been promised introductions to many more by a good friend of the Big N. In the meantime, as the trip draws closer, I am restless in NYC. Little one wasn't too thrilled on Saturday morning, when I opted for breakfast at 'Beca, a restaurant in the newish Duane Street Hotel, at the corner of Duane and Church. The dining room is a long, narrow space with bright sun exposure. Even with the blinds down, the effect was very South Beach and minimalist. Little one ordered three eggs sunny side up, with fingering potatoes flavored with rosemary, and two slices of turkey bacon. I ordered a pot of Darjeeling Freres Mariage tea, a side of seven grain toast and homemade jam,and another side of turkey bacon. Carl opted for homemade granola with blueberries and greek yogurt. Midway through breakfast, five men were seated at the table next to us. Snippets of conversation drifted over to us, centered around plans to buy a building in the Financial District. Throughout their conversation, one of them was frequently checking his Blackberry. As we were leaving, I offered to button little one's sweater and he looked up and smiled. The chef, Kristiaan Ueno, was just outside the kitchen and thanked us for visiting. He was thrilled to hear that Carl loved his granola and explained that it was homemade. We weren't surprised to hear that he places a premium on using fresh, locally grown or sourced ingredients at 'Beca. Later that afternoon, we drove little one to a birthday party at the Alley Pond Miniature Golf Course in College Point, Queens. I was mystified at how rapidly Carl rented a car. My requests are generally met with gentle diatribes on the finances of such things. On the drive there, Carl mentioned his childhood recollections of playing miniature golf at Alley Pond. He remembered his continual longing, throughout his childhood, to return for another round. In the spirit of equality, he extended the rental so we could get a snack afterwards off the beaten path -since we had the car. I suggested that we meet my friend Miss E., and her partner Miss A., at the Oak Cafe, 361 Graham, in Williamsburg. Occasionally, I read the restaurant reviews on www.freewilliamsburg.com and was entranced by the review of the Oak Cafe. I was specifically drawn to the description of their ricotta cheese. After consultation with Miss E., we decided to meet around 4 p.m. As I got out of the car on Metropolitan Avenue, I remembered living in the neighborhood as a single mother, when Big Daughter was two years old. Even with the influx of hipsters, I still felt the same ambiance of 1991; a sleepy, homey vibe. We walked through the empty front room into the backyard of the Oak Cafe. The outside deck had a scattering of customers and a late-afternoon summer ambiance, albeit with a slight chill in the air. The waitress gave us the brunch menu, but a few minutes later, she returned with the dinner menu. I ordered the cheese plate, which included the delectable Ricotta and some amazing house made preserves, a Manchego, Gorgonzola, Honey and lightly spiced almonds. I also selected the vegetable antipasto, which was comprised of lightly grilled mushrooms, strips of roasted peppers, marinated artichokes and small balls of mozzarella cheese. Little one was just dozing off in her car seat when we arrived at Oak Cafe. She was not happy to be moved and protested for a bit. After the spicy lentil soup arrived, she calmed down and happily dipped her bread into it. Miss E. and Miss A. were charmed by her as they drank tall glasses of tart lemonade. Carl was more than happy to offer them a ride into the city and my restlessness was momentarily quelled.