City Mouse, Town Mouse

Visiting our friends in Pennsylvania over this past weekend, I discovered something new: the life of the town mouse. Until now, I’ve only known the pretty sharp divide between Country Mouse (beauty, idyll, low rent, and terrible chinese food) and City Mouse (the glittering compromise of paying pounds of flesh for the privilege of seeing a human poo on the subway… on the way to get amazing sichuan and see The Moth story slam live). My dear friend McKay, sensing a potential shift, gave me this New Yorker cartoon when I first moved up from my Virginia farmhouse (sidenote: the fact that a New Yorker cartoon actually pertained to me was an early City Mouse thrill):

Cartoon by A. Geisert, 12/1/06

But instead of either traipsing down a fetid sidewalk or run over in the middle of 6th avenue, there could be another fate: Town Mouse. Rare in America, my friends have a beautiful old sort of Craftsman house in an awake little old-fashioned downtown- walking distance to the market, the dry cleaner, the bookstore, the coffeeshop, the train station, and (!) work etc. but with space, calm, fabulous light and a good mortgage (I’m guessing. City Mice don’t think twice about talking rent money and square footage over $8 beers, but when you’re drinking a very nice cote du something with some Town Mice, it feels unseemly to ask them whether they paid extra for the washer/dryer). But think. Town Mouse could keep her jewels in a tiny cup when she was at the sink. Town Mouse could have a sweet, sunny little place for strawberry baskets, eggs from the chickens, and muddy shoes.Town Mouse could have this tree in her backyard.But…City Mouse still has it pretty good, for now.

Gone to Lebanon

My mama was in town all last week and we had a time. When we weren’t covered in paint or dust we were covered in flour and wine and good long hugs. Just as things should be. You’ll have to wait a minute for the before/after of all the projects we tackled… but first! I must tell about the Kitchen Garden Cooking School. This was the theoretical “excuse” of her visit, that she would come up and we would meet our dear old friends (a mother and daughter just as prone to nesting and cocktails as we, of course) and take a short class on Lebanese cooking. Glorious. The air was gilded, the kitchen was warm and bright, and the lions share of the ingredients came directly from the garden. Things I didn’t know about before: sumac (a deep red powder that lends a lemony sprinkle), pomegranate molasses (deep, dark, tart, sweet, the best new discovery since Maggi Seasoning, and available at Sahadi’s on Atlantic avenue), and, of course, how to make pitas from scratch:We left with full bellies and a packet of recipes- some that will become favorites, some that may never be attempted again- my favorite? Muhammara. This roasted red pepper dip is not only a total revelation of deliciousness, it’s made from ingredients that can simply lie in wait in the pantry, ready to ambush a blitzkrieg of unexpected dinner guests.

Muhammara

2 roasted red peppers (from the jar is just fine)
1 cup walnuts
½ cup fine bread crumbs, crackers or panko
1 T lemon juice
2 T pomegranate molasses
1 tsp dried Aleppo pepper or hot paprika
¼ tsp ground cumin
½ tsp salt
¼ tsp sugar
2 T olive oil

In a food processor, puree all of the ingredients except the olive oil until completely combined and creamy.  Add the olive oil in a thin stream.  Serve at room temperature. Marvel at the skill and ease with which you entertain.

(from Sheila McDuffie and the Kitchen Garden Cooking School)

 

ps. don’t all New Yorkers wish their kitchen felt like this? O! The Open Shelves! O! The TWO sinks! O me O my!

Arts and Farts and Crafts

In which: my mama comes to town and we begin to execute a series of much discussed craft projects (increasingly-ambitious-proportional-to-the-amount-of-wine-we’ve-had)  painstakingly designed and overseen by Nipsey Russell the cat. More to come…

Revisionist History

This is a 5 year Journal (from the amazing Gravel and Gold, of course). You get about an inch each day to record what happened on that day every year for five years. Marvelous. Terrifying. Now, I’ve always wanted to keep a journal. But- I’ve never been able to make it work. It takes too much time to capture everything I know I should, and whenever I have tried (often at various stages), it always feels like I’m writing as if I hoped someone would find it (this is probably why I can keep it together to write here). I prefer to send postcards, a form of daily recounting that goes away on the wind like a smoke signal, and to the same purpose. For a postcard l will dedicate hours at cafes, during breakfast, on fallen logs painstakingly recounting the day in 6 point font or (even better) drawing elaborate tiny diagrams to show and tell what I’ve been up to. Here’s one addressed to sweetheart, and the cat, that I sent from San Francisco this summer (the rarity! A postcard that you get to see after you sent it): I cannot imagine the 5 year journal. But I am enamored with the principal. So about this time last year I read a re-circulated article about 10q, and immediately added my name to the list. 10q is a series of, well, ten questions of varying degrees of banality and intensity that you answer once a year. “Describe an event in the world that has impacted you this year.” or “How would you like to improve yourself and your life next year?”. One year later, your previous answers are revealed to you via e-mail as if your inbox were a personal, virtual time capsule. Theoretically this serves as an exercise in reflection, and (hopefully) an indicator of personal growth, right? I signed up for it (stoked!) and one year later my answers were e-mailed to me. Uh… it turns out, I had neglected to actually answer any of the questions. Whoopsie. So, the e-mail just said:

Is there something that you wish you had done differently this past year?

your answer:

Think about a major milestone that happened with your family this past year. How has this affected you?

your answer:

BLARGGGGGHH! My personal history is BLANK. Reflection and personal growth? Naaah, not for me. Or maybe it was that I didn’t want to dwell (at the time) on a pretty rocky year and a relatively uncertain future. Or that I didn’t want to dwell theatrically. Or maybe it was that 2010 me didn’t feel like putting on a brave face for the benefit of 2011 me (but I knew I’d think I was a bitch in hindsight if I didn’t put on a brave face, so I left it blank). Anyway, this year I am DOING IT. I recommend you do too.

Blue Bottle Coffee

Even though summer is lingering as we always wish it would, confusing trees whose leaves blushed too early, thank goodness the transition from iced cold brew to hot-cha-cha coffee is still imminent. Jocie and I met for a brisk picnic lunch on The Highline and she, with a little persuasion, gave me an ad hoc architectural walking tour (awesome!). En route, we decided that if we were going to discuss Highline Architecture 101 (encompassing topics as diverse as “barrier elements mirror forms of both the in situ natural and industrial” and/or “life/work integration of public and private spaces”) that we definitely needed some coffee. ASAP. For my own life/work integration, I sort of, really, very much need, want, and have to have at least one of these single cup fast-as-lightning drip brewers from Blue Bottle Coffee. All I need is gravity and (in this case) the rarefied sideways light of the Highline over 10th avenue. Simple as that.

Friendship Octopus

Meags was in town this weekend. In addition to laughing late into the night and my favorite kind of long champagney afternoon spent talking story and just flipping and flipping the same record over and over, we also did a once-over of the Brooklyn Flea (one of the last summeryfeeling days and, hey, it’s right by my house). In a moment of utter genius we impulsively purchased matching octopus necklaces. Because although each wearing half of a heart, one side saying “Best” and the other saying “Friends” is alright, knowing that I’d like to hug her across miles of I-95 with all eight of my arms is much better. We got them at Birdhouse (which has tons of awesome blingy and fun big baubles for cheep cheep). Friendship Octopus: Highly Recommended.

Rainy Day Baking

Such a grey and rainy mournful Brooklyn day, what’s a girl to do? Why, obviously, make a bunch of coffee, put on some Gershwin, and do a little light nesting and bake some deep, dark, subtley spicy Mexican Chocolate Cookies (and then eat them for breakfast). Here’s the simple recipe (cut out from Cooking Light in 2009 and found this morning stuck in the back of my recipe book, never made). I only had the tail-end of a bag of semi-sweet chocolate chips (and gawd knows I’m not going out in the rain until it’s utterly necessary/time to go play music over at John and Janelle’s), but due to sweetheart’s sweet tooth there was half a fancy pantsy bar of Theo Dark Chocolate with Spicy Chile on hand, which, quite frankly, was utterly perfect. I dusted with powdered sugar and cocoa, but- if you didn’t have any bougie chile chocolate on hand, adding a little bit the ground red pepper to the sugar/cocoa would be awesome. Anyway, rainy day vanquished, nest nested!

“Nobody’s Perfect”

And then I went to Cubana Social for drinks, where they had two awesome things happening at the same time in the same place: a noise-jazz quartet with a bassist with a hottentot, and “Some like it Hot” playing on mute in the background. I’m not sure which I liked better. You can see in this picture that it’s that part at the very end where Jack Lemmon (as Geraldine) tells Osgood that they can’t be together because he’s a man, and Osgood says “Well, Nobody’s Perfect”+ Micheladas, and it almost was.

I heart the Williamsburg waterfront

I had the distinct pleasure to spend almost my entire weekend looking at this view from various angles of repose. On Saturday I was text-ambushed with the news that Widespread Panic was playing at the WIlliamsburg Waterfront and, as a tribute to my 16 year old self (who would have certainly known well in advance if Panic was coming within a 100 mile radius, much less a 1 mile radius, and would have accumulated secret stores of Southern Comfort and patchwork swirly skirts in anticipation), I put on my dancing booties and hopped on the train. The show was marvelous, and the venue so perfectly lovely- a gently sloping field-ish right on the river with the fresh fall breeze ruffling all of our feathers. Then on Saturday, the ever-so-handsome boys of Roosevelt Dime played sunset-set at Taste Williamsburg Greenpoint.This fabulous event was comprised basically of incredible hors d’oeuvres from various awesome restaurants and lots of delicious beer- all for charity to keep a historic Brooklyn firehouse from being bulldozed down so that Goonies-type development interests can move in. Basically: a pork-belly-and-dixieland-jazz version of Mouth’s bag of jewels. Watching the changing light color the city like the Gershwin Fantasia, all in the midst of a just-cool indian summer, and it was Ahhh heart NY.

Goodbye South… for a bit.

I’ve just gotten back from marvelous adventures back down South… whenever I go home all of its specialness seems to hit me right in the mouth with the force of humidity and biscuits. It’s starting to feel like cool plaid fall in New York, which might be the bittersweetest loveliness that a city girl can ask for, but the joyful heartache that is the autumn city is right up there with the effortless still warm evenings of southern indian summer, the kind where the air is as full as the moon. So, I’ll be back soon.