outside

I make the city bearable by getting outside of it. There is a beauty in the racket of Chinatown at dusk, yes, but it is not the kind of beauty that wears my heart out. I seek the wider spaces. This weekend: forge the city to where it drops off, a beach - a stretch of sand, some dunes, the waves roughing me up, small stones stuck to my skin. And a chocolate milkshake from McDonalds, because a wet bathing suit needs no encouragement. Then to the High Line with cold tea, the wooden planks sturdy and almost truly worn. Evening, we go to Prospect Park with a salad of couscous, basil, and cherries. The fireflies come out. Walking home, knee-deep in white wine, someone has set up telescopes on the sidewalk. "You wanna see?" In one, a paper cut-out that they tell me is Saturn, the rings clearly visible, the whole thing a joke - a cosmic joke, of course, it's real, it's out there, I can't stop laughing. And the moon, which I have to squint to take in full, the dark side hungry and wide, the surface like dust on a windscreen, like a moth in my hands.

left my apron

Since I moved to New York, I've barely spent any time in the kitchen. It's incredibly disorienting, losing that time, that space. I don't think I realized how much I relied on it. I had trouble, in the wake of the mess of last year, figuring out why I was cooking, what it meant. It had come to be a shared activity for me, a moment of care, a time to make tangible my feelings, my desire to comfort and nurture. By golly, that sounds domestic and pathetic, but it is what it is. I wanted to feed others. It's why I grew to love cooking - watching my father - it's how I view my relationship to food - as a source of warmth, of community. 

This kitchen is generic and hot and devoid of character or any signs that anyone values the space. I don't have my pots, my spoons. So I've been making my single-girl dinner a lot (EVOO, toasted pepper, frozen peas, whole wheat pasta, parmparmparm, best served out of the pot with a large glass of wine), or Molly's chickpeas, and I bookmark all the recipes I will try when I finally have my own space again, and can dance around my kitchen to Otis Redding, singing loudly, drinking freely, touching and tasting and feeding someone, anyone, even if it is just me, my brave little body, relentlessly alive, very hungry. 

The photos above are of a strawberry cake I made for an indoor picnic on one of my last nights in DC. It made the kitchen smell like rainbows and kittens. Recipe at Smitten Kitchen, obviously. I might add some lemon zest next time. There will be a next time. 

random act of bravery

I wrote this.

The writing isn't the brave part - although shouldn't it be? I suppose I've never thought of the act of writing (my writing) as an act of bravery. More as an act of self-indulgence. There can be courage in it. I read this Mac McClelland essay this week. I only discovered it through the scrim of backlash she's received. I'll admit to being shocked, and I've been trying to examine my reactions - what was it that put me off? The boldness of exposure - maybe. God knows I'm not brave enough to write something like that. I've been toying with the idea of submitting an essay to Nerve, words that have been simmering in the wake of the couple of weeks I spent with the Buddhist prior to leaving DC, and a subsequent conversation with Emily about the body, and its appreciation, and how we (women?) form our physical impressions - how we manage and experience our understandings of our bodies, and whether or not sex (or men, or a partner in general) is essential to that process. And I'm all, "But ohhhh, what if someone were to SEE it?" I've spent more time thinking about pseudonyms than I have actually writing the thing. And the essay itself would inevitably be fairly benign, nowhere near the level of soul-baring that McClelland, an established journalist with a career that depends on public perception of her ability to tackle loaded sociopolitical issues, demonstrates in this piece. Maybe I do take serious issue with her equating her desire for violent sex to the experiences of women who have no control, no protection, no recourse. But who am I to judge? I'm writing this from my sublet in Park Slope, not from Haiti.

And so what I mean to say: writing can be brave. I'm not sure mine is yet. But I am working on sharing it more, and that, for me, requires more courage than I display in an average year, and so. Go read it, if you'd like. You'll join the ranks of every person my mom and dad have worked with in the last 30 years. I'm trying to convince my parents that 27 is a good cut-off age for parental bragging, but they have yet to adopt this view.

we pack lightly

I will spend most of this summer thinking of where I'd rather be. Not very brave, I suppose. But can you blame me?

Nova Scotia, in the Times. This house is a dream. 

the good batch

I can say without a shadow of a doubt that this weekend I ate the greatest ice cream sandwich in the history of the world, ever.

If I were one of those quirky girls who drew funny photos on MSPaint, I would draw a face with rainbows shooting out of my mouth and lots of spray paint around the head to signify amazement.


The Goodwich Ice Cream Sandwich: crisp oat chocolate chunk cookie with sea salt, Adirondack vanilla ice cream, dark fudge drizzle


My brain-twin and I wandered around the Brooklyn Flea on Saturday afternoon, and after devouring a veggie dog loaded with toasted sesame and peanuts, we hunted down dessert at The Good Batch. And then our lives changed. For $3. (We split one. It feels good. Do it.)

THIS IS AN ENDORSEMENT: Go. Eat. Emerge a new man.

ownership

I like days that feel all mine. Tonight I got myself lost in Chinatown and drank a bubble tea and ate a confusing pastry on a bench. I watched the little worlds. The summer sun at dusk does wild, beautiful things to New York. Then I met the Commie for $10 lobsters. We walked the 4 miles over the Manhattan Bridge and back into Brooklyn. Just before we left dry land I watched a woman hanging her laundry on the roof of her building, almost close enough to touch. The Q screamed and huffed over our shoulders. The moon was half-smirking above the city, all lit up, all heat against heat, the humidity lessened by the earlier rain. I have a feeling I will say this until the day I leave: this city is a trip. I cannot believe I live in it.

Harry

What to do on the day after your family puts your 14-year-old dog to sleep:

Wake up, remember. Go buy yourself a bagel with lox. Smile. Think of how much he loved cream cheese. That's not original or anything. Think of how dearly similar we all are, how even the things we love the most are shared. Walk to Prospect Park, alone. Find a tree where the shade is good, where you can watch the light through the leaves. Take your book out, but put it down again. Watch the sky instead. Feel the grass on your bare legs, the way it itches. Harry used to dive face-first into the grass, push his scruffy face through the soil. The first time he saw fresh snow he did the same, and came up with a beard of pure white. This is the gift: the world is enough. And isn't it? This breeze and these trees and the sun on the arches of your feet? Harry wasn't unapologetic in his love. He held back. He wasn't your typical, undiscerning, slobbery love machine of a dog. He had the soul of an ornery old man under all that puppy energy. But one night, after your first semester away at college, he slept beside you on a small couch, let you hold him all night long. In the morning he struggled up and fell ungracefully off that couch and looked at you, all "What? What's the big deal?" And one day you walked him down the cliffs at Lighthouse Park and he leapt over the barnacled rocks like he was weightless, afraid of nothing, lapping at the salted pools, barking at the gulls, while you stood shin-deep in the ocean and tried to call him to you, a command he never followed, because who would? Who would stop running when there is so much life to see?

You were a good pup, my bunny. You loved and were loved. I wish I could have been there at the end.

SVU for the win

This was basically the three months after my break-up. Well, post-denial, post-goodwill, post-pit of grief. Somewhere in those few weeks I lost between January and March.

from here. painfully-apt website. thanks, lucas.

random act of bravery

A sign that New York is getting under my skin: Yesterday I complained to a waiter for the first time. To be fair, the menu advertised a molten chocolate cake with homemade ganache; we received a slice of store-bought German Chocolate Cake. Girlfriend HATES German Chocolate Cake. German Chocolate Cake night back in our dining hall at college was the WORST. Tell me, does it not look like someone threw up all over the cake? It does. It does.

So when the waiter came over and asked if we'd like our sadly-poked slice of cake boxed up, I explained that we were confused about the GULF OF MEXICO-sized gulf between what was on the menu and what appeared on our plate. He had stupid hair, and he looked at me with this brain-dead expression on his face. Then he went away and told our server that I was "very upset." Which made me throw my head into my hands in shame, flush bright red, and affirm that I would never again complain in a restaurant.

These acts of bravery can misfire. We were clear on that, right?

i know the internet is having a collective orgasm over bon iver, but still.