one of my last days in New York was an epic fall day, brunch at the Breslin with Rachel, grapefruit with ginger sugar and tiny slivers of mint, poached eggs on a bed of spicy lentils and a hunk of grilled ciabatta. walked it off for 40 blocks on the gorgeous stretch of Riverside Park in Woody Allen’s New York, the Upper West Side.

trotted home to rest my weary legs, my weary everything; such sun and wind and long walks and late mornings can only call for a nap. or, as I was want to do, a cup of tea.

then it was all the way down to the East Village for samosas from a Pakistani deli, where my friend Devika ordered for me in fluid Hindi, and we went to a bench and ate out of plastic containers; melting fried dough with tamarind and mint chutney, a lovely spicy-sweet mash up nestled happily within a generous, restorative dollop of smashed black lentils and chickpeas. we drank sweet chai, and talked like we had known each other for a long, long while, when we really only just met. one of those instant-connection-they-just-get-it friendships, so easy and comfy. and it was the last and first time we will hang out in New York, and we were eating wonderful deli food in the crisp air, in the East Village, and it was utterly New York, and how sad and how wonderful, that such friends can be made so quickly and in such a transitory manner.

some other fall suppers, by my lonesome:

a plump roasted chicken breast with sweet, stewey tomatoes that were roasted alongside in the pan; the heat and the fat and the juice collapsed them, rendering the rough chop a wonderfully haphazard tomato sauce to bathe the chicken in.

an omelet that tasted rustic and humble, and made me think of damp ground and warm tea: three eggs filled just so with sauteed mushrooms, potatoes, onions, and tomatoes, and arugula, some grated parmesan.

tonight: a simple and deeply satisfying stew of corn, tomato, and rice with subtle heat and that magical base of bell peppers, onion, celery; a crisp green salad; pieces of crusty bread torn off a loaf of French bread almost as big as me (literally!) spread with cold butter. friends, I am in New Orleans, and it is beautiful. I will keep you posted.

Things I’ve been liking lately:

A big glass of cold, whole milk when I come home really hungry.

Sandwiches on rolls— stuffed to the brim yet modest; a little fistful of perfection.

Jane Austen! She is a delight to read.

Thinking up what it’ll be like to be in New Orleans after so, so long. (I am flying into NoLa, visiting family and that damp and luminous city itself, then driving from there to Austin). I can’t stop daydreaming about coffee with chicory and trying a fried oyster po’boy. Or about seeing my dad with his big, watery blue eyes, and hugging him and smelling that rich musty smell of tobacco. And seeing my grandma and my uncle. When I think of the former I think of the color pink— just, pink. Pretty and delicate and timeless and gentle. And when I remember the latter, what do I recall but that amazing electric pink apartment above the French Quarter, where he lived with a beautiful girl, once? (He married her within a Mardi Gras parade, once). I am thinking of family, cricket-sound evenings, balmy air, and powder-sugar heaps on fried dough.

And today was the beginning of last days.

Today was my last day at Book Culture. There was generosity of spirit, warmth all around. A fruit tart with a lovely shortbread crust was presented to me, all spotted with berries, looking exactly like something I’d make. And I cut it into tiny slivers with a gigantic knife from the staff kitchen; it made exactly enough for everyone working today to get a piece. And there were hugs aplenty and wondrous smiles.
My last lunch at the bookstore was eaten inside, on a big old leather chair, in a frenzy of early afternoon hunger, stress and sleepy rainy-day low-energy: a tangle of arugula with chopped fresh oregano and savory slips of shaved parmesan, dressed with oil and lemon; a small hunk of pepperoni, two prune plums and two almonds, some crusty baguette, some sharp clothbound cheddar.

Ah! And how could I forget? My friend Joe, of the independent radio station and my endless love and admiration, had me DJ the other night. It was a last days in New York sort of program, with tracks I’ve been listening to lately, at my desk at Book Culture (he’ll upload it soon, and you should all listen to it!). I was so excited and nervous! Joe was as good humored as ever, and I learned by his utterly relaxed direction how to select a single track on a record, how to work a switchboard, the difference between a 33 1/2” and 45”. There I was, flipping through Joe’s record collection and picking out what I’ve been humming along to as secretary-to-the-coursebooks-buyer these last months, daydreaming about what is finally here: a change of scenery, pace, weather.

And here comes the weekend, and Soho, and brunch with Rachel. Then, it’s onward! Tally-ho.

I have been around. Not here, I realize, and for which I apologize. But, if it makes you feel any better, I have only been around in the world at large in a sort of dream state of excitement and fear and weariness, trying simultaneously to withdraw from the big-city-over-stimulation and also to fling myself out there full force, open to friends and strangers, before it’s all gone. My head is spinning with the move down South, which bread to buy each night, how pretty the late-Summer evenings are, how perfect and perfectly accessible Jane Austen is, how my hair is finally getting longer again, how well my mayonnaise came out this time, how lovely it is to have a dog you can walk, occasionally, in New York on a crisp afternoon.

I’ve been eating dinner in my empty room, with the fan blowing, a few overstuffed boxes scattered about the floor. Tuna & chickpea salad with lemon, garlic, basil, and chile. Plenty of olive oil. Spaghetti with roasted red pepper and eggplant puree and toasted pine nuts, fennel seed, grated parmesan.

I’ve been eating my lunch at the foot of the Cathedral of St. John the Divine, in the sunshine with the chimes reverberating down 112th and Amsterdam, and hordes of old people with chunky cameras and bright, ill-fitting pants flitting up and down the steps. Lunches of red leaf lettuce with cherry tomato, boiled egg, and chickpeas; or, the heirloom tomato salad I had today; it was damp and fragrant, smelling like sun & earth, ripe tomatoes and spicy basil, pungent garlic. Better yet, it became a two for one—tomato salad and a panzanella; in the beginning I eagerly sopped up the magical pink liquid—juice, lemon, olive oil— that pooled at the bottom with a foccacia roll, only to wipe the sticky dressing off my fingers, tear the thing up, and go all in. The bread was at once melting and sweet, salty & crusty.

I felt awake, for a moment.

a busy week of:

late night going aways at the Ding Dong lounge with an early-fall wind outside, some beer and a pool table inside, learning new games and people.

an end of season bbq at my friend Joe’s place; he is a wonder, and his life is the very essence of chilled-out creativity— with his wonderfully homey Washington Heights apartment and its rooftop vegetable garden, his independent radio station, the small time-press and screenprinting his roommate runs out of the place. We talked about zines, bookbinding and nerdy movies, Ryan all the while broadcasting excellent rarities, from French new wave to Bluesy hip-hop roots— working the switchboard as he contributed token sarcastic asides. And out on the patio, Will (another roommate of Joe’s, who himself DJ’d something awesome at the Ding Dong the night before) commanded the grill; there was a piece of sweet, spicy chicken, hot and tender; a politely sized burger with bitter-savory black grill marks and sweet hot fat soaking into a soft white bun; multiple skewers of grilled vegetables. An excellent ear of corn with a charred husk and tender kernels shared three ways, an experience which to me was perhaps most of all the essence of Summer.

and, finally, a birthday party for a new-soon-to-be-old friend. I made her what is now one of my favorite desserts (which I tried for the first time when we cut it last night): a plum torte. A plum torte to end all cakes and pies. Humble, moist yet crumbly, spotted with jammy baked plums and spicy with a touch of cinnamon, it was an utter dream. Perfect. I bought some fior di latte gelato moments before at Brooklyn Larder to accompany, becoming agog at the wares and happily accepting enthusiastic assistance on what might best accompany the dessert in question at this most wonderful institution. (It really is wondrous, with local pickles and European licorice, gorgeous bread and cheeses and olive-oil wafers and pistachio cake and absolutely everything!) I skipped out and walked down a perfect block, arrived at my friends’ place (first, because I am apparently always early) and proceeded to let their perfect, hip & utterly settled Park Slope existence put me into a state of despair.

Listening to the metal playing from the Ipod deck, and to the happiness that exuded out of everyone, new New Yorkers and old, over their view of the city from atop the roof on a Summer night, I felt at a loss on my New York experience. I felt lonely and I thought about Joe and his awesome garden and radio station and of Saltie and of all the things that were haphazard and are unfinished.

I had to keep reminding myself that the birthday girl was turning thirty, and that, after all, I have time yet for wandering and slouching and daydreaming. There is time yet. After all, walking down Broadway at 2:30 am, the dirty city made me feel trapped again, unwelcome and angry, and it was really then that I remembered there is time yet: for Texas and for New York via Brooklyn, and for love, zines, music, barbeque. It’ll be what I make of it. After all, I am still learning.

This happened to be playing as I wrote this. So, then, here’s to all my friends.

Just some foodstuffs for you today:

Cool bowls of creamy legumes: one of roasted sweet potato and borlotti with olive oil, boiled tomato, dried chile, and marjoram; another with more borlotti (such a brilliant texture!) with sweet, clean fresh mozzarella, slivered basil, garlic, a generous squeeze of lemon.

Richly sweet tomato and roasted pepper salad with basil and marjoram, capers, shaved parmesan and fresh ricotta— garnered from the Bedford Cheese Shop. The wares at the Bedford Cheese Shop include all good things in life, such as cured meats, oil and vinegar, local pickled vegetables and candies (fig and chocolate caramels, for one), strong mustard and nutella, tiny oil-packed fish. And, of course, a staggering selection of cheeses. An essential part of the package though, the brown-paper-wrapped happiness package that is little shops like these for me, was that the employees were contentedly discussing their farmer’s market purchases with one another— the heirloom carrots waiting at home for them. Then, a regular or a friend or some such popped in, and was bragging of her visit to a tortilla factory in Queens; she pulled out a package and gave them one to share, and the air was filled with the smell of steam and warmth and earth, of masa. All in about ten minutes. That, my friends, is a package.

And back at Saltie (!) I feasted on ‘The Clean Slate’, a tender—but black-crackly-edged— naan piled with earthy hummus, piquant pickled vegetables, yogurt, quinoa, and seeds (sesame, fennel). I was in love, am in love. I would go there everyday, but will of course compromise with going often and trying everything.

Absolutely everything!

Well.

I finally made it to Saltie today, and it is: 100% on the agenda, winning hearts and minds, its distance eating at my thoughts, its existence bolstering my spirits. It is one of those sandwich shops that I believe exist almost purely for the Anna Grainers of the world; it is perfect. Perfect!

(Cipollina— I have a mistress).

Richly sour feta, cool boiled egg, the briny, round tang of pickled vegetables and capers nestled in a slick of rose-colored ailoi; grains of sea salt dotting the pillow of foccacia bursting like a little firework in the pocket of your cheek and making you smile— this was the Scuttlebutt sandwich.

Apricot & brandy ice cream followed. Rachel and I fastidiously made plans to come back within the week; we thought of what we would order, and how best to share it, promised to be hungry enough to each get our own sandwich and cover our bases. I am invested in you, Saltie. This is for real.

Ah, and when I got home and my appetite gradually returned there was that most summery of dishes, so simply and utterly delicious, that I mentioned recently: stewey sauteed tomatoes with golden-tender zucchini and garlic lightly blanketed with chopped basil. It was insanely, gorgeously sweet with tomato and humble with nutty squash and browned garlic, peppery with basil. It sang in my mouth, and was brilliant aside a fried egg, with a crusty hunk of baguette to sop up olive oil and yolk and all things rich and sunny-colored.

Today was tremendously hot, but pretty darn good all the same.

(This wonderful picture can be found here.)

Ah, the New York summer.

You know the idyllic image you have in mind of a sweating, seething Harlem with fire hydrants all a-flowing and kids gleefully playing in the deluge? You know the one. I know its nature— composed of a gracious memory and glorified assumption, small and deep set, it is a little kernel in some summer-nostalgia corner of your brain. Nestled, safe. Warm.

Well, two days without water in my apartment has made me keenly aware that the little heathens are stealing our water— or, rather, the water pressure the pipes need to function. It is 100 degrees and I have no running water. Think about it.

Even so.

When I trudged out there this evening, juggling pitchers and bottles to fill, I got soaked by mere splashes of the torrential stream; everyone was laughing and yelping, screaming and dancing, and it felt really, really nice. There was a tomato sandwich and some blueberries in a little tea cup waiting upstairs for me. Bruce Springsteen playing on my speakers in my little room. And for a minute I felt clean and cool and wasn’t worried about anything.

Oh, Nico, work that melancholy drawl and talk to me some more about leaving in the fairest of the seasons. Lately, it has been cool and beautiful, and eggplants and bell peppers arrived at the market today, and all I can think about is how much I miss home.

(So enough already with the bombastic declarations. I’m still shopping at the Columbia market, and it’s because I’ve really come to love those people. And the carrots weren’t that good, anyway. Don’t worry, I’m making a list.)

But back to some oh-so-generously fitting music: songs that have been on my mind, lately:

New York, I love you, but you’re bringing me down by LCD Soundsystem (watch the video. It is amazing).

I’m Coming Home by The Almighty Defenders

The latter I just happened to hear looking at this. Avenue B is a street my dad lived on, once. It was an awesome, old apartment across from a church yard, on a street lined with trees and rosemary bushes and within walking distance of Quack’s Bakery, of the salty oat cookies.

The in-the-moment perfection of this series of photographs —music not included— should be accredited to a newly discovered blog, one with a seemingly endless supply of just such perfect moments (many of them, recently, New York and New-York-market centric) captured by a generous eye: Threading in the Choirs. Go, peruse, feel any of the day’s ugliness washed away.

There are people, things, places out there to love. And —let’s face the wonderful, sentimental truth of it— places to call home.

I know a place— the sun shines a whole lot, and most every sandwich has ripe avocado on it.

Well, Aimee was just in town, (she left this morning; I was half-asleep and crazy-haired) and while it was brief and boiling hot and we were exhausted, we made the most of it. I made, for us:

sloppy sandwiches on baguette filled to the brim with boiled egg, fresh slivered mint and basil, dijon + mayonnaise, Louisiana hot sauce, crushed fennel seed, and vibrantly ripe tomato, with potato chips and sour cherries; an earthy, sweet-sour, jewel toned chilled beet soup, with large dollops of creme fraiche, slivered basil, and hot potatoes cutting the gorgeous color and vivid flavor; more big salads of tender young lettuce and brilliant tomatoes with croutons; a humble lentil salad with a damp, citrusy dressing, of both lemon and lime + olive oil with cucumber, boiled potato, julienned carrot, chopped parsley, and sriracha.

We also got coffee and Mast Brother’s chocolate at the Ace Hotel, and ate some ice cream from a big yellow truck and people-watched in the meat-packing district. As for that: I had spicy-cool ginger and Aimee had a mixture of espresso and vanilla, the former deep and smoky, the latter quintessential— rich, unassuming and elegant. Beautiful people were in a frenzy over soccer everywhere, and the air was damp, the evening wistful.

And every morning and evening we walked the dog— my roommates’, that is, while they are out in the mountains for the weekend. His name is Charles, he is a Pomeranian, and he is the sweetest creature of all time, with his fluff of fur, unabashedly loving grin, and excited trot. I officially want a dog— specifically, the little muppet that I like to call ‘Chaz’.

Perhaps I will overcome my genetic disposition towards crazy-cat-lady, after all.

Let’s back track a bit: Summer has arrived at Union Square— blueberries, zucchini, heirloom tomatoes! (But I’m saving all that for next week).

The recent, sunny days have yielded things such as a drippy sandwich on wheat sourdough w/ coppa (‘poor man’s prosciutto’ indeed! So cheap, so melting and smoky!), salted and peppered tomato, basil, some shallot, and strong dijon mixed w/ mayonnaise. There was a big salad of homemade croutons and deeply colored tomatoes with baby lettuces and spicy-sweet herbs; one morning, there was a humble creamsicle of a smoothie with fresh orange, plain yogurt, soymilk, and a bit of agave nectar. Refreshing, from the cool-sweet taste to the soft melon color? Yes.

And there were carrot salads.

But tonight! Tonight was just great; I cooked dinner for Wynn, who is moving down to Austin at the end of the week, and his adorable wife (also present were my faithful companions, Sandra and Rachel). There were wine-roasted chicken thighs with olives, coppa, thyme, and some parsley; they were crispy-golden-skinned and tender and seeping oil and juice about the plate. Said juices happily found their way onto the accompaniment: little, deeply green heaps of beet greens sauteed with garlic and chile with red wine vinegar, basil, and mint. Bread and butter went around the table, and there was much wine and recollection of relevant Seinfeld episodes.

Then, a sweet, smooth, pink strawberry rhubarb tart with a cornmeal crust found its way to the table, after a fierce struggle (it had stuck irreparably to the pan. It fell to pieces). It was a bit worse for wear, but a pleasant end all the same. And the entire thing, really, as a sweaty (roasting chicken in the near-nineties with no AC), vaguely stressful (still wrapping my head around dinner guests) whole, was a pleasant end— to working with Wynn, who is awesome. He’s off to Texas to move into a house and he’s going to be happy and it makes me happy.

People are really swell. I love them. Even the creepy guy who called out to me from a doorway and said, “Hey beautiful… God bless you, baby” to me, as I strolled back home along the humid avenue after walking Rachel home. Him too. I’d give him a piece of tart too, if I hadn’t served it all, and scraped up the savaged bits from the pan for myself.

Next time, neighbor.

(Maybe blueberry pie!)