For my mother, who's always harbored a not-so-secret
dream of being in a rock & roll band, even if it just meant
playing the tambourine...

sangria

'Manhattan, a high narrow kingdom . . . '

"Manhattan, a high narrow kingdom as hopeful as any that ever was, burst upon him full force, a great and imperfect steel-tressed palace of a hundred million chambers, many-tiered gardens, pools, passages, and ramparts above its rivers. Built upon an island from which bridges stretched to other islands and to the mainland, the palace of a thousand tall towers was undefended. It took in nearly all who wished to enter, being so much larger than anything else that it could not ever be conquered but only visited by force. Newcomers, invaders, and the inhabitants themselves were so confused by its multiplicity, variety, vanity, size, brutality, and grace, that they lost sight of what it was. It was, for sure, one simple structure, busily divided, lovely and pleasing, an extraordinary hive of the imagination, the greatest house ever built. Peter Lake knew this even as he stood on the Bowery in his homespun, shell crown, and feather necklace, at five o'clock in the evening, on a Friday in May."

(Mark Helprin, Winter's Tale)

on mothers, munchies, & mutual loves

I bought plane tickets last night for a west coast trip this summer, a little over two weeks in Washington State (Federal Way and Anacortes specifically) with various friends, family, family friends. I realize (it is not lost on me) that this is actually quite similar to my last two weeks, with my mother visiting me here in New York.

I took her back to Newark Airport two days ago via the Newark Airtrain via New Jersey Transit via the A train. We had a last latte together (I managed to dump a good portion of mine all over myself), shared last snippets of conversation over cinnamon scones, wandered the shopping concourse (such as it was), and then hugged each other goodbye (her earring got caught in my sweater as the Airtarin pulled in to Terminal C) and I headed on home via the A train via New Jersey Transit via that funny little airtrain. I was home by 6:30 and found myself feeling more alone than I've felt in awhile.

My mother and I have become friends, it seems, and it doesn't feel strange to have her visit me for two weeks, to have her come inhabit my world (such as it is) for a little while, and it was odd, disconcerting, that night, to come home to a space abruptly devoid of her presence. It's been a bit odd ever since.

We walked and talked our way through Fort Tryon Park, ate bagel sandwiches at Nussbaum & Wu, sipped cheap deli coffee in my office while chatting with Erica and Mary and sundry other library folk, met Nick for an evening of BLTs and margaritas and rum runners at Toast, watched (and loved) Chop Shop and Old Joy and Let the Right One In, met Mark for minestrone soup and paninis at Pisticci, gorged on H&H bagels and Zabar's dill shrimp and Coopers Creek sauvignon blanc, indulged in Palin mockery and South Salem Clinton gossip with Professors Pious and Sloan over mounds of picadillo at Havana Central, made gazpacho and gingerbread for Chris and Andrew, dined with Dave at the Lincoln Center Ollie's, met up with long lost friend Charlie and the lovely Katrina at the Cold Spring Cafe, chatted with Helen over sandwiches at the Mohegan Diner, drank delicious home-brewed coffee with Julie and odd fruit-infused beers with Mike.

She stayed in my apartment one morning so that a locksmith could finally come install a brand new and functional lock (and doorknob) on my apartment door, and had her famous tomato garlic pasta waiting for me when I got home from work that evening.

She spent an hour in a coffee shop on Columbus and 81st Street while I had my very last session with Sarah, and congratulated me with heartfelt happiness on what might have been a sad, if also joyous, subway ride home that night.

We made aebleskivers for the first time in the aebleskiver pan she gave me for Christmas last year, for a brunch with Erica and Freddy.

She baked the McNeil family birthday cake (Betty Crocker choclate cake mix with double-boiler frosting) for Jill while I made up a huge vat of tomato soup for the ladies (Cindy, Lauren, Julie, Jessica, Kathy, Karen, Jill), the babies (Nikhil, Helen) and the boys (Nate, Dave, Andrew).

We browsed The Ink Pad in the Village, stumbled upon the Magnolia Bakery and (there being no line at all!) indulged in cupcakes, then meandered our way over to Chinatown for roast pork & wonton noodle soup at Big Wong.

We attended my brother's fiancee's bridal shower, thrown by her mother, and the mothers, meeting for the first time and having not a thing in common, bonded none the less over their love for their own children, and over their love for each other's children, and it was good to see.

We got a little bit teary over the fact that at the top of Nate and Shanna's wedding registry page is a suggestion for donations to the American Heart Association.

And in the midst of all this, as mentioned above, I realized that she and I, this mother of mine and me, we've somehow truly become friends. We've always been close in our way, but we've had at times what those in the know refer to these days as "issues." In those early years of seeing Sarah she'd sometimes try to get me to talk about my mother, and I'd resist, and this give and take, this back and forth, this digging in of the heels, became something of a joke between us.

Sarah thought that I was in some ways too protective of my mother, thus avoiding having to admit how much I sometimes wanted, how much I sometimes needed, her to protect me.

The other day, as we walked up the stairs to Pinehurst Avenue from 181st Street, frappucinos and grocery bags in hand, my mother paused and turned to me and said, "I guess you probably had a lot to say about me in therapy," and I paused in turn, thinking over those six and a half years I spent seeing Sarah almost weekly, at times twice weekly, and I realized that in a way my mother was right. It's pretty much impossible, I imagine, to be in therapy and never talk about one's mother, whatever the circumstances. But I realized too, and not for the first time, that the way we talk often changes with time and my mother, this dear woman, has become in recent years a source of strength, truly happy in my moments of happiness as she has always been, but also accepting of my sadness, my moments of despair.

It is an amazing thing when one feels entirely comfortable being one's entire self, smart and silly, obtuse and giddy, cold and melodramatic, angry and joyous and sad and boring and lonely and alive, in the presence of another, of a mother, and the comfort this provides is nearly indescribable.

fresh tomato garlic sauce

2 large tomatoes, chopped
1/4 cup water
1 teaspoon dried basil
3/4 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon fresh ground pepper
1/4 teaspoon crushed red pepper
1/3 cup olive oil (I use half chicken broth)
6 large cloves garlic, minced

Mix tomatoes & 1/4 cup water. Add basil, salt, & pepper.

Place olive oil & minced garlic in a saucepan. Cook until garlic is a light gold. Add tomato mixture & simmer uncovered, stirring occasionally, for 5 minutes.

Serve over noodles. Sprinkle with parmesan cheese.

(from Mom's "family recipes" book)

aebleskivers

2 1/2 cups flour
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 1/4 teaspoon soda
3/4 teaspoon baking powder
2 eggs, separated
2 cups buttermilk
3 tablespoons melted butter

Sift dry ingredients. Beat egg yolks; add to buttermilk. Combine buttermilk & dry ingredients. Add butter. Fold in beaten egg whites.

Heat aebleskiver pan to hot over burner; pour small amount of oil in each cup. Put tablespoon of batter in each hole & cook, turning once with two-pronged fork. Cook until golden on each side & done.

Serve with powdered sugar & raspberry jam.

(from Mom's "family recipes" book)

Served with cranberry/blood orange juice with rosemary sprigs, fruit salads of papaya, kiwi, name-that-fruit, and lime juice, and delicious Stumptown Coffee courtesy of Nathan.

double boiler frosting

2 egg whites
1 1/2 cups sugar
1/4 teaspoon cream of tarter
1/3 cup water
1 tsp. vanilla

Mix all ingredients except vanilla in top of double boiler. Place over boiling water (about one inch in bottom of double boiler). Beat with a portable egg beater until stiff peaks form (about 7 minutes). Scrape bottom & sides of pan occasionally. Add vanilla & beat 2 more minutes (off of the heat).

(from Mom's "family recipes" book)

trees

local fish

the end is nigh

Venezia Worsted, 70% merino/30% silk

quote of the day

"For one thing, although bone may seem like stone, it is tirelessly, ambitiously alive."
-Natalie Angier, Bone

(with sincere and utmost thanks to the one and only
Erik D. Pfeiffer for bringing this article to my attention)

siblings (& Dad & Scout)

gingerbread with fire dog topping

This was one of my absolute favorite things as a child, something I'd bake every year around Christmas time. These last few years Mom's been suggesting, somewhat wistfully, that I make it whenever I've been home over the holidays, but somehow it never actually happened. Finally, despite it's not being quite the season, we made this a couple days ago and it was even better than I remembered. Recipe stolen from the Betty Crocker's Cook Book for Boys & Girls (page 96).

Gingerbread (annotated):
Heat oven to 325 degrees.
Grease & flour 9-inch square pan.

Mix thoroughly:
1/2 cup soft shortening (or softened butter)
2 tablespoons sugar
1 egg

Blend in:
1 cup dark molasses
1 cup boiling water

Stir in:
2 1/4 cups sifted Gold Medal flour
1 teaspoon soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon ginger (heaping)
1 teaspoon cinnamon (heaping)
1-2 tablespoons finely chopped crystallized and/or fresh ginger

Beat until smooth.
Pour into prepared pan.
Bake 45-50 minutes (or until toothpick comes out clean).

Fire Dog Topping:
Spread over hot gingerbread a mixture of 3/4 cup of confectioner's sugar, 2 tablespoons milk.

Sprinkle brown sugar over top & serve warm, possibly with apple sauce.

optimism, cold spring, 4.25.09