It's A Beautiful Day In The Neighborhood

From the very second I became a mother almost twenty-four years ago, something else besides my son was born.  It was basically like gaining a new sixth sense, as naturally working as the others, but more acute and overwhelming: a protective instinct.  For the major part of my adult life, I've been able to let that instinct reign supreme, smothering my children with attention, devotion, nurturing, advice, and motherly love.  But lately, as they are gaining more and more independence, I've had to keep it in check, at least to the naked eye.  It's always there and always will be, but I just have to work harder at making it seem like it's not......kind of like applying makeup.  There's nothing better than seeing your kids feel good in their skin, be proud of their accomplishments and take the world on fearlessly and with gusto, but it comes with a bittersweet and gentle  nudge from within ( and from them) to step aside and let them do their thing.   So, as I drove into Manhattan last night, specifically the East Village, to go apartment hunting with my daughter, I tried to let the spirit of independence and youth drive the mission and let my protective instinct take a back seat.

New York City has changed a lot over the years, to the point where it seems like there is no longer a "bad neighborhood."  But those "alphabet streets" are in the East Village,  and The Bowery, a place to be avoided at all costs back when I was living in Manhattan in the 1980s isn't too far away.  While it's around the corner from my favorite restaurant, Il Buco, now,  being in its proximity still put me on alert.  I arrived early and had a chance to scope out the area from a window seat at the wine bar where we planned to meet.  The people watching was outstanding and the dog watching even better.  Best of all, I could completely understand why my daughter likes the neighborhood; it is bursting with energy while still having a relaxed vibe and there was a sense of laissez faire and acceptance.  So far, so good.

We met up with the broker soon enough who led us to the first apartment.  I was trying to appear unfazed by the fact that there was no doorman to watch over things and no elevator to take us up to the fourth floor, or was it the fifth? But, I couldn't hold back when we entered the apartment and a sweet dog, who had obviously been left alone for way too long, greeted us.  I don't know what made me feel worse-the stench that filled the room or the obvious abuse that his owner was guilty of.   I went from being Cool Mom Hanging in the East Village to Unhip Mom who let factors like stepping over dog poop and how out of breath I would be every time I visited my daughter influence my opinion of the place.

The next stop was a million times better.  Still a walk-up, but on the second floor. Still no doorman, but a much brighter entrance and carpeted stairway, albeit in a pattern that would be better suited for a brothel, but I was back in cool mom mode so I wasn't going to let this bother me.  Even my daughter admitted that the first place was unacceptable when we had this one to compare it to, and our moods were lifted.  A few more candidates followed, at rents by the way, that were hard to fathom, but the little place with the flashy stairway remained our first choice.

Our last stop was around the corner from that top contender.  It was a restaurant/bar called The Smith, which my husband and I wandered into once when we were doing our own impulsive real estate search a few years back.  He and I had a delicious brunch there then, surrounded by young adults, some probably students at NYU or other area schools, others, artsy up and comers, and everyone, including the staff, was extremely jovial.  The most memorable part of that morning, besides their Vanilla Bean French Toast,  was discovering the photo booth when I went downstairs to the ladies room.  After we paid our bill, I convinced Tom to go back down there with me for a photo shoot.  I still have the black and white strip of four goofy images of us from that little adventure tacked on the bulletin board by my desk.
 Eating dinner at the bar with my daughter last night, just up the stairs from that photo booth, surrounded again by a crowd that oozed boundless energy and possibility, I found that it had a way of rubbing off on me.  She and I talked about budgets, her goals, ways to stay safe and healthy, and when it was time to drop her off at a friend's place it was somehow easier to leave her behind.  The protective urge was still there (okay, so I gave her cab fare to her next stop so she wouldn't have to take the subway......we did just hear about another terror alert after all) and I did ask once or twice if she'd like to come home to the burbs with me and take the train in the morning,  but I drove away without her, feeling surprisingly calm.   And I didn't even ask her to text me when she made it safely to her final destination. I just knew she would......get there safely that is.

Lettuce and Tomatoes and Beets, Oh My!

If we remember and have time on summer Sundays, Tom and I like to wander around the Summit Farmer's Market to see what looks good and to enjoy the surroundings.  (For me, that includes the babies in strollers and dogs on leashes.)  Besides meeting a few very friendly farmers along the way, we also discovered some new treats to bring home:  beautiful, torpedo-shaped red onions, known as Rossa di Firenze,  will be on our grill tonight;  hummus, infused with the spices of Morocco, made it into our basket as soon as we taste-tested it.  Within an hour after arriving home,  I had spread some on a slice of Italian bread for lunch, topped with one of the sweet Jersey tomatoes we also bought.  It seemed like an odd fusion-style sandwich, but was actually pretty delicious.

Since I'm slightly obsessed with adding beets to my salads lately,  I couldn't leave without buying some.  This time, I decided to go for the golden variety, mainly to avoid magenta stained fingers but also to decide once and for all which ones I prefer.  

I've had a plan to make blueberry muffins this week but it's doubtful whether these will last long enough around here.  Good thing there's a place to pick some more a quarter mile down the road.

And  here's what Tom chose- some not exactly pretty but definitely extra-manly hot Italian sausages.  Just in case anyone thought we were vegetarians.

Happy Sunday!

Espresso Regresso

I usually don't drink coffee in the afternoon, except for the occasional iced decaf to-go while I'm driving around doing errands in the summer.  But yesterday I couldn't resist when my mother, Rose Assunta Maria Clara Viviani Del Presto, offered me a cup of espresso during a visit to her house.  This had been  a ritual in my grandparents' house every day when I was growing up-the grinds that looked like black sand would be packed in on one end, water would go in the other, the simple espresso maker would be placed over a burner in their basement kitchen, (the main kitchen was only used on holidays) and eventually it would be flipped over.  When the thick, dark coffee was ready, my grandfather would carefully pour it into demitasse cups.  A  bottle of anisette would appear next and a little bit might be added, especially if company dropped by.  My favorite way to drink it was with sugar and lots of it.   Everyone would stir it all up with the tiniest spoons, creating a tinkling sound so appealing that you always stirred longer than you had to.

I indulged in the espresso yesterday to re-create a snippet of  those days when my Italian-American family enjoyed multi-course meals in that small basement.  It was a chance to relive the afternoons I spent as a young girl at the tables of aunts, uncles, cousins, and godmothers, when I could only pick up the non-Italian part of the conversation but sat quietly and politely taking it all in.   Yesterday, my mother used the same simple espresso maker from the old days, unlike the fancy, plug-in model that I have in my home and still don't know how to use.   She poured, we stirred and sipped and chatted about this and that.
If the intense shot of caffeine was going to keep me up all night, so be it.   And if the super heaping teaspoon of sugar was a detour from my usual sugarless cup of joe,  fine by me.  It was worth every bit of extra hyperactivity that day and wakefulness last night to hover in the past for a short time simply over a cup of coffee with my mom.....and the anisette-worthy company in our hearts.

What is it about seersucker that makes it forever irresistible?  

source: Converse

It can make sneakers look fresh and adorable.

source: Elise Grace Wagner

I doubt I'd wear this type of footwear, but in seersucker, there's a chance.  Not with those pants though.

source: Rover Dog at Etsy.com

Besides the Barbour jacket I bought for my lab, I tend not to go for clothes on dogs. But this is definitely another exception to my rule.  I wonder if it comes in extra large?

source: Todaystie.tmblr.com

Probably seersucker overkill, but somehow this guy gets away with it.  Only seersucker could help pull this off since it's playful and charming, just like the model undoubtedly.

source: JCrew.com

Extra cuteness.  Seersucker shorts with a scalloped hem.  How much more summery can you get?  These make me think of sorbet and beach house awnings.

Source: pioneerlinens.com

With these sheets, sweet dreams are guaranteed.

source: cakecentral.com

For those summer birthdays- croquet, daisies, and seersucker for your cake.  

 Sterling silver fork required.

source: JCrew.com
       Scruffy beard + seersucker suit  >  no beard + seersucker suit.
Unless you're the groom.

source: JCrew.com

                  Innocent seersucker gone sexy.  I own the modified (aka grandma) version.

                  

May your 4th of July be as simply chic, 

 classically summer, and All-American as seersucker!

Hide And Seek With My Wine Geek

vino incognito

Every other month or so, I'm energized to make dinner for a small group, usually after being inspired by a recipe or eating something amazing in a restaurant that propels me back into my entertaining mode.  And sometimes, it's a special occasion that re-charges my culinary battery, (and gets me to check for cobwebs on my lamp shades).  When I finally rebound from the last dinner party, after at least a month of recovery, I relish the reunion with my favorite cookbooks or surfing the pages of Epicurious.com all over again.   It's my goal to build a menu that's seasonal, colorful, balanced, a bit ambitious, and most importantly, tasty.  And if my husband, Tom, has a say, it should be wine-friendly too.

In our house, the wine-friendly part is a given, since Tom was a sommelier in a French restaurant before we met.  His professional wine career ended in the late seventies, and now, over thirty years later, he is an encyclopedia of wine knowledge and still has what it takes to taste wine blind (not knowing what it is before tasting) and identifying its grape, vintage, or producer.   Occasionally, he can nail all three.  Back in 1982, he won The French Wine Tasters' Open because he was able to do this better than the rest, simply by drinking too much beer the night before the tasting, and waking up with a dry-mouth, and in turn a super sensitive palate..  I'm not sure if this was a planned strategy or just happened fortuitously thanks to his grad student lifestyle, but I suspect it was the latter.  The French wine snobs who hosted the event were not impressed, but c'est dommage.

check out those shoulders

This weekend,  we're looking forward to having a special wine-centered dinner for friends, initiated by Tom.  It's not often that he plans our social engagements, but when it involves drinking wine with fellow wine lovers, he jumps at the chance.  No need to worry about guests rolling their eyes when the conversation includes words like "finish" and "flabby" and "leather or spice in the nose."  And  since two of our guests are working towards sommelier certificates, and the final exam will ask them to taste wine blind,  why not organize a study group, where Tom could not only be an oeno-instructor, but also hone his skills as well?  This means we'll need skinny paper bags to conceal not just a bottle's label, but also the shape.  French Burgundy bottles, for example, have sloping shoulders vs. the squared off shoulders of a Bordeaux-a dead giveaway.   It also means I have to clear the menu with Tom;  it's key to avoid  vinegar-based and overly spicy foods, and artichokes, and preferred to have  a main course that will pair well with red wine.  Sorry, white just doesn't have the proper gravitas.  Certain types of fish could pass, but are usually reserved for the appetizer, when white wine or champagne are perfect openers.

I think I've got it figured out for Saturday: arugula and mushroom salad with grilled shrimp to start,  followed by grilled, butterflied leg of lamb with a tomato, feta, and basil salad and new potatoes with mashed peas and mint (no recipe required).  I hope it all tastes good, looks pretty, celebrates summer,  and leaves everyone feeling just right.  But if it brings out the best in the wine, so that its identity erupts from the glass and helps our guests get the answers right come test time,  then that will be the icing on the cake. Which reminds me, I still haven't decided what's for dessert.  Except that it has to be chocolate.

Overboard

our first housewarming gift, still in mint condition

I've always dreamed of owning a house at the beach.  And late last year that dream finally came true. Sort of.  It's just that the house we bought is not one we want to live in.....yet.  It sits about 100 yards from the ocean (at high tide), which is great, but is filled with hazardous materials (possible traces of asbestos in some floor tiles) and doesn't smell that good.   Also, the foundation isn't sound and  the layout is odd. No problem we thought; we'll just start from scratch and build a new one right on the very spot.   If we could ever get it started.  What's holding things up is the process known as getting a variance.  This is probably common lingo for many people, but it's been a rude awakening for me, especially dealing in beach time, which moves more slowly even than suburban time.  So, we're still waiting for the go-ahead to build the house the way we would like to, on our very narrow lot.  And we'll probably have to wait for a good part of the summer.

had to have these for my kitchen    www.wisteria.com

how cute are these?         www.wisteria.com

In the meantime, just to keep my mind off the waiting process but still on the goal, I've been buying home decor magazines to inspire me.  My plan is to copy their looks for a fraction of the cost.  I am probably the first person to buy the latest issue of various design magazines the minute they hit the shelves: Elle Decor, Coastal Living, Architectural Digest (just for kicks- there's really nothing in there that is realistic for us), House Beautiful, Veranda, Dwell (to help me stay modern and green). And then there are the blogs: Chic Coastal Living, Classic-Casual-Home, Remodelista, Inspiring Interiors, Cape Cod Designs, Things That Inspire, Beach Cottage Love, and my favorite, GardenWeb, which is actually an online forum and deserves an entire blog post to itself someday.  I've gone through way too many ink cartridges printing out pictures from these blogs and torn out countless pages from these magazines that I'm probably more confused now than when I had no vision at all.

I put these in my husband's Christmas stocking
www.seasonsofmadison.com

What's worse is how I can't resist buying a few little things here and there that I know will fit in the rooms someday: bedding (since I know what size beds we'll have);  pillows (we'll definitely have a couch or two); bowls for the requisite ice cream, mugs for coffee,  and  seagrass baskets the size of a small toddler-a must.

one of three seagrass baskets. what was i thinking?
www.wisteria.com

 One would have been enough. But  my overzealous online shopping led me to buy three, since the price was great and I could store towels in them!  Except I forgot about the fact that our lab makes sport out of stealing towels and holding (stuffing) them in his mouth, retriever that he is, so owning more than one of these baskets would drive me crazy when I was supposed to be relaxing at the beach.    And to make matters worse, I learned today that the return shipping on the extra two baskets would cost more than the baskets themselves.  No point in returning them now.   As I drove away from the UPS store with two huge boxes spilling out of my small car,  I felt like I had finally gone a little overboard and it was time to just keep dreaming, and saving money, a little longer.

            www.anthropologie.com

Wear The Wild Things Are

Yesterday morning, I met my sister on Park Avenue and 86th Street in NYC.  We strolled over to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, she in ladylike flats and a vintage Hermes scarf tied just right around her neck and I in my summer staple white jeans with a flowy jade green blouse.  Alexander McQueen would not have approved.  And after seeing the exhibit of clothes from five of his collections, I understand why.

photo courtesy of thehuffingtonpost.com

photo courtesy of thehuffingtonpost.com

These are clothes and accessories that are unconventional, dramatic, daring, exciting, provocative, sensual and beautifully strange.   While walking through the  dimly lit rooms, you imagine yourself moving from a jungle, to a dungeon, to a royal court, to a scene from A Midsummer Night's Dream.  There was a dress made from ostrich feathers and medical slides, and another from silk and dried flowers. A headpiece of floating          

butterflies  was created from dyed turkey feathers.  Wood, leather, and mussel shells are carved, shaped and tailored to create skirts, corsets and dresses.
And it wasn't just the clothes that were awe inspiring.  There were messages throughout the galleries from McQueen himself, explaining his vision and his way of looking at the world.
 These quotes were like extra little gifts McQueen left for us, scattered throughout the show.                                                                

photo courtesy of mylifeasapearl.com

                        This exhibit confirms once and for all that fashion like McQueen's is art and deserves a place in one of the greatest museums in the world, not just on the frames of the lucky ladies who have worn his extraordinary clothes.  Maybe my sister and I can splurge on something together one day and take a walk on the wild side of fashion.  We are about the same size after all.

http://blog.metmuseum.org/alexandermcqueen/