What I Like

The Age Old Problem

2011-09-03T10:28:00.000-04:00

Given how eventful this summer has been it seems odd to say that it has passed quickly. A month ago, dragging myself around the streets of New York in the most extreme heat the city has ever seen, it felt that autumn would take ages to arrive. But, I blinked and it is now just around the corner.

Having been out of town more weekends than not of late (mercifully, I evaded the drama of Madame Irene by basking on southern California beaches last weekend), I could not be more thrilled to have three whole days to putter around the city.

I figured I'd kick it off with a visit to the new Laduree store on the Upper East Side, the arrival of which I've been hotly anticipating. The popularity of macarons has left the city vulnerable to a flood of awful imitations, and it is high time to push back with the real thing.

Sadly, I was not the only one with this idea.

Ah, New York. Each time I think I've got a unique notion, you remind me that I'm actually just following the crowd.

Another attempt shall be made today. Let the Labor Day puttering begin!

Great Beauty

2011-08-23T19:48:00.000-04:00

In theory I wholeheartedly believe in routine maintenance, regular tune-ups and preventative care. Look at any woman of a certain age who has taken care of herself over the years vs. one of the same certain age who has not and the benefit is clear.

But even in the face of undeniable proof my commitment to a regime seems to wax and wane. In large part this is owing to the fact that I have no idea if my regime is correct. I mean, I won't see the results for another ten or twenty years, so how am I to know if sticking with it is really going to do any good? And if it doesn't, why bother with my multi-step, multi-product process?

So time and time again I revert to cleaning my face twice a day religiously (this seems like an obviously good thing to do), using sunscreen on my face and hands daily as every dermatologist will tell you to do (I will forever be devoted to Elta MD, which achieves the unachievable by being non-toxic yet sheer) and throwing on some moisturizer when my skin is screaming out for it.

But those sad, aimless days are over my friends, because I have found an oracle to navigate the beauty jungle for me.

After reading about Eva Scrivo's book in the New York Times one day, I picked it up from the library just to see what the fuss was about. The fuss was about a hugely successful hair stylist, aesthetician and makeup artist sharing every secret she's got. And did I mention she herself has aged spectacularly well?

I can't be sure, but based on her references from her childhood included in the book, I can only assume she's in her late 40s, possibly early 50s. So basically 10-15 years older than she looks. Which means I'll follow her advice to the letter.

Normally I can't stand reading beauty books. I look at the pictures, sure, but read them? So boring.

Not this one. I pored over it in rapt attention, taking in every tip and bit of advice she had to offer. Wear a terry cloth headband when washing your face to avoid frizzing up those hairs around your hairline? Of course! How brilliant! Layer liquid eyeliner on top of a pencil for your everyday look? I would never have thought to do so, but I look much more glamorous for it, and it got me over my fear of liquid liner in no time. Use a little of many products, on both hair and skin, in layers because one never does all of the jobs you need for it to do? Genius. My hair is looking much better for it. And as soon as all of my professional sized Yonka products arrive from ebay, I'm sure my skin will be too.

I'm so looking forward to stashing a box of skincare products in the refrigerator and bringing it out every night, just as Eva's impossibly glamorous mother apparently did, to slather the stuff on in pursuit, nay, in furtherance (now that I know the regime works) of everlasting beauty.

Ripe Summer Tomatoes

2011-08-03T22:31:00.000-04:00

Walking through the Greenmarket this time of year, you can't help but realize that tomato season has arrived. The big gleaming beefsteaks are everywhere, and the heirlooms are just now making their noble debut. Despite the fact that the vendors are actually selling these things, as I stroll through the stalls I somehow feel as though I'm the lucky recipient of a bumper crop, and thus grab at the bounty indiscriminately, thinking of the money exchanged only after I find myself lugging pounds and pounds of tomatoes home.

So once home I must think like an Italian mama during the summer harvest season. What to do with the red orbs taking over the kitchen counters? Tomato sauce, quite obviously. But it's been so obscenely hot in New York lately that I can barely bring myself to turn on the stove, so long, slow cooking has been out of the question. I was in a bit of a quandary. How long would these things last before exploding all over my countertops? Could I stand being in the equivalent of a sweat lodge while they simmered down into sauce on the stove?

Turns out, thanks to John Tuturro of all people, I didn't have to make the hard choice. Upon reading his recipe for pasta with raw tomato sauce in the Wall Street Journal last weekend, I knew I had found the recipe that would save me and my overrun kitchen.

The sauce is once of those stunningly simple but amazingly delicious things that Mediterranean cultures do so well...skinned and seeded tomato chopped finely (I know blanching and peeling tomatoes can be fiddly, but I always do it as I cannot stand tomato skin in sauces), mixed with some grated garlic, basil leaves, salt (Maldon is perfect here) and olive oil and left to macerate for as long as you have (I usually give it at least a half hour).

And then throw in some hot pasta, stir, et voila.

Summer in a bowl.

Luckily the heat has broken for a wee moment so the remainder of my stash is, as I speak, bubbling away cheerfully on the stove with a chopped onion and a few basil stalks, as the tomato maven Paul Bertolli suggests in his cookbook, which has become a favorite of mine. Given that his is the only tome I've seen thus far that devotes and entire chapter to tomatoes, I'm prepared to follow his lead in the area. I'm even thinking a few jars of conserva are next...one needs diversity after all.

The Great Bram

2011-08-01T21:39:00.000-04:00

Am I the only one completely obsessed by earthenware vessels? Cheap and cheerful cazuelas, those incredibly elegant and tasteful covered serving dishes from Heath Ceramics, and even this platter from Ben Pentreath, they all appeal to my love of the kitchen hearth. Something about them just screams "delicious food eaten with good friends".

But it wasn't until recently that I stumbled across a website that is entirely devoted to my obsession. Bram. Doesn't it just sound sturdy and warm and useful and rustic and simple and elegant, just like earthenware itself? I initially fell hard for the spouted mixing bowls, and then those gorgeous rectangular baking dishes (perfect for the big lasagnas I make for friends to eat while they watch boxing matches at our apartment). But then I came across this:

and I was slain. I mean how perfect a representation of the spirit of earthenware is this thing? I'm seeing lots of gratins, braises, breads, cakes and pot pies in this lovely dish's future.

The Grand Tour: Mumbai aka the End

2011-07-26T23:06:00.000-04:00

Luckily our flight up from Kerala to Mumbai was considerably less traumatic than our flight down there from Delhi. IndiGo was a serious upgrade from Air India. Brand new plane, cute flight attendants and a delicious samosa en route.

Upon landing it was straight in a cab to the Taj. Or rather, not so straight. The traffic is just as epic as everyone says. But we did make it eventually.

Hot and rather tired, we dragged ourselves into the lobby

and were met immediately by a lovely woman who whisked us off to a cool, dark lounge where we sank into a leather chesterfield sofa, enjoyed some sweet lime juice (it would become my favorite juice ever) and let the myriad staff members do the work of checking us in.

We ascended under the rotunda,

up through the palace,

to our room where our baggage met us.

And then our butler stopped by. He seemed rather confused that Paul wanted an iron, to do his own ironing, but obliged nonetheless.

After checking out our incredible view,

luxuriating in the incredible shower, the incredible bed, and the incredibly quick internet (we had been dealing with something akin to dial up to that point), it was time for dinner. Our criteria was fairly simple: it had to be within two blocks of the hotel.

First we headed down to the lounge to take advantage of the free canapes and drinks.

And then it was off to Indigo, where we are apparently very important (or at least Paul is).

We had the loveliest meal in the most refined, relaxing setting. Indian influenced food rather than Indian food. It was exactly what we were in the mood for.

We came back to this

and after a few gleeful bites (there is something so indulgent about eating from a whole cake with a fork rather than from a slice) we stuck it in the mini fridge and fell into our favorite bed of all time.

We awoke the next morning fully refreshed, and yet not wanting to leave our perfect cocoon of a room.

But upon looking out the window,

I couldn't help but be drawn outside. High on my list that morning was shopping. Paul opted out and stayed in bed with his laptop catching up on news, gossip and the like. So after we ate breakfast overlooking the ocean (I love a good buffet),

off I went down the street to Bungalow 8. Contrary to what the name implies, it is not, in fact, some far flung outpost of Amy Sacco's. No, it is actually THE BEST STORE EVER. And named after the owner's childhood address.

Four floors of chic home items, jewelry and clothing, I yearned for nearly every item there. Had I had room in my suitcase I definitely would have brought home a few giant urns, but as space was limited I ended up with a vase and a bunch of salad tongs. What can I saw, in the face of such abundance I panicked. I mean really, salad tongs?!! What was I thinking? I am waiting with bated breath for the day that their website goes live and I can order things from my apartment in New York.

I wandered around a bit more, but really none of the stores could compare, and as I was anxious to get out and see the rest of the city I headed back to the hotel to pick Paul up. On the recommendation of a friend we went to Leopold's, a tourist trap/neighborhood institution for lunch.

But we enjoyed our food, and I particularly enjoyed my mango juice.

And then we just set off wandering. Unlike Delhi, Mumbai is a very walkable city, which we were surprised by given its reputation as a heaving mess of humanity. But the streets and sidewalks are wide,

the trees are abundant

the architecture is beautiful

and the street life is vibrant.

And as was the case in the rest of India, the people were absolutely lovely. We were even stopped by a man who simply wanted to point out a beautiful flowering tree that is apparently the symbol of Mumbai.

We stopped by an art gallery, walked around some gardens and ducked into a clothing store that has been around since Victorian times, and which supposedly was the first stop of all of the memsahibs back in colonial times. Paul bought a few shirts, and I bought a few caftan type things that I've been using as loungewear ever since I got back.

It was late afternoon and we were eager to take advantage of the beautiful hotel pool. So we headed back to our room to change, where we were greeted with this.

Aren't the Taj staff members such romantics?

Down by the pool we lounged in a cabana

and then retired to our room to rest up before dinner. We were off to meet our friend Vijay in Bandra, which we were told was the cooler part of town. It also happened to be the other end of town, so we opted for the commuter rail rather than braving the traffic in a cab.

We asked for some advice on train routing down in our favorite lounge (with free drinks and canapes) and the hotel staff were somewhat horrified that we would brave the train. "Oh no sir, not for you, please let us get you a cab." "No, really, its fine, we're from New York." "No, it is very very very crowded." "Really, we'll be OK." And we were.

We got a first class ticket.

And rode in comfort the half hour out to Bandra.

I have to say I like that Indian trains only kind of slow down at the station but don't come to a total halt. The doors are just left open and people jump off an on as need be. Keeps the delays down. Hello MTA? Take note.

One rickshaw ride later,

We were at Vijay's offices. It was at this moment I truly felt that India will overtake American in no time. On a Friday night at 8:30, the office was buzzing. People were working, hanging out, sharing the odd beer, and just generally seeming to like their jobs. The vibe was simply electric.

After watching the most charming bit of documentary of Mumford & Sons traveling around Rajasthan, it was off to Todo's.

Where there is half a Volkswagen Bug nailed to the wall and the bartenders wear mechanic's overalls. Manesh and Bobby were in charge of ordering the beers, and they did very well indeed.

And the girls drank whiskey.

Then it was off to dinner, a meal which would rival that in Delhi for best Indian food ever.

We had the mezzanine of a hole in the wall restaurant to ourselves, and Bobby took care of the ordering. We discovered the man is an ordering genius.

And we indulged. Oh did we indulge! Black daal (stunningly good), weird yogurt drinks, curries, biryanis, the list goes on. By early morning we were stuffed to the brim.

The girls went back to work (!) and Paul and I said our goodbyes to our amazing hosts and hopped in a cab back to our palace by the sea.

And arrived to find this.

After marveling at how one could create a swan out of a towel, we pondered how best to move them so as not to destroy all of the hard work and so as not to strew rose petals around. Finally, after a careful relocation, we dove into our infamous bed. Tragically, it would be our last night in said bed.

And the last night of our amazing view.

Our last night of Mumbai! We loved the city and were devastated to have to leave so soon. The people, the scenery, the food, the energy...it was all just too good. We vowed to return.

We awoke the next morning, heads fuzzy, and after a quick stop for some croissants from the lounge of free food and drink, headed outside to get in our cab to the airport. We would endure a crazed drunkard on our flight to London, meet a lovely college student on that same flight, enjoy some traditional English fare at Heathrow of surprisingly high quality, and then come back to our beloved apartment, happy to be in New York, excited to be married, but missing Mumbai terribly (and our bed and butler at the Taj). Real life would take some getting used to.

The Grand Tour: Plantation on a Hill

2011-07-20T22:25:00.000-04:00

After our night on the water, it was time for a few nights on a hilltop. After disembarking from our houseboat, another nice clean cool car took us for a drive along the water, and then up through the lush green hills to Malabar House at Kanam Estate.

The lovely retreat, an old plantation house, is located on a hill and surrounded by loads of rubber trees. We got out of our car, took a deep breath of the cool, clear air and grinned at each other. We were in the middle of nowhere! A beautiful nowhere! With nothing to do!

We were greeted by the loveliest woman, who immediately offered us fresh fruit juice (I settled on watermelon, but would go on to try all of the myriad options over the next three days). We lounged in the relaxing front room as she checked us in, taking in the peace and quiet.

In no time I was in the pool (that's me at the end).

Paul was feeling a little under the weather, so I took my lunch at a table in the back garden while he rested.

Vegetarian thali was my choice that day, and it was a wonderful introduction to the food that I would enjoy for the rest of our stay. It consisted of many small dishes of light, flavorful and vividly colored foods, from beets to coconut to curry. Sitting under a market umbrella with a crisp linen napkin, a beautiful plate of food and the most perfectly helpful yet unobtrusive server, I felt classier than I had in quite some time.

I spent the next few hours sprawled out on the outdoor bed on our private veranda reading Wolf Hall.

Paul and I each had an ayurvedic massage in the little hut just beyond the veranda. I found myself slathered in the most viscous oil I've ever come across and manhandled by a woman half my size. I was in heaven. And my skin felt amazing, even after soaping everything off in the shower just after the rubdown.

Post manhandling, we decided to adopt the ways of the retired folk and ate early, this time in the library. And then, after we closed the (seemingly) thousands of wooden shutters in our room, we snuggled up in our bed, surrounded by the soft sounds of nature on the plantation.

We awoke the next morning excited to ride the resident elephant. After breakfast in the garden, and some indulgent lazing around, we ambled over to meet Lakshmi.

We fed her some bananas, which she at as if they were nothing more than peanuts.

Then it was time to ride. Paul climbed up first.

And found the experience petrifying. It was too high up (he is afraid of heights), the elephant's movement too much and the prospect of going down a hill on the beast unsettling. So after a spin around the hotel, I hopped up.

Not to toot my own horn, but I really was a natural (although granted, it took some getting used to...an elephant's shoulders rock back and forth more than you might expect!).

We strolled along for a while, me on the elephant, her two handlers and Paul walking along beside me. We passed homes, children playing, parents socializing...I cannot tell you how white I felt riding around on an elephant as if I was surveying my domain.

But it was loads of fun nonetheless.

Presently we came to a stream, and it was bath time for Lakshmi.

It was stunning how quickly she cooled off after. The amount of heat she put off was truly amazing!

On the way back the boys picked up a snack for her...

...which she ate like corn on the cob and once she was down to the stalk simply discarded.

Before long we were back home.

And it was time for more rest and relaxation.

Tea on the veranda in a rainstorm became my favorite afternoon activity at Malabar House.

Or perhaps favorite only after my afternoon ayurvedic treatment. Paul and I both had oil poured on our third eye for an hour, which was surprisingly relaxing. I also ended up with a deep conditioning hair treatment out of the whole thing.

Our last night at Malabar House we had Indian scented pasta (curry leaves and tomatoes) for dinner (again the library), and were watched over by this little guy.

It would soon come time to leave, as we were headed to the heaving, pulsating metropolis that is Mumbai.

We said goodbye to the welcoming, gracious home,

goodbye to the amazing staff,

and headed off in the hotel's Land Rover through the jungle to the airport.

The Grand Tour: The Keralan Backwaters

2011-07-15T07:00:00.026-04:00

Happily ensconced in a brand new, air conditioned minivan, Paul and I were on our way from the Tea Bungalow to Alleppey, which was to be our jumping off point for a houseboat tour of the Keralan backwaters. As we drove through Kochi (now in the daylight), we were absolutely charmed.

It was lush and colorful and seemingly prosperous. Paul wondered, do the people in North know about this place? I mean why wouldn't you live here?

Aside from the excellent hospitality and lovely environs, Paul was also taken with the fact that the Keralan population seems to be accepting of somewhat plump movie stars.

Before long we arrived at the mecca of houseboats, and the folks at Lakes and Lagoons wasted no time in getting us onto our boat.

And I wasted no time in making myself comfortable. Nothing better than mango juice on a warm afternoon.

Paul was so relaxed he could do little but take in the serene water scenes that we floated through.

An old cargo boat, our vessel was really quite spacious.

There was more than enough room for the two of us and our crew of three.

Luckily that crew included a cook, who soon brought us a gorgeous south indian lunch.

Ah coconut, how I love thee.

And you too, whatever you are, I loved you too.

After lunch I retired to the cushioned deck, where I would remain for the remainder of the trip.

During the first part of the trip, we had lots of company.

But before long we made it out into the less populated canals.

And presently stopped

to pick up some giant shrimp for dinner.

That done, it was time for more relaxation. This time with a cup of tea.

Eventually we came to a small town with a lovely church.

And we stopped off to take a closer look.

And then stopped by the church's woodworking shop.

We watched the craftsmen work, and bought a few of their lovely pieces. A wooden statue of Ganesh which Paul could not live without, a wooden mesh platter that I couldn't live without (and now keep on my kitchen counter to keep my fruit close at hand) and a wooden bowl. We of course completely overpaid but the experience in the shop had been so lovely that we couldn't be too upset.

Then back to the boat for more rest and relaxation.

And then the rains came.

As badly as I felt for the guys getting wet, I have to admit I love nothing more than a really intense, short lived rain storm.

We pulled to the side of the canal, battened down the hatches, and waited it out. And then this was our reward.

Darkness fell.

And then dinner came (see those shrimp?). Yum. Curry pastes galore, some more of my favorite coconut, and some lovely cold beer. Could life get any better?

After we had sufficiently savored the meal, we turned in early, and were lulled to sleep by the rise and fall of the backwaters.

The Grand Tour: Trains Planes and Automobiles

2011-07-13T07:00:00.034-04:00

Although I was relaxing in a plush bed in a suite with a view of the Taj Mahal, I couldn't stop stressing about the fact that we were waitlisted on our train back to Delhi. Although we had seats assigned and the people at the hotel assured us we "would be OK", I had my doubts. So, on the theory that we could get to the train station and find someone to sort it out for us there, I made Paul leave the air conditioned comfort of our room two hours before our train was scheduled to leave.

We got to the train station,

and found the booking office...which, between the smell and the residents, neither of us could bear to step foot in. So instead we found our platform and waited. And waited. Standing up, because Paul wouldn't let me sit on the ground, as we "didn't know what had gone on there". But then he won't let me sit on subway benches in New York either for fear of bedbugs, so it's really nothing against Agra per se.

It was terribly hot, but the scene was, as usual, colorful

and full of activity.

Presently our train arrived. After running up and down the platform at least twice in an effort to find where on earth second class A/C was, we clamored onto our coach. Now our train from Delhi to Jaipur had been lightly populated with passengers that appeared to be traveling short distances, so we were certainly not expecting this.

This was a train on its way up from the south, and had been traveling for two days. People were settled in, to say the least.

We got to our (possibly) appointed seats, and found our berths full. One man moved off of the top berth to hang out with his kids on the other side of the aisle, and I hopped up.

The folks downstairs happily shoved up to allow Paul room to sit down. At this point we had no idea whether they were simply being nice or whether they were actually in our seats.

But we settled in for the supposedly three hour journey, which would get us to Delhi in plenty of time for our flight to Kerala. Plenty. We chatted a bit with our kind and friendly berth-mates and then spaced out, lulled by the train's rocking.

Soon the train slowed to a crawl. After twenty minutes of crawling, Paul popped up and said to me "this is going to be a problem. Don't you think?" I did, but never one to panic before it is time, I assured him it was all part of the scheduled trip time.

As the crawl dragged on we got into those conversations you always have with your fellow passengers on a delayed trip...what's going on? How long is it going to be? The most popular answer? Oh we're only thirty minutes late. Even the conductor said, oh, we're only thirty minutes late. No problem. We had allowed ourselves two hours to make the one hour trip from the train station to the airport. There was only one dissenter...an old rotund man with a massive grey bear and a turban looked at us and said, "Two hours". We all laughed him off as malcontent.

As the trip dragged on we began to panic slightly. Still, we were "only thirty minutes" behind schedule according to our new friends, the soldier with a big gun and the conductor. The man with the turban maintained his original opinion ("India time, heh, heh, heh."). But eventually, with time short, we realized we hadn't even hit Faridabad, the last station outside of Delhi which, had the train be moving normally, would have been thirty minutes away. I was kicking myself for making the rookie mistake of traveling a long distance by one mode to the airport and flying in the same day.

By this time everyone around us was invested in whether we were going to make our flight or not. Should we get off in Faridabad and hope to find a cab? The soldier offered to have his friend pick us up there, for a fee of course. Dhruv, who we called in a panic for some advice, told us getting off was our only chance. The woman across the way, who acknowledged that making our flight by this point was a long shot, counseled us that finding a cab there could be challenging.

We finally arrived at the famed Faridabad and found it uninspiring. It was raining, dark was falling, the place seemed to be in the middle of nowhere and there were oil cans with fires in them scattered about the platform. Better to get stranded in Delhi than Faridabad, we reasoned. It seemed as though we could meet an untimely end in this place.

So we took our chances and stayed on our not so trusty steed. And as spent and stressed as we were, I couldn't help but be touched by the kindness of our fellow passengers. They called friends and cab companies and the like in an effort to help us out. None of their efforts really panned out, but it was lovely that they tried, and it did significantly lessen our despondency. And at about this time we also took a look at the passenger manifest, posted outside of the train. We were in fact not on it, so it seems our fellow passengers were kind after all in sharing their seats with us, rather than obliged.

An hour before our flight was scheduled to leave, we arrived in Delhi. Paul and I raced off the train, grabbed the first guy who said "taxi" and ran. He asked for an outrageous sum which Paul tried to negotiate for about ten seconds until we realized we had no option. The final deal was, get us there in thirty minutes and we'll pay you what you ask. This is an hour long trip mind you.

We raced off and soon entered a video game, one where you go sixty on city streets, swerve around the law abiding drivers, clip the bumpers of those in front of you at stop lights (it really was only dislodged a little in all fairness), all in the rain. And make it to the airport in thirty minutes. The man was literally the most skilled driver I have ever come across.

Paul and I rain into the airport, past the soldier at the front who was stopping people to check tickets (strangely he didn't come after us, I supposed we looked crazed but not crazy), and Air India, to their credit checked us in immediately. The clerk implored us to race to our gate, which we did, thanks to the fact that the security folks overlooked the eight liters of gels and liquids I was carrying in my case. Racing past Marks and Spencer and W.H. Smith, we arrived, sweating and breathless, at our gate, where the plane was boarding.

Neither of us could believe we had made it. After such an intense trip the only thing we could do was embrace one another.

Once on the plane, we lucked out and got bulkhead seats, and also lucked out and sat next to the loveliest, most interesting man who was running an NGO in Kabul.

We took off pretty much on time. And flew straight into a massive lighting storm. The pilot assured us it was miles away (it did not look like it). We had what was really a very good dinner (curry, of course) before the odd noises started. First one of the engines sounded strained. Then, the plastic cover that goes over the exit door release handle fell off. Paul was not pleased that the flight attendants tried to cram it back on (him: do we think it's a good idea to be pushing out on that door at 30,000 feet?). Then there was the big noise, and the big vibration. The man from Afghanistan said "That does not sound right." Coming from him, who had probably been flying in 50 year old Aeroflot plane for the last ten years, I was worried.

Turned out there was "engine trouble" and we turned around to go back to Delhi to change planes.

The next plane didn't sound all that much better, but it got us down south to Kochi in one piece. At 3 am. All I can say is, thank god for the Tea Bungalow. We had never been so happy to see a bed.

We awoke the next morning,

to this.

Paradise.

We loved the bed, the air conditioning, the amazing, amazing shower, the insanely good breakfast by the pool and the cool decor.

And the staff was beyond great. We had never been so reluctant to leave a place in our life.

Farewell, sweet bungalow, we'll be back one day!

Luckily, the relaxing part of our trip was about to begin.

The Grand Tour: Agra

2011-07-11T07:00:00.158-04:00

After our day of sighseeing, Paul and I awoke the next day with grand plans for the morning, as we would be leaving for Agra in the afternoon. He planned to relax in the Diggi's courtyard, and I planned to explore Jaipur's glorious textiles on a shopping trip. We did not, however, understand how long it would take a book a train ticket from Agra to Delhi on India Railways' baffling website on excruciatingly slow internet. Two hours, if you are wondering. And after toiling away we realized that we had somehow bought two waitlist spots on the train. We didn't even know what that meant, but were so sick of the whole undertaking at that point that we didn't even care.

After scouting out the public transportation options from Jaipur to Agra, we decided that hiring a driver was our best bet, unless we were in the mood to take a bus with no air conditioning. So Ajay sent his "brother" over to drive us.

We piled into the clean, air conditioned Toyota minivan and were soon on our way.

We waved goodbye to Jaipur...

...and in no time were on the open road.

I have heard horror stories about Indian drivers, but I have to say I found them to be overblown. Drivers there are skilled, it's just that the traffic rules and conventions are somewhat more...flexible, shall we say, than they are in the US. For instance, it was not unusual to be driving down the highway and suddenly be faced with oncoming traffic, a phenomenon that our driver always handled calmly and with great aplomb. The trick is just that as an American you should never try to drive in India, as your expectations of road conditions can never come close to conforming to the reality, and as a result you will be the bad motorist on the road.

After a longer drive than we had anticipated, we arrived in Agra as dusk was falling. We had been warned that the city was a cesspool (hugely corrupt state apparently, and as a consequence no money is ever spent on infrastructure) and that was as apt a description as there could be. The traffic in town was epic, more people were barefoot than shod and the air quality was stunningly bad. We were staying in a hotel that no one seemed to have heard of (everything else was booked, and this was low season!) so it took ages to find our destination. By the time we arrived we were bone tired and ready for a quick dinner and bed.

The hotel staff met us with the foulest smelling drink I've ever encountered, quite literally the aroma of a stinkbomb with a taste to match. We sat on a couch in the lobby, just thrilled to be out of the car, and waited for the staff to check us in. One hitch, they couldn't find our reservation and the hotel was booked. Paul roared, I cried, and miraculously they found a suite to put us in. The room, about twice the size of our New York City apartment, was quite nice in the end.

After dinner (although Paul had a curry, I opted for corn soup and a springroll...after the day we'd had I just wanted something bland and easy) we headed down to the cafe in the lobby to watch some soccer and share a banana split. Then bedtime.

We arose at 5:15 the next morning, eager to see the great Taj Mahal at dawn.

There were few people when we arrived, but we were greeted by a monkey eating an actual banana.

The wonderful thing about the Taj Mahal is that you can't actually see much of it until you are right upon it. It is obscured first by a great wall around the complex and then by this gate.

But once through the gate it greets you with breathtaking grace and dignity. It is perhaps odd to call a building ethereal, but it truly was. It almost seemed like it was floating in mid-air. I've never seen anything like it.

As the sun began to rise, the hue of the Taj's white marble skewed pink.

It truly was a marvel to behold.

Facing the Yamuna River, the Taj Mahal (the tomb of a king's wife) was supposed to have been facing its onyx twin across the river, which would have been the tomb of the king, so the two might lay together in eternity.

But the king's son, alarmed by the bill the original tomb had racked up, ousted his father to prevent him from sinking yet more of the kingdom's money into his own tomb. Paul was despondent about the lack of the onyx Taj Mahal once he heard the story.

But not so despondent that he could ignore the human beauty on the site. I was so taken with this family that I begged him to snap a photo.

Our tour, given by yet another fantastic tour guide, was now complete, and we were escorted out.

We headed back to the hotel for breakfast,

and a stroll. At 9:00 the heat was already stifling,

so we headed upstairs for a snooze before our train back to Delhi.

Our tour of the Golden Triangle was nearly complete.

The Grand Tour: Jaipur

2011-07-08T07:00:00.010-04:00

Despite our apprehensions about traveling second class on an Indian train (first class was sold out, apparently one has to book these things in advance), our trip to Jaipur was quite comfortable and relaxing. We took a snooze on our berths, took advantage of the chai wallah's sweet, steaming offerings and stared out the window for ages, taking in the dry, dusty landscape, which was stunningly punctuated by brilliant bits of vivid color in the form of saris and marigold garlands.

We arrived in Jaipur after dark, and were met on the train platform by Ajay, the man who would be our driver during our stay. Dhruv, appalled that we had not called him to sort out a driver in Delhi, insisted that we have one in Jaipur and we were glad to be bullied into it.

Ajay took us to the Diggi Palace, which would prove to be a welcome, if quirky, refuge from the frenetic city outside. In the dark I could not see much,

but I could see an expansive courtyard, walls surrounding the little oasis and the welcoming manager, which was more than enough for me. After dinner at the Handi Restaurant in town we fell into our ornate bed and snoozed deeply and happily until morning.

We awoke to this.

and this

and this.

We loved the Diggi, and loved it even more so after a delicious breakfast in the courtyard spent musing over our experience thus far. Paul: Where are all of the snake charmers? Isn't India supposed to be full of snake charmers? Me: Oh babes, don't be ridiculous, that's just in the movies.

Presently, Ajay arrived to take us to see the sights. First up was the Amber Fort, in the town of Amber, just outside of Jaipur.

We drove up mountains,

passed hauntingly beautiful ruins,

a smattering of wildlife,

(tragically we didn't get a photo of the magnificent elephant with a mosaic pattern painted on its forehead which we came upon after a hairpin turn)

and drove through the town of Amber

before coming upon the glorious Amber Fort.

We were approached by a tour guide, whose services we reluctantly accepted, half expecting a cursory tour for an inflated price. But we needn't have worried. The man was an exceptional guide (or at least an exceptional story teller) and a lovely person to boot.

He took us in

and presently took us to the most magnificent palace within a place.

Once through that we came upon the Mirror Palace. As one might expect, the whole place was inlaid with mirrors, which we were told make the whole place sparkle in the evening when candles are lit within. I would kill to see such a scene one day.

Overcome by the incredible room, Paul and I were so distracted that we acquiesced to a classic tourist shot.

As we moved further through the fort, we learned more about the family that lived in it. The more ostentatious part had been built by the nouveau son, the older part by his powerful father. The father seemed more concerned with providing accommodations for his wives (you'll notice from the vantage point below he could survey each of their rooms...funnily enough the wives couldn't go between each other's rooms, the only way in to each accommodation was from above, so the king could see them whenever he wanted) than with ornate decor.

Ironically a blind dating show was being filmed in the very courtyard the wives used to inhabit!

After a quick refreshment in the cafe, we stumbled upon these fine fellows on the way out.

Snake charmers indeed. Paul is still upset with himself for not buying the instrument the guy on the left is playing.

We took a quick spin through the Jaigarh Fort just up the hill from the Amber Fort. Far more minimalist,

there was something about its rugged, simple vibe that I really enjoyed.

And the garden clinched it for me. Who could resist this much greenery in the middle of a desert?

Apparently loads of Bollywood films are shot in this garden, and really I can't blame them. There's something terribly romantic about those mango trees.

But enough culture for one day, it was high time for a cocktail. We headed to the Rambagh Palace for some true luxury.

Sitting out on the terrace overlooking the grounds, I couldn't help but feel a bit royal. I asked Paul, what do you think it would have been like to be a colonial English person back in the day here?

Gazing over the perfectly manicured lawn with a cool drink in hand, he replied "it would have been amazing".

We had actually considered staying at the Rambagh, but our friends in Delhi had, upon hearing that we would be at the Diggi, exclaimed "oh fucking lovely! Such a vibe, man!" Me: "We were thinking of maybe the Rambagh?" "No! Yes, it's luxurious, but it's all about the Diggi." Given that the Rambagh costs about five times what the Diggi does I was all too happy to follow their advice. And when I came across this scene in front of the hotel, I have to admit I was glad that we did.

Waiting for Ajay to pull the car around, we heard a thunderous roar of a crowd. Turns out the cricket grounds were just across the street, and the famous Rajasthan Royals were playing that night. A true sports fan, Paul immediately suggested we head over to check it out. There was a bit of miscommunication at the front gate...we asked where to go to buy tickets, but instead got waved around to the VIP section. Despite our lack of passes we made it into VIP parking.

Paul, who is quite skilled at talking his way into places, was drawn to the challenge. After all, he reasoned, he'd talked his way into concerts in New York for which he didn't have a ticket (nevermind that he knows a few people in the music business and absolutely no one in the cricket business).

After five minutes of name dropping at the entry gate, he was politely but firmly rebuffed. Alas there would be no cricket for us that night. A pity, because the energy was absolutely electric.

We headed back to the Diggi to relax. We were so relaxed, in fact, that our plans to hit the Oberoi for dinner were scrapped in favor of dinner under the stars in the Diggi's courtyard. The food was fabulous, and we discovered Kingfisher Blue, a delicious variety of beer that we would seek out in vain for the rest of the trip.

After watching an amusing display by a british couple next to us who were busy spreading out loads of textiles that they had bought that day on the lawn, trying to decide which would look best in their house in Essex (I admit they all looked the same to me), we turned in.

The next day was a big one, as we would be traveling to Agra to see the famed Taj Mahal.

The Grand Tour: Delhi

2011-07-07T07:00:00.182-04:00

BAM!

That is pretty much how Delhi greets you. The place hits you from all sides, in all of your senses, over and over and over again.

Rickshaws....the very definition of sensory overload.

We found them thrilling, but probably because we didn't think too hard about what would have happened had things not gone exactly right on those one way streets we were driving the wrong way on.

Mopeds...the men always seemed to get the helmets, the women added color to the whole operation.

Bicycles...not one of them was without a precarious load.

Vehicles...they all would put the occupants of American carpool lanes to shame.

Animals...finding the oddest places to be comfortable.

And people,

people, everywhere.

After a moment spent getting our bearings, we asked a rickshaw to take us to Karim's Hotel, a restaurant (not, I think, a hotel) that just about any publication you look to will tell you is not to be missed.

And it is not.

Upstairs on the mezzanine, Paul and I contentedly drank our cold sodas and devoured our redolent, restorative food. We at that moment felt, for the first time during the trip, that we were really in truly in India, and it was just as we hoped it would be.

Suitably fortified, we decided to take a stroll around Old Delhi. Although perhaps not as picturesque an experience as we had anticipated (it turns out that, contrary to just about every other city I've visited, the old part of Delhi is not, in fact, really where you want to be) it was fascinating nonetheless. Everyone's an entrepreneur! We saw bookbinders, car engine refurbishers, butchers,

poultry raisers,

toastmakers (?)

and others literally every place we looked. You can't help but be inspired by the ingenuity and initiative that the community collectively represents. Is this what America was like 100 years ago I wonder?

The rest of the afternoon was spent sightseeing, first the Red Mosque which, although we were made to view it barefoot and draped in mumus, was quite impressive.

It's held up decently well over the last 350 years, no?

And then, eager for red tourist site number 2, we headed over to the Red Fort. After walking down a dodgy thruway and taking our lives in our hands by crossing a six lane road at rush hour, we were elated that we'd made it.

We walked and walked,

and finally, after what seemed like hours, found the front gate...just as closing time was upon us. So back to the hotel it was for a quick nap and a shower before dinner out with friends.

We were incredibly lucky to have been introduced to two wonderful guys in the music business in India. Happily, they happened to both be in Delhi at the same time we were and took us out for what would be one of our two best meals of the trip (the other would be the meal they took us to in Mumbai).

These kind gentlemen picked us up at our hotel and ferried us to a place that will live in infamy (in our minds at least)...

Lazeez Affaire. Oh how I miss your biryani!

Dhruv and Vijay were our fabulous dinner companions. Young, fun, brilliant entrepreneurs, these guys also happened to be epic orderers. God what a meal.

After dinner they drove us through what I can only assume is the Beverly Hills of Delhi. Wide open boulevards, lush vegetation, massive homes which Dhruv assured me go for no less than $60 million (yes, that is dollars, not rupees), I think it is safe to say there is some significant power and wealth concentrated in that city.

After such a fabulous evening Paul and I decided that, assuming we had a driver and hooked up with some locals first thing upon arrival, a return visit to Delhi would definitely be a good time. Sadly, as we had been advised by friends in States to get in and get out of Delhi as quickly as possible, there would be no time this trip to explore the city further, as we were scheduled to go to Jaipur the following day.

Bright and (sort of) early the next day, we headed to the Old Delhi Train Station (one of many train stations in the city...clearly the influence of the British methinks, given that London has three or four times the number of train stations that New York does).

We were a tad confused about where to go at first,

but eventually found our bearings.

Delhi was soon behind us.

The Grand Tour: Getting There

2011-07-06T07:00:00.003-04:00

After a wonderful matrimonial weekend with all of the people we love most in the world, Paul and I were ready to jet to India on a two week honeymoon. After bidding our families goodbye, we headed out to JFK, clutching a wad of wedding gift cash and our carry ons.

The trip started off marvelously when the kind folks at British Airways upgraded us to business class. After changing our wedding dollars into rupees, Paul and I went to the business class lounge to take advantage of the comfortable chairs, nice buffet and free snacks. I loaded up on said snacks to Paul's great bemusement...tacky perhaps, but who knows when a giant ziploc bag full of crackers and granola bars will come in handy? Piece of evidence number one that I'm turning into my parents I suppose.

Soon we were happily ensconced on the plane, taking full advantage of our flat beds.

Before we knew it, we were landing in Delhi. Reading our guidebook on the airplane we discovered that it is in fact illegal to bring rupees into the country, so after a moment of total panic we divvied up our cash between hidden pockets in my purse, jacket and Paul's pants. The security guards in the spanking new Indira Gandhi airport didn't seem to care about our contraband and we left with our driver without incident.

Exhausted after the flight, we fell into our bed at the serene Manor Hotel and slept through 'til morning.

Having blown our plan to "get up early and see Delhi" (ha!) by sleeping in, we instead lazed around the hotel...

...took a walk around the genteel Friends Colony neighborhood...

...while heeding some excellent advice...

...and then returned to eat a breakfast so flavorful and delicious that three months later I still think about it with longing. Paul declared it the best Indian food he'd ever had. The trip was off to a good start.

After partaking in many glasses of gorgeous fresh fruit juices and basking in the incredible hospitality of the hotel staff, it was time to head into town and check things out. Our chariot awaited.

Back From the Abyss

2011-07-05T07:00:00.077-04:00

Well that was certainly a longer break than I'd expected to take! Getting married, going abroad and then a series of small trips out town completely upset every routine I had (possibly the reason the whole thing has been so fun, everyone needs a break from themselves now and again, no?), blogging included, and it's taken me this long to get back into the grove.

You are perhaps interested in a few wedding photos? As am I my friend, as am I. But alas, our photographer is still working away on them, so you will have to wait just a bit (I hope) longer to see me and Paul in all our glory (and we were indeed glorious) in front of the altar of Old Saint Patrick's Cathedral.

But to tide you over, tomorrow I'll start to fill you in on our Indian honeymoon, which, for those in possession of a Y chromosome, is probably the more interesting part anyway.

In the meantime, a few things I'm borderline obsessed with these days:

1) My new ice cream maker.

A birthday gift from my parents, it has become my new favorite toy. Small and compact, easy to use, it gives me fabulous frozen treats in less time than it takes to run to the good supermarket in my neighborhood. I'm particularly partial to Darina Allen's recipe for yogurt ice cream, which is a dead ringer (but better and far cheaper...how is this stuff $5 for a small serving!) for the tart frozen yogurts that seem to be taking over Manhattan. 2 cups of yogurt, 3/4 cups of sugar (or to taste) and a teaspoon of vanilla whisked together and thrown in the ice cream maker for 30 minutes is just about the best thing you can hope for on a hot day.

2) TOMS shoes

I have to admit I always looked at these shoes with a bit of a smirk. I mean it's admirable that for each pair sold a shoeless person somewhere else gets shod, but it was all a little too hippie for me, plus who wants to wear canvas slippers around all day? But in a flurry of buying activity in the few hours between our wedding and our flight to India, I grabbed a couple of pairs in Whole Foods. I needed some comfy shoes for the trip that wouldn't make me too hot but also wouldn't expose my delicate feet to the mean Indian streets, and these were the best thing I could come up with. Turns out there's a reason these things are so popular. Super comfortable! Surprisingly supportive! And not as ugly on the foot as you might think!

3) Popsicles

OK, not a newfangled thing I realize, I mean my mom was making these for me and my sister twenty years ago. But they seem to be having a resurgence and I predict they will follow cupcakes and french macarons as the next old/new hip thing. After tasting Fany Gerson's pineapple lime popsicle from a stand on the Highline recently, I cannot wait to get my hands on her book.

Anyone know of a good popsicle mold I could buy? Or maybe the recipes would work as sorbet if I dumped them in my trusty Cuisinart?

I Am Still Alive

2011-03-06T22:49:00.000-05:00

Contrary to what you might think given the paucity of posts lately, I have not in fact perished, nor have I become suddenly incapacitated. Rather, I've been taken unawares by how much of a time suck wedding and honeymoon planning can be. I've spent quite a lot of time mocking those brides-to-be who run around like chickens with their heads cut off attending to the minutiae of the big day, but I have to admit, as simple and low key as our wedding is going to be, getting it together is still a stunning amount of work. Ideas for posts come into my head, but by the time I have a minute to sit down the idea has left me and I am face to face with a blank screen. And lately my cooking has consisted mainly of bought rotisserie chickens from Whole Foods and some variation on the cream/ham/pea/pasta classic (occasionally adapted to accommodate the contents of my freezer...edamame is quite a nice stand in for the peas) so I have no particular culinary inspiration to share. Hence the great silence.

I won't pretend that I'm coming to you today with anything ground breaking, but there are a few things I've been enjoying lately that perhaps bear mention:

Internet Wandering

Do you know Svpply? If, like me, you enjoy vicarious shopping, this website is your dream come true. Various users tag items that they like, providing a glimpse into the tastes of those with more taste (or perhaps more time) than I. Those users with whom you feel a particular kinship can be "followed", like a chic version of twitter. Through this borderline stalking behavior I've developed an unhealthy obsession with the following fantastic yet superfluous items:

From the looks of it, I'm in the mood to sit down in the sun and enjoy a little romance.

OK, I Am Cooking Just a Little

I'm working out these days, consistently, for the first time in ages, and am making an effort to match my eating habits with my new regime. So no cookies, no pastries, but I have to have a little something sweet. So I've been snacking on Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall's Breakfast Cheesecake, a lovely cake made of oh so healthy cottage cheese. Mix 650 g cottage cheese (or cream cheese, goat cheese, or whatever you fancy at the moment) with 75g unsalted butter, 3 tablespoons of semolina or wholemeal flour, a pinch of salt, 100g sugar, 2 eggs, zest of 2 oranges, 1 tablespoon orange juice, 3 tablespoons of raisins and combine. Bake in a springform pan at 330 degrees for 25 minutes, or until reasonably set, and voila, a gorgeous, not terrible for you snack.

And I Am Eating Out Quite a Bit

A new crush...I'm always enamored with dark restaurants with lots of wood and good prices. Bocca di Bacco has got all of those in spades.

After a mirth filled dinner there with some of my favorite people the other night I'm sold. Too bad it's in midtown. But then again no one's perfect.

Revisiting an Old Favorite...back in the day when Paul used to work in Soho, we and the posse of the day spent half of our time at the bar Toad Hall chowing down on those lovely bowls of party mix and quaffing beers, and the other half at Lucky Strike right next door. Opened in 1989, it was an early addition to Keith McNally's retro french bistro empire, and it has stood up to the ravages of time quite well.

I had nearly forgotten about the old dear until Saturday evening, when I attended a birthday dinner there, but oh how happy I was to be reintroduced. Festive without being obnoxious, warm, comfortable, good but reasonable food (I mean where else can a girl get a steak with roquefort butter for $18?), it's everything you want in an evening out. I promise, dearly Lucky Strike, not to be a stranger anymore.

The Great Funk

2011-02-16T22:25:00.000-05:00

Talk to just about anyone in New York at this time of year, and they'll tell you that they're sick of everything. Three months of cold and snow will get a person down. In fact, this is probably about the only time of year when 9 out of 10 New Yorkers will tell you that they would happily move to L.A.

I am not immune to the great funk, I admit. As much as I rhapsodize about the seasons, the end of winter is not my favorite time of year. I drag myself around, living my life, going through the motions, but by the end of the day I have very little interest in much of anything but the TV and the couch. And when Paul is out of town, as he is now, that tendency is only amplified.

Sadly, this means that food becomes a bit of an afterthought. For all of the talk one hears of wonderful winter braises, I have no interest in initiating such an undertaking these days. But at the same time, takeout somehow only makes things more pathetic, so some sort of a compromise is called for, and that compromise is miso soup.

It requires so little effort I'm not even sure it could be called cooking, but I enjoy it immensely just the same. Just boil a couple of cups of water, add a tablespoon or two of miso paste (the amount varies wildly depending on the miso you use, taste as you go), perhaps some soy sauce if, like me, you ended up with some organic miso that has almost no salt (rookie mistake, obviously) and you have your base. Throw in whatever you've got in your refrigerator next. Chicken, tofu, mushrooms, I absolutely must have some sort of leafy green...and then, most importantly, the noodles. I find it critical to have those crinkly, guilty pleasure ramen type noodles, but this is a highly personal decision, so I leave it to your own good judgment to choose your carb.

And then, after no more than five minutes of effort, I once again sink into the couch, in front of the TV, with a steaming bowl of goodness, contently waiting out the cold.

Revelations

2011-02-13T09:03:00.134-05:00

After weeks of spending most of my energy working and trying to avoid the cold, yesterday, which I spent out and about since the weather had relented a bit, felt like a reawakening.

After my customary poached egg and toast with a steaming mug of PG Tips in the morning and a lazy perusal of the newspapers, I was off to try a new exercise studio on the upper east side. Now over the years I've given just about every yuppie workout regime in the city at least a cursory try (save for spinning, it scares me just a tad) so I can say with some level of authority that The Refine Method, aka my new find, is one of the best, if not the best, exercise options in New York for the spandex-clad, body conscious set.

After an hour class, I was completely worked out...strength, cardio, the perfect level of sweat and fatigue. And I love love love the teacher/owner. Hilarious, quick and absolutely no bs, exactly my kind of girl. She's so great I don't even hate her for her incredible New York City Ballet body.

And upon reading her blog I am even more obsessed with her. She has done her research, let me tell you! Read about how crunches screw up your back, how the idea that stretching after working out makes your muscles long and lean is ridiculous (obviously, now that I think about it) and how "dancer" workouts will never get you to Natalie Portman in the Black Swan. And somehow I even love that the studio is on an out of the way street in the basement of a church. Basic, no frills, exactly how exercise should be. And happily, the no frills aspect is reflected in the pricing. Also as it should be (but rarely is).

After class, on a wave of endorphins, I floated over to Via Quadrono on 74th and Madison for a quick cappucino. I have to admit, as much as I used to adore this place, I had abandoned it of late. The wait for the tables became too long, the prices too high, and the other coffee options in this city have become so great, but I was in the good mood and figured I'd give it a shot. Happily, there was a space at the oh-so-Italian bar to stand and drink, so that is what I did.

I may have had a cookie or two as well...

...which I nibbled on as I admired the gorgeous sugar dispensers that surrounded me. How many coffee shops do you run across that have just barely tarnished silver vessels for crystals both raw and refined? Even Stumptown, my current favorite, doesn't go that far.

After my midday snack I was off to the Met, inspired by my mother to see the new Cezanne exhibit. It was in fact wonderful, although a bit more brief than I had imagined it would be. I guess there aren't nearly as many "card players" paintings as I thought. But no matter. As I always do when visiting the museum, I headed upstairs to check out the photography and impressionist galleries. And it was there that I came across the most fabulous exhibit...Stieglitz, Steichen and Strand. STUN-NING. Stunning. The photos of the New York of old were my favorites. Some haunting,

some with that angularity and color contrast that so perfectly conveys "metropolis".

Exactly the style that I was trying to emulate as an undergraduate photo student when shooting in west Philadelphia, and only partially succeeded in.

After the photos I felt that my museum experience could only go downhill, so I decided to head back out to Fifth Avenue, stopping only for a moment to admire the always-wonderful flower arrangements in the front lobby (cherry blossoms that day).

My stomach was gnawing at me a bit, and so I headed over to the nearest food truck that didn't have the word "Sabrett" on it.

Now normally I wouldn't touch a pretzel truck in New York with a ten foot pole. All of them insist on those horrible giant heavy pretzels with too much salt that I swear must be stored in warehouses with rats running through them just before the vendors reheat them for our eating pleasure. But this one looked different.

Jalapeno pretzels, garlic and thyme, feta and olives...could it be? Is New York finally catching up to the gourmet food truck trend that so many others adopted years ago? It seems that the community near the Met steps is. My feta pretzel was warm, tender, tasty and just the right size.

The perfect ending to a revelatory day.

Genius in Tomato

2011-01-31T22:39:00.000-05:00

Wall of passata at Eataly

When it comes to home cooking, there's not much new and different to discover. It's all pretty much been done by the many generations that came before. Of course, the Microplane changed everyone's life for the better a few years back, and the rice cooker was quite a revelation for me once I got over my snobbery and finally took it down out of the cabinet to try it out, but these are rare occurrences. Usually as a home cook I just go along, happy to find nothing more than a new cheese that I enjoy melting on toast.

But the other day I came across something new and exciting enough (to me) to put a bit of a spring in my step. Have you heard of passata before? Usually packed in tall thick bottles, it is essentially tomato puree. I don't know if the puree is a more pleasing texture or taste than what you normally find in cans, or if I just like the packaging better than a can (love being able to dump out a few tablespoons here and there and reseal), but I'm absolutely obsessed.

A recipe calls for a few ripe tomatoes in the dead of winter? No matter, throw in a bit of passata. It gives the color and taste of tomato without having to deal with those hard specimens at the supermarket or that unpleasant texture that canned tomatoes often have if you end up biting the wrong part (am I the only one totally grossed out by the remnants of tomato skin and stems?). It's like summer in a bottle. And at this time of year, we can use all of the fortifications against winter available.

This Time of Year

2011-01-23T21:12:00.002-05:00

I seem to forget each year how utterly exhausting January can be. After lounging around in California for a week and a half at Christmas, working here and there but by no means all day, and taking a few days off back in New York with my beloved for New Year's, spending a full day in the office and then going out for evening activities is terribly difficult. And somehow every year the days are busier in January than you ever expected they could be, and everyone wants to "catch up after the holidays" so evenings are booked solid.

But at the same time it's bitterly cold outside and all you really want to do is hunker down in cozy clothes under a cozy blanket, eat cozy food and watch movies or perhaps bad wedding reality shows on the WE channel. Perhaps emerging only if properly dressed to do some outdoor activity in a pristine location as we did last weekend when we went snowshoeing up at the Mohonk Mountain House.

There's a very unique culinary feeling about January...I'm not in the mood for anything elaborate, just satisfying food with few ingredients that can simmer away, untended, as I snuggle down on the couch. But at the same time, after the excesses of the holidays I'm not looking for anything as serious as braised short ribs or cassoulet...I want something cleansing and nourishing and light.

It is this unique need that develops at specific times of the year that has made me fall in love with Nigel Slater's The Kitchen Diaries (I have already fallen in love with all of his other books after all).

My parents bought it for me some time ago as a gift and I had periodically flipped through it in a rather cursory way, knowing that I liked the book but not really understanding why.

But now that I have pulled it off of the shelf in a more serious way, I see that Mr. Slater's diary about what he ate throughout one year of his life (and the accompanying recipes) is wonderful to cook along to in real time. Just as I yearn for something hearty yet easily digested on the first day of the new year, so does he, and he provides just the recipe to fill that yearning (an indian scented pumpkin soup in case you are wondering).

One evening when I was looking for something hot (not an unusual desire at this time of year) but easy and clean, I took his lead and threw together a pot of thai scented mussels and was absolutely sated.

The other night I even transgressed and wandered a bit into February to make some chicken (in my case pork, as I could find no reasonably priced ground chicken) patties in broth (served over rice in my case) which were delightfully easy and delicious and homey.

And this evening, in addition to the bulgar with eggplant and mint that I made for dinner tonight and for lunches this week, I was in the mood for something aromatic and sweet, so I immediately flipped to his ginger cake.

And came out with this

which I will not be, as Mr. Slater suggests, letting mature for a day or two. Rather, I'll be cutting into it in short order, reveling in it's warmth and spice and January-ness.

This cooking alongside a seasonal cook thing may be a full-year endeavor for me...or perhaps when the sun comes out and the warmth comes rushing in I'll lose interest entirely? I certainly hope not...I'd be missing out on loads of excellent and appealingly easy recipes.

Holiday Lessons Learned

2011-01-03T23:20:00.000-05:00

Well well well, there was quite a bit of snow in New York last week. I of course experienced next to none of it as I was "stranded" in California where the weather was mellow and warm. Thank goodness Continental couldn't get their act together and I got stuck there for three extra days.

During my enforced vacation I learned quite a few things:

The Black Swan is actually not a lovely movie about ballet, but a terrifying horror movie. Still I enjoyed it, despite yelping audibly in the theater. Perhaps it was the makeup that won me over in the end. That or Natalie Portman's gorgeous performance.

The King's Speech is just as good as everyone says. If I was in a poncy movie reviewer mood I would say something about it being an elegant portrait of a troubled but deeply good man, and something about the touching friendship that forms between two strangers.

But I'm not so I won't. I'll just say that Colin Firth is absurdly good and Geoffrey Rush is fabulous as always.

I also learned that Up is an adorable movie, perfect if you are in need of a pick me up. Who couldn't be charmed by an old man who attaches thousands of balloons to his house in an effort to move it to South America?

Other lessons? 5 Hour Lamb is delicious for Christmas dinner, although 4 hour lamb might be even better. 4 month old nieces are very cute and lots of fun to play with. There is nothing quite like a slightly dying fire, when the hearth is warm and the fire is not raging so much that one can't sit in front of it.

But most important lesson learned? Home is the best place to be for the holidays.

Getting in the Spirit

2010-12-19T22:37:00.001-05:00

I absolutely adore Christmas, but this year you'd never know it. The holiday has barely registered with me. I've been preoccupied with work so my kitchen has been cold for an uncommonly long time, the holiday parties I've attended have been fun but oddly devoid of Christmas decor, and although I've been haunting the department stores in search of a wedding dress it's the massive shoe sales that have caught my eye rather than the holidays windows.

But somehow this weekend the tide turned. I'm headed to California on Tuesday, so now that I'm preparing for the trip it's really feeling like Christmas. I spent the weekend running about doing last minute shopping, and taking full advantage of the very serious sale at Kate's Paperie and a considerably smaller one at the Conran Shop which has the cutest gift tags ever. I spent Sunday morning wrapping presents with my loot from the shopping trip

and appropriately enough, Nigella's Christmas special was on at the time.

Now that is a woman who knows how to do Christmas.

In addition to her be-lighted and be-boughed townhouse, she's preserving dried fruits in booze,

roasting prime rib,

icing cookies (I was absolutely jealous...I barely even have bread in the house now)

and entertaining her sparkling circle of friends effortlessly.

After watching that show I was well and truly on the holiday bandwagon.

Now that my Christmas spirit has been ignited, my gifts are in order, my laundry done, my apartment clean and my work in hand, I'm free to revel in the holidays on the fairer coast with my family. I'm looking forward to that roaring fire, the scent of the tree, the poppyseed bread on Christmas morning and that lazy time with my nearest and dearest.

I can't wait! Happy Holidays to you all!

It's All Coming Together...Sort Of

2010-12-12T18:35:00.000-05:00

After months of inaction, Paul and I have, in the last month or so, made a lot of progress on our wedding planning. A church has been secured, a restaurant rented and I've narrowed down the choices for the party venue. But that said, there's a fair amount left to do. Finding a dress, for instance. After four hours of shopping today at just about every spot worth visiting in midtown, I'm perhaps a centimeter closer to finding something than I was when I woke up this morning.

But one thing that I have no worries about is the invitations.

I was never someone that dreamed of a very specific wedding day from the time I was a wee thing, but I did have ideas about certain, relatively random things. Flowers for instance. I've loved Saipua's relaxed, wildflower vibe for as long as they've been in business. So I booked her early. And after a quick spin through the world of wedding invitations I realized I hated just about everything, so I pleaded to Sarah from Saipua for help. And did she ever come through.

She pointed me in the direction of a young illustrator named Asheley Wilson who works in fabulous flower stores all over town (and Brooklyn). Paul and I met her for coffee and were utterly charmed. She was positive, open to our ideas, totally non-judgmental about our modest budget, not to mention cute as a button.

Since we have more out of towners than in-towners coming to the wedding, we wanted sort of a vacation, destination wedding vibe, since for most of our guests it will be. Asheley was all over it and came back with this:

A postcard...brilliant!

Paul was thrilled because it was colorful, I was thrilled because it was un-frilly but fun. And we were both thrilled with the speed with which she pulled it off.

She's drawing away now on actual invitation ideas...I'm waiting in breathless anticipation to see what she comes up with.

Favorite Appliance EVER

2010-12-08T22:13:00.001-05:00

New York has fallen under an arctic chill, far more extreme than is normal for early December. And I have fallen under a mountain of meetings and work from which I have only barely emerged. A weekend of fabulous parties, the best of which was the beautiful engagement party that Zenia threw for me and Paul, left me a tad depleted. And a semi-late night out at the Bowery Ballroom last night only compounded the drain.

But luckily, tonight I can laze around watching TV and reacquainting myself with the miracle appliance that is my rice maker. Paul left for England today so I'm free to have the kind of odd, ad hoc dinners that one has in complete single-girl solitude.

Since Chief didn't eat any of the items on their rider at the Bowery Ballroom, and Paul is loathe to let anything go to waste, I have two pounds of cold cuts and one pound of swiss cheese sitting in my refrigerator. And a rice cooker just itching to make use of them.

After cooking the rice and throwing in a few vegetables and black vinegar (I was out of soy sauce so it was the next best thing), it was time for the turkey.

And then time for the cheese

And then it was time for dinner eaten out of a bowl on the couch while catching up on Dexter with a big glass of red wine at hand.

I first got the idea for this melted cheese with rice and veggies and soy sauce from Kenny Shopsin, and I amended his recipe to make use of the rice cooker rather than the microwave. How fitting that the ultimate "I don't care what anyone thinks of me eating this low down dirty dinner" recipe comes from the ultimate "I don't care what anyone thinks about me at all" guy.

I'm already thinking of random delicious things to throw in it tomorrow night...

Grateful

2010-11-28T19:05:00.001-05:00

Sadly, I didn't make it back to the homeland this year for Thanksgiving.

As alluring as the prospect of the holiday in California is, the airfares were verging on offensive this year, and between the travails of traveling at the same time as 100 million people and the fact that I'll be home in a few weeks for Christmas, Paul and I opted for a staycation this time around.

With all of the downtime the lack of travel afforded us, I had time to reflect, tritely enough, on those things in my life that I'm grateful for. Tying for first place are my smart, hilarious and soulful boyfriend, my family who I like so much (love is a given with family, like is not always) that I miss them terribly when we're not together at the holidays, and my wonderful friends, a second family that more than fill in when the first one can't be around.

I'm also grateful for all of those cocktails in living rooms on Thanksgiving day, for the dinner at Five Points that we eventually made it to that night (especially that baked oyster appetizer), and for the apple pie that Paul brought home Wednesday evening so we could approximate leftover nibbling in the days after Thanksgiving.

I'm grateful that Paul and I get to throw a party for our nearest and dearest in a few months, that we get to go on a honeymoon to a faraway land together (any India travel suggestions by the way?) and that we get to come home afterwards to a comfortable home.

And I'm grateful for those of you who come here to listen to my ramblings, to exchange thoughts, to show me new ideas, new links, new concepts. My life is so much richer for it. Happy Thanksgiving.

Down in the Neighborhood

2010-11-21T20:16:00.000-05:00

When I first moved to New York there was nothing I liked better than trying every new restaurant and bar that I could fit into my schedule. But now that the "new" places feel less new to me (everything seems to recycle itself eventually) I'm becoming increasingly attached to places that I consider neighborhood spots, that one can become a regular at.

Paul and I have lived above Les Halles for years, and for us it is the ultimate neighborhood joint. Cheap (sort of) and cheerful, I know the menu by heart and always order one of two things - moules mouclade (with fries, please) or merguez sausage. And the desserts never disappoint. For those nights when something more casual is in order, we can always count on the Roxy Diner across the street for a good grilled cheese.

But for the longest time I went without a regular spot near my office. Perhaps because in past jobs I didn't go to lunch much, perhaps because office districts often have uninspiring dining options. But now that I work in one of the most culinarily exciting spots in the city and my job performance is improved considerably when I know all of the gossip, which is most effectively gleaned over a good plate of food, I have no excuse not to find a place to make my own.

Novita, a mere three blocks up Park Avenue from my office, has become my home away from home during the lunch hour.

It is a perfect place to bring new acquaintances, as Italian food goes over well with most everyone, and can accommodate most every food idiosyncrasy that might present itself. It is a perfect spot to gossip since it is quiet enough to hear and be heard, but lively enough that the table next to you can't eavesdrop too easily. The crowd is decorous but not stuffy, and you do not get the feeling that the place was conceived of with expense accounts in mind.

The pasta is superb (as winter approaches I will be indulging in the fabulous lamb ragu more and more often), the fish is fresh and uncomplicated, and stalwarts like the veal milanese please even the fussiest of eaters. But perhaps most refreshing of all, the portions are normal, not nouveau. You order monkfish and you get hunks of fish, not medallions. You order a pasta and it is a meal portion, not a pre-entree portion. And I have never been presented with an up-selling waiter, encouraging me to order a multi-course lunch when all I want is a brief bite. In fact, the same lovely, welcoming man waits on me each time I set foot in the place. As it should be at your local.

And now that I've discovered that Mario Cuomo is a regular as well, I feel all the more smug having designated myself as one...

Gifting

2010-11-18T23:03:00.000-05:00

I love giving gifts. When I've hit on the perfect item for someone, I know it and I get joy from it. I'm not someone who shops for Christmas all year long or anything, but I do put quite a bit of thought into each gift giving occasion and each gift recipient.

The first gift I remember getting for Paul was a rare-ish Tom Waits poster that I had noticed him admiring at Amoeba Records. I picked it up for his birthday. It was a tad more than I was used to spending on gifts at the time, but I've never seen someone appreciate a present more, and to this day it occupies a prominent spot on our living room wall, and I love it nearly as much as he does.

And last Christmas, I recalled that my dad was having a Richard Avedon moment, as he had visited the Avedon exhibit at SFMOMA not once but twice, so I chased all over town trying to grab the last copy of a gorgeous Avedon book, which brought me to a Barnes & Noble in Brooklyn in the end. And he loved it, and I didn't mind the quest because he loved it.

Now I don't want to imply that I always hit it out of the park. There have been some rather big misses along the way. I once knit my sister a hat covered in silver paillettes for Christmas, which she found in my suitcase and mercilessly mocked, thinking it was mine. And then there were the tiny metal bird feet that I thought were so fabulously gothic and got for everyone one Christmas, and no one got them at all. I got a lot of, "oh, I think perhaps we're missing a piece?" type questions.

But it really is weddings that I think are the ultimate gift giving occasions. Marriage is a fabulous thing, and the love of a couple is something that should be celebrated with a lovely gift that can be cherished for years. I have a rather bad habit of eschewing the registry...I can't ever imagine that people really want the casserole dishes and bar ware, so I usually go off script, probably to slightly mixed results.

I've given everything from cases of wine from Sherry Lehman to cookbooks with cards listing my favorite recipes from each to cash, if that is the preferred option. I often go to the wedding before purchasing the gift, as sometimes I get an idea of what to give from the speeches or party somehow.

But at the last wedding I attended I was stumped, absolutely stumped. Which was odd, as the groom is quite a good friend of mine so I in theory should know what he likes. But I had no idea what the two of them would like, you see. So I did what any sensible girl does in a pinch...I called my mom. And she, always a favor of practical, high quality gifts, steered me in the direction of a Japanese knife store in Berkeley.

This probably sounds like an odd idea, but I assure you, a really good knife is one of the more ultimate luxuries around, and in that respect a really good knife makes a wonderful gift. So I went on the website of Hida Tool, and began to browse. And browse. It took me a good couple of days to make up my mind actually. I was so baffled by all of the choices that I went purely by looks. So I ordered a sashimi knife, a chef's knife and a small petty knife, all gorgeous.

So I placed my order, and they called me to confirm it and get my credit card information. I found myself speaking with a man who sounded old and Japanese, and by the time I had gotten off the phone with him I had a much more appropriate set of knives than what I had chosen originally, and was spending less than I had planned. He talked me out of the sashimi knife (do they make sushi he asked? No. Don't get the knife then) and suggested I upgrade the chef's knife to a model that he seemed nearly to revere. Such service! Doesn't happen much these days.

Shortly thereafter, I received two incredible knives in the mail, which I promptly wrapped up and dropped by the new couple's apartment. I was happy that they would have a good home, but highly depressed that I wouldn't be able to enjoy them and their oh so sharp blades and polished wood handles. I simply must make a trip to see Mr. Hida when I'm home for Christmas.

Estate Jewels

2010-11-14T21:45:00.001-05:00

I have to admit that there is a part of me that finds the whole engagement ring tradition ridiculous. I imagine that it originated in days when marriageability was a woman's main asset, when some sort of commitment from her intended was necessary in order to maintain an aura of propriety, or to indicate his ability to support a family. It is a tradition that doesn't reflect the times in which we live now.

But that said, once engaged I was powerless against the societal pressure to have a ring, and I was nearly as powerless against the promise of beautiful jewelry adorning my hand. Thankfully, Paul has excellent taste, so that promise was indeed fulfilled.

He found a ring that looks like no other engagement ring I've ever seen, that doesn't blatantly advertise its carats and price, but that I find to be endlessly elegant and beautiful and creative. I'm sure that at some point I'll stop gazing gratuitously at the diamonds and emeralds that now grace my ring finger, but that point hasn't yet arrived, and probably won't for quite some time.

My only request was that I didn't want a ring that looked like everyone else's, that looked as though it had come straight off of 47th Street in the diamond district. So he headed downtown instead. Way downtown, to an estate jeweler on the lower east side called Doyle & Doyle, officially my new favorite browsing spot.

If the term "estate jeweler" conjures up visions of a fusty, uptight operation, I assure you that is not the case here. The employees are all pretty young things working alongside a hipster sound track in a bright, open space. The girls are utterly sweet...there were many oohs and aahs over my new engagement when I brought the ring in to be sized...and totally knowledgeable and professional.

The range of price points is wide, and perhaps best of all, the prices are posted next to the jewels on display, so you know right away whether a piece is worth your time to admire or whether it is too far out of reach to be pondered. I love this attempt to take the intimidation factor out of fine jewelry shopping.

And as the pieces are almost all antique, you won't find yourself bumping into someone with your ring, necklace or bracelet, a tough feat in a town with such champion shoppers as New York has!

All the Different Weddings

2010-11-09T23:12:00.001-05:00

Since the day that Paul proposed I've been thrilled to marry him, but I have to admit we've been slow to plan the actual wedding. When I tell people that the big day is in April, the question to follow is always, where are you doing it? How's the planning going? And when I tell them that I'm still in the "research" phase (but I have my invitations and flowers nailed down!) there's always a brief look of horror that crosses their faces. I personally don't see a problem with planning what is essentially a small series of parties five months in advance rather than twelve months in advance, but this is New York after all. People here like to do things to the extreme.

So, in addition to my exhaustive research on restaurants and party spaces (which I really am doing, I promise) I have also, in a nod to the wedding gods and over involved acquaintances, entered the vortex of wedding blogs.

For those uninitiated, these blogs feature "real weddings" from around the country, with a few DIY tips and the like thrown in for good measure. While reading such postings I alternate between a feeling of total alienation (I struggle to identify with the couples who pose running through fields of wildflowers towards their masses of matching bridesmaids) and total intimidation.

I mean, how could my wedding ever be as fun as this one,

where a hilarious friend officiated and Brazilian dancers were only one of many bits of entertainment?

And how could my food ever be as good as at this one,

where nearly whole animals were roasted in a gorgeous outdoor scene?

And how could my venue ever be as spectacular as this one,

where the bride and groom celebrated with their nearest and dearest in a picturesque town in France?

They're all so...ugh...perfect.

All I can say is thank goodness for East Side Bride. When I came across this site I breathed a huge sigh of relief. Today she's talking about man tea parties (apparently they involve scruffy guys from Brooklyn and tinned sardines), the other day she was convincing a panicked bride to be that planning a wedding in two months was no big deal (I know, right?!), and a while back she was advocating for tie dyed wedding dresses. But only if your husband to be will think you hot in it. I love her irreverence, her non-conformist tendencies, the lack of professional wedding photography on her website. After I'm done panicking at the sight of all the new incredible "real life weddings" each day, her site provides me solace and sanity. Thank you kind East Side Bride lady.

British Preserves

2010-11-02T22:35:00.000-04:00

I have a particular weakness for british cookbooks. I like that the food is just that little bit different, requiring slightly exotic items like golden syrup to make slightly exotic things like sticky toffee pudding, I love that the quantities are quoted in weight rather than measure (with a digital scale on hand I cannot tell you how much easier this is than all of those measuring cups) and who can resist the descriptions of vibrant markets in London or charming countryside establishments that invariably make their way into the text accompanying the recipes.

I have long avowed my love for Nigel Slater, Nigella Lawson, and the River Cafe ladies, but my deepest British crush at the moment is Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall, thanks to his incredible beet chocolate brownie recipe in River Cottage Everyday. So when The River Cottage Preserves Handbook, named after Hugh F-W's homestead, was recommended to me, I nigh ran to the library to pick it up.

Now I will tell you that my mother has a major complaint about the various River Cottage handbooks...their format is perfectly suited to a handbook, but ill suited to a cookbook...and as a result she has practically boycotted them. She does have a point. The volumes are quite small and the binding does not allow them to fall open, and remain open, on your favorite (or any) recipe. But this is a flaw that can be overcome with a can of coconut milk (in my case) lain across the binding to hold it open.

Once this solution was employed, I was free to enjoy the recipes. And boy did I.

pickled spiced pears

Oftentimes when I peruse preserves books at anytime other than high fruit season I find myself depressed. But this book has got more gorgeous recipes for the cool months than it does for the warm...pear chutneys, apple curd, dried fig mostarda...River Cottage has made cool and dreary fabulous (although I suppose that given the book's English provenance this could be called making a virtue out of necessity). How cute are my pickled pears? So delicious. Tangy and sweet, I am determined to bring them home for Christmas to be eaten alongside roasted meats. I can't wait to give the mulled pear recipe a try next.

I always love the hot peppers from the folks at Oak Grove Plantation at the Greenmarket, but this is the first year I've really had anything to do with them.

chile pepper jam and apple lemon curd

This chile pepper jam is absolutely to die for. It tastes like an haute version of that sweet chile sauce that you sometimes find in Chinese restaurants, and would be fantastic on a turkey sandwich the day after one of the upcoming holidays. And the apple lemon curd alongside it? I've been spreading it on toast for breakfast nearly everyday since I made it. Tart and just sweet enough and rich and luxuriant, I have, embarrassingly enough, resorted on occasion to a spoon in the jar while standing in front of the refrigerator.

This is one of those rare books that continues to intrigue long after I've made the first few recipes...I've got visions of pumpkins and quince and beets and onions and plums in my cupboard in the form of compote and relish and chutney and cordial and marmalade, courtesy of the brilliance of the River Cottage.

It's Official

2010-10-31T20:03:00.000-04:00

Fall has a certain romance to it, just I suppose, as does spring. And everyone has a favorite way of marking the transition to the new season. Perhaps it is the first day you switch from your cotton blazer to your leather jacket, maybe it is when the final tomatoes of the season have left the market and apples take their place, or perhaps it is the first day that you wake up at your normal time and the sun has not fully risen.

For me it's slightly different. The first day of my fall is the first night we don't have to run the air conditioner in the bedroom. Our bedroom runs hot since the room has no windows, which means that we have to do odd things like run a humidifier (I'm totally in love with our new one, I find it adorable) to combat the dry fall air simultaneously with the air conditioner to combat the heat. It also means that I don't pick up on the start of fall until about six weeks after it has occurred. But no matter, the air conditioner-free day has finally occurred.

The days are well and truly crisp, and the nights are bordering on cold. Which has me thinking about cozy evenings curled up on the couch with a glass of wine and a good movie. As I was conjuring up this idyllic scene I realized that any and all outfits that I have to go with it are tragic. Old yoga pants, Paul's sweatshirts which are many sizes too large for me (but oh so comfy)...not a good look for a gorgeous yet nippy evening.

Cashmere is really more the move than pilling cotton, don't you think? Like this luxe, softer than soft take on harem pants.

Naturally paired with this devastatingly comfy cardigan. With this in my lounging arsenal I might never leave the house.

See how these two items simply belong together?

I mean how warm and happy does she look?

But I simply can't stand socks without shoes, so to keep my tootsies warm I would have to top the ensemble off with these slippers, an appropriate nod to my tiny bit of Russian/Polish (no one really knows which one it is) heritage.

And for the next big transition? I am officially coveting this linen nightshirt for the warming trend that will occur six months from now.

A Routine

2010-10-25T00:04:00.001-04:00

One of my favorite features in the Sunday New York Times is in the Metropolitan section (which, oddly, is my least favorite section) and it describes the typical Sunday of various local celebs. I suppose I like it because everyone really does have a Sunday routine, and it's always interesting to see how mine compares with the rest of the world's. Since it is doubtful that the New York Times will be asking me about my weekend anytime soon, I'll post my own Sunday Routine column here.

MORNING GAME During soccer season, Paul sets the alarm so he's up in time to watch his beloved Manchester United play, which means we're both up by 8:00 or 9:00.

BAKED GOODS Unless the weather's too hot, I'll usually bake something for breakfast. For a while it was chocolate brioche each week, but lately I've been branching out. Today I made Dorie Greenspan's apple cake, and it was perfection.

POLITICS I am obsessed with the Sunday morning political talk shows, so once soccer is over, the TV is mine for an hour or two. My favorite is Christiane Amanpour on ABC so I never miss her, but I usually watch David Gregory as well.

BREAD Since I was raised in the Bay Area I've been absolutely spoiled when it comes to bread. I cannot find a decent loaf in New York. A tragedy. So I make my own. Often I've started it the day before so I just take the loaves out of the fridge and pop them in the oven. Today, I gave this recipe from the new Tartine bread book a try. It was a rousing success.

INDIAN Paul's an absolute indian food freak, so sometimes he persuades me to accompany him to his favorite lunch buffet spot, Salaam Bombay in Tribeca. If I can't be persuaded, he scours the city until someone agrees to it.

FOOD After either Salaam or Christiane, depending on my mood, I head out for a little light grocery shopping to supplement whatever I picked up the day before at the farmer's market. If we're having friends over for dinner I'm shopping for dinner, if not I'm shopping for the week's lunches. I hate paying for mediocre lunch food so try to brown bag it as much as possible. Today I made a chicken b'stilla...

and a provencal vegetable soup.

Both courtesy of Ms. Greenspan's new cookbook, which I've got on loan from the library at the moment but which I will be buying anytime now.

PREMIUM CABLE In the evening we either host a mini TV marathon or go to a friend's place in Tribeca to watch one. Boardwalk Empire is an absolute must, as is Dexter. I usually end up going to bed later than one probably should the night before the first day of the workweek, but no matter, I turn in early on Monday.

What do your Sundays look like?

Desperation

2010-10-17T15:40:00.000-04:00

Growing up, I used to look forward to the arrival of the mail each afternoon. It wasn't that I was looking forward to a flood of letters or postcards, as more often than not, there were no such items addressed to me. But I loved looking through the avalanche of catalogues that used to come. Spiegel was the height of sophistication, Victoria's Secret, which I used to have to fight my dad over, seemed like the key to relations with the opposite sex, and the Metropolitan Museum of Art Shop catalogue told of the bastion of culture that (to me) was the east coast.

There were less interesting ones that came as well...those that peddled knick knacks, personalized address labels adorned with flowers and cheesy tween clothing. And then there were those that were just hilarious, and the funniest one of the bunch was the Vermont Country Store catalogue.

Printed on a material resembling newspaper, the catalogue looked like something out of the 19th century. The items available included flannel nightgowns, girdles, multiple implements that would allow one to perform personal grooming tasks without having to bend over, orthopedic shoes, and Blackjack chewing gum. How did my mother get on this mailing list? Two reasons. One, the Vermont Country Store carried the nightgowns that my grandma liked (no one else had manufactured them since 1959) and which my mom bought for her, and two, they carried Carmichael's Cuticle Cream.

Carmichael's is essentially a small pot of beeswax. In theory it is meant to soften raggedy, hardened cuticles, which is does brilliantly, but I use it for just about everything. Lip balm, eyebrow grooming, chapped hands, to soothe a dry nose during a cold, even as eye cream in a pinch. Why this product isn't on every beauty essentials list I'll never know.

For nearly as long as I can remember, or perhaps just since I left home, my parents have put one of these little pots in my Christmas stocking. One pot will last you far longer than a year, so I never ever ran out, and as a result took it for granted. But for some reason there has been no Carmichael's in my last few Christmas stockings, and I have tragically just exhausted my last little pot.

I am at sea without it. No reliable nighttime lip moisturizer, my cuticles are a mess, and my eyebrows are looking a bit too wild for polite company. Hence this post. As they say, absence makes the heart grow fonder, and in this case absence has made the heart grow desperate. A trip uptown to Caswell Massey to purchase a multi-year supply is imminent!

Party Time

2010-10-11T18:08:00.001-04:00

It is fashionable to lament the death of the "epic party", sometimes in the same breath as people lament the death of New York nightlife. Truman Capote's Black and White party is often the prime example of the time gone by, but as that is often the only example that is cited, I wonder if it was in fact part of some great party pattern that was present in decades past or whether it was a high point in an otherwise dull landscape.

But that said, I have spent nearly ten years in New York and during that time, in what is supposedly a highly happening city, I have only been to two truly noteworthy parties.

Noteworthy Night #1 - One evening I found myself on Liberty Island, which a Russian vodka company had rented to host their product's American launch. I shared a ferry boat with a bunch of supermodels over to the island, where I drank champagne and ate caviar in the shadow of the Statue of Liberty. After much wandering and oohing and ahhing at my fellow guests, the night ended with everyone sprawled on the ground on massive Moroccan cushions dining on Russian delicacies while watching fireworks over Manhattan. As you can perhaps guess, this was at the beginning of the silly money era in New York, and spending was becoming insanely free flowing. I was riding the wave.

Noteworthy Night #2 - Just as the (economic) world was starting to fall apart, I attended a party that had to be the last gasp (for a little while at least) of the freewheeling, flush times. Bono was hosting an event for his Red charity, and although Paul and I, as mere plebes without millions in the bank, were not invited to the actual money making event (an auction at Larry Gagosian's gallery), we were invited to the myriad after parties (aka the best part of the night). Up at Sotheby's I found myself shoulder to shoulder with Ed Norton, Paul wrangled a photo of himself with Dennis Hopper and we both found ourselves mere feet from Bono when he took to the tiny stage and played Beatles songs with The Hours. The night moved on to the newly reopened rooftop at the Gramercy Hotel where Bono stalking commenced, and we finished the night (and spent part of the next morning) downtown at The Box at a table with Damien Hirst. The intense glamor juxtaposed with the tanking economy gave the night a particular poignance.

But as much fun as I had those nights, no one will be talking about them decades hence. In fact, almost no party that I can think of during my time in New York will be memorialized in the history books. So I got to thinking, maybe the nay sayers had it right. Maybe I have missed out on the glorious party years.

But then something came about that gave me hope. And it was, as is so often the case, the brainchild of Carine Roitfeld, the editor of French Vogue whom I worship from afar (I'm not the only one...the woman has blogs dedicated to her for goodness sake!). It was Vogue's 90th Anniversary party.

Held in a mansion in Paris, where guests were required to dress up in masquerade gear, it sounded like something out of a fantastical movie (Eyes Wide Shut as it Turns Out). I breathlessly read Garance's tale of her lost invite, and then her tale of the party itself.

chicest masks of the night

coolest dress of the night

most elaborate skirt of the night

my favorite dress of the night...if I had the courage to do it I'd get married in this outfit

the fabulous creature that is Anna Dello Russo...according to Garance she could barely move in this outfit but it is worth the pain I think

Leigh Lezark...who would have thought when she starting DJing in New York a few years back she'd be here now?

straight out of twisted Alice and Wonderland, Suzy Menkes and Jean Paul Gaultier

thank god Giselle didn't cover up too much of that gorgeous face

Queen Diane

Mama Roitfeld and son

all photos via here

I read about the night in the New York Times...the man who had lashed a mirror to his face, the antics in the courtyard, the decadence, the beauty, the oddity...it all reeked of art and imagination and an intense commitment to beauty and fun.

Although we have parties that embody these qualities on a small scale here in New York, we're lacking something large scale that doesn't scream money and celebrity. But until Carine can bring her magic stateside, I'll have to console myself with the fabulous issue of French Vogue this month. Let me just say this: Crystal Renn and that squid are insanely good together.

En France

2010-10-06T23:13:00.002-04:00

At the end of my freshman year in college, my mother came to visit to watch me row at Eastern Sprints up in Connecticut. The name of the lake one which the races were held escapes me now. The day was so miserable and rainy that my mother dubbed it Lake Wobegone, and that is the name that has stuck with me ever since. But once back in Philadelphia we had a grand old time, and I felt very grown up being able to show my worldly mother around a major city that I knew better than she did.

I took her to my favorite bakery, my favorite coffee shop and my favorite international magazine store. We flipped lazily through many unfamiliar publications, but it was La Maison Francais which made a particular impression. I still remember the image that did it: a photo of a yellow jacquard upholstered sofa in a sunny nook, the legs and arms of the sofa almost completely shredded by a cat. My mother was enthralled that such imperfection could be celebrated in a national publication (and perhaps it made her feel a bit better about the occasional furniture shredding our cats engaged in), and I thought it was just the chicest most bohemian thing I'd ever seen. I vowed to love all things french home then and there.

So it is no surprise that my newest bit of blog love is directed towards a french woman who photographs french interiors of friends, acquaintances and perhaps strangers as well for all I know. Sort of a gallic version of The Selby, Ensuite is where I've been spending quite a bit of time lately.

I wonder if I lived in France whether I would have glorious windows to throw open in the sun...

...witty cats...

...gorgeous tarts and chanterelle mushrooms just sitting around...

...fabulous and well organized shoes...

...chic perfume bottles and pink flowers adorning my bathroom...

...and on my mantle...

all photos from Ensuite

...or would my apartment look exactly as it does in New York?

I think my shoe and perfume collections needs some work.

To Your Health

2010-10-03T19:35:00.000-04:00

One evening last week, Zenia and I headed uptown for a bit of quality time with one another and some cosmetics shopping. We are both partial to the cosmetics floor at Barney's, Zenia because of good memories of a Vincent Longo makeup artist who worked there years ago, and me for their extensive selection of Byredo fragrances, so we hoofed it there straight away.

While looking for Byredo's new fragrance (M/Mink, sadly not yet in stores) I became absolutely infatuated with Gypsy Water. TO DIE. I could not stop inhaling my wrist. It smelled of earth, I just could not get enough. It has officially replaced La Tulipe and Blanche as my favorite.

Zenia found that Vincent Longo had long left the floor, and that the service one gets at 7:30 p.m. on a Wednesday, although reasonably serviceable, did not live up to her memories. Between my inability to spend $195 on my new favorite perfume and her disappointing makeup experience, cocktails were in order.

We went directly across 60th Street to Rouge Tomate. Now although the restaurant has been around for quite some time, I had never set foot inside before. I suppose because I am still depressed about the loss of the fabulous Nicole Fahri store that had been the previous occupant of the Rouge Tomate space.

But as is so often the case in these situations, it had been my loss. The space was gorgeous and calming and sleek, the sort of restaurant that I imagine Lilly van der Woodsen might frequent, and to which I am somewhat inexplicably drawn.

photo via nycgo

Due to a vague wariness about the kitchen's Sanitas per Escam philosphy (translated as Health Through Food), which sounded a little too much like some crackpot raw food manifesto that would cause us to pay untold sums for a plate of purslane or some such nonsense, we stuck to the bar. And to the oysters.

The bar was a good call. I got a Green Mary, which is essentially salsa in a glass with vodka. Green tomato, tomatillo, jalapeno...all of my favorite green items in one place. It was possibly the most refreshing, unique drink I've ever had. Zenia's dark and stormy was up there as well. Everything was so good I actually didn't mind the $14 price tag (and this is saying something...I almost always mind the price tag regardless of the situation).

The oysters, adorned with ginger, beetroot and mignonette sauce, were absolutely delicious as well, although at $16 for 5 oysters I think I'll be sticking with the $1 oysters at Lure and Ten Bells going forward. I have to ask, who serves an odd number of oysters? It's a phenomenon I've never witnessed before.

But that said, the food that was coming out around us looked fabulous (if a bit small). Based on my experience with the very tasty cocktails I may just have to take a look at the very healthy food menu next time I'm in the neighborhood.

The Pickle Pot

2010-09-28T22:10:00.000-04:00

In certain instances I am an intensely thrifty person. Although I have no problem paying $12 per pound for really delicious italian sausage, I have been hesitating for at least a week about paying $6 to iTunes to watch the first two Mad Men episodes from this season that I neglected to DVR originally.

I like to think that it is this sort of counterbalance that keeps me in balance, emotionally, financially, spiritually.

After I cooked a decadent meal of braised short ribs with swiss chard and mashed potatoes for friends last Sunday to celebrate the premier of Boardwalk Empire, otherwise known as the return of good Sunday night HBO TV, I was left with two bunches of swiss chard stems. To counteract the excesses of that evening, I simply had to do something useful with the trimmings that the meal had produced.

But what to do with a stem? Luckily the folks at Gramercy Tavern are just as loathe to throw perfectly good veggie rejects away as I am. And T Magazine was kind enough to report on it and provide the venerated establishment's new recipe for pickled chard stems.

Just as easy as can be to make, I am now popping these vinegary batons into my mouth on an hourly basis. Far too delicious to resist. But why try?

Home Lust

2010-09-26T21:37:00.001-04:00

I am a bit the cliched New Yorker in that I have a minor obsession with real estate. I am one of those irritating people that visits open houses with absolutely no intent of buying...I just like to see what's inside all of the buildings that surround me. So you can imagine my interest in Meghan Daum's latest book Life Would Be Perfect If I Lived In That House.

I do not dream constantly of the perfect apartment...I like my place most days. But I am occasionally vulnerable to the sentiment that the title expresses, and was intrigued that an entire book had been written on it.

If anything this book is a memoir seen through the lens of the author's quest for a home, which manifests itself in frequent moves as she seeks the house that will be her ultimate dwelling.

Now perhaps I was primed to like this book, as I had just slogged my way through too many self-indulgent, chick lit-esque memoirs and just about anything would have looked good in comparison. But I found Daum's frankness and wit utterly endearing, and her quest for a place to call her own was courageous, the fervor with which she pursued it, from New York to Nebraska to L.A. and back again, inspiring. Dysfunctional perhaps, but inspiring nonetheless. I liked the girl. A lot. And having read her story, I'm rooting for her to find what she's looking for.

Late Night Noodles

2010-09-23T20:55:00.000-04:00

Marissa and I were in unfamiliar territory the other night...far, far west 42nd Street. I had dragged her over there for a play, which as it turned out was not a particularly great piece of theater. Centered around a washed up gay screenwriter, it resembled a sit-com from the early 80s. But thankfully it only lasted for 75 minutes and Marissa had an absolutely brilliant idea for dinner afterwards which soothed the sting that the tiny theater (and its rigid seats) inflicted.

Our resident hole in the wall restaurant experts (and dear friends), Tom and Peter, had been raving about Totto Ramen for as long as they've lived in the neighborhood. In fact they said that it even rivals, if not surpasses, the great ramen den that is Ippudo. These were serious allegations. We had to investigate.

Once we saw the small crowd on 52nd Street it was clear we had arrived.

photo via here

We put our names down on the list and sat down on the bench by the door, gossiping and enjoying the cool night air. Thirty minutes flew by and presently we were being seated in the tiny shop.

photo via here

We both opted for the miso ramen and were richly rewarded for our (semi) adventurous choice. Hearty and toothsome and just salty enough, it did wonders to banish a nascent cold I had been nursing.

photo via here

We both agreed that on the miso ramen front Totto beat out both Ippudo and, sadly, my beloved Rai Rai Ken. We'll have to go back and order the clear broth version to see how it fares in competition. And the ramen competition in this town is indeed stiff...but Totto appears to be a true contender.

Getting Out

2010-09-20T21:54:00.000-04:00

There was a time in the early naughts when I kept a lengthy list of restaurants and bars that I wanted to try on my desk at work. I organized nights out with groups of friends tirelessly in an attempt to work my way through my ever expanding collection of new and delicious establishments. But as the years passed I became increasingly jaded. Half of the new spots that were opening reminded me too much of a million other places that I had already been, and too many were just not worth the hassle and/or the price tag.

So slowly but surely my socializing has moved from the streets of New York to the confines of my apartment. I find Sunday dinners with friends followed by the latest HBO show to be preferable to doing battle with a reservationist, and many of my regular dining companions seem to have come to a similar conclusion. Which means that although I'm enjoying all of my homebody socializing immensely, I have virtually no clue when it comes to the latest in eating and drinking. I need to rely on outsiders to keep me abreast.

One of my favorite former colleagues suggested a drink or two to catch up the other day, so I rattled off my usual spots in my office district (Union Square) and in her office district (downtown). She went out of the box and suggested her new go to on the Lower East Side, Ten Bells. She mentioned the cheap oysters and the fact that it was under a staircase (a "good design solution" she thought). Excited to try something new and well reviewed by a trusted judge, I enthusiastically agreed.

front door, photo here

A bit of research revealed that Ten Bells is owned by the guys behind Pere Pinard, a haunt of my early 20s when I still favored the Lower East Side as a nightlife destination. My last night there is a vague memory of a bar tender with liberal pours, far too much red wine and a far too enthusiastic party girl as my companion (an old friend of Paul's who was staying with us for a few days). The rest is best left unsaid. Mostly because I don't recall it. But that aside I always enjoyed the rustic bistro and bar, so had high hopes for their new venture.

And those hopes were absolutely warranted. I walked into a pleasantly, but not oppressively, full bar with low lighting, pressed tin walls and ceiling and gorgeous marble bars. Faced with an impressive list of wine and of beer and gentle prices, I was happy to be settling in for a friendly catch up. But then I had one of the $1 happy hour oysters and found myself more than happy...I was in hog heaven. With only two choices the variety was not huge, but the quality was outstanding. Sweet, briny and fresh as an ocean breeze, it was everything an oyster should be and more.

photo here

Well priced booze, wallet-friendly, delicious oysters, pleasant barmen, a noise level conducive to animated conversation, but not so loud as to hasten deafness...I seriously had begun to question my homebody tendencies. If this is the kind of place I've been missing out on then I need to get out more, much more.

One of a Kind

2010-09-16T22:28:00.000-04:00

After waxing on about how thrilled I am for autumn, it is a bit ridiculous to tell you all about the fabulous custom made sandals I've just come across, but there it is, I'm more fickle than I'd like to admit. Or perhaps I'm just dreaming of the theoretical beach vacations I'll take during the depths of winter.

Either way, here's what happened. I was wandering along Fifth Avenue the other day and decided to pop into Bendel's for a quick look around. This is rather rare for me...Bendel's is fun and colorful and all, but I always feel absolutely ancient wandering around with the Chapin girls underfoot. But it was the end of summer and I figured that the young ladies would all be out in the Hamptons instead of on the accessories floor.

As is wont to happen, all of the departments had changed location since I had last been in. So in an effort to locate the cashmere sweaters I happened upon a very chic cobbler shop of sorts. Tuccia di Capri.

photo via here

These are the shoes that graced the pieds of all the beautiful people who used to vacation in Capri...Sophia Loren, Audrey Hepburn, Jackie O, the types for whom a custom pair of shoes was not altogether unusual. Now Bendel's is quite a bit less luxurious that the island of Capri, and your lunch hour is quite a bit shorter than a week's vacation, but if nothing else you can now at least mimic the footwear choices of the rich and famous.

photo via here

Pick from three different heel heights, from a myriad of straps and buckles and stand for a ten minute fitting. Then less than an hour later you're on your way with a new pair of custom kicks!

The Day I Got Excited for Fall

2010-09-12T21:22:00.001-04:00

Last Friday was a significant day...it was the first day that the weather was cold enough to warrant wearing my favorite leather jacket. That jacket always gets me fired up for autumn. As do cool evenings spent wandering around the city. Wandering around the city on Friday evening checking out Fashion's Night Out in my leather jacket was just too much. Bring on the apples and pumpkins, I'm ready for fall!

I met up with Zenia right after work and our first stop was the Ace Hotel to check out the ever exciting and cutting edge Opening Ceremony's version of a french flea market. As we approached 29th Street, Broadway became increasingly congested with the hippest of the hipsters. We wondered if perhaps the mayhem on the street was a line to get inside or the flea market itself.

Despite the t-shirts with french sayings splayed across the front being sold from booths on the street and the abundance of gourmet food trucks, it soon became clear that the crowd was vaguely formed into a massive line to get into the store inside the hotel. Neither of us have much patience for lines, so Zenia and I took advantage of some of the excellent food on offer. Frog leg sandwiches in hand, we sat perched on a low windowsill taking in the scene.

Presently we started to wander south (but I will definitely be returning for one of those Deyrolle scarves), encountering massive lines everywhere we went. Soho was particularly congested as it seemed that every new freshman at NYU had put on their Friday best and converged on the neighborhood, with the Victoria's Secret store as ground zero.

But I had a destination in mind...The Rug Company. I've been obsessed with this establishment ever since I found out that they carry pillows and rugs emblazoned with that iconic Vivienne Westwood union jack image. The day that I have $500 to spend on a pillow I'm heading directly to The Rug Company to pick one up. But I was headed there not to ogle expensive pillows but rather because I'd heard that Hamish Bowles, the legendary Vogue editor, would be making an appearance.

I beat my way through the crowds, passed the newly renovated Chanel store, turned onto blessedly quiet Wooster Street and came across the party I'd been hoping for all night.

Entertainment outside,

bubbly refreshments inside,

and new items to fall in love with.

Who knew Paul Smith had such a sense of whimsy with wall hangings? I want one.

Mr. Bowles was in fact there. Very dapper and very gracious.

Next year I'll have to give the uptown spots a try...

La Rentree

2010-09-09T23:28:00.000-04:00

I have spent the entire summer complaining about the oppressive heat but now that the heat is giving way to chillier air I'm mourning the passing of the season. I'm going to miss those warm nights, evenings hanging out on the roof and that odd day at the beach. But I can take comfort in the fact that my last weekend of the summer was well spent.

Paul and I flew out to the land of my birth

to visit with my family and to meet my new niece.

Cute isn't she?

There were some foggy mornings

(view from my parents' front window)

(Grand Lake farmers' market, source for incredible nectarines)

but they almost always gave way to bright, sunny afternoons which were best spent outside.

There was Mexican food in the Mission,

(I highly recommend the pozole)

and the odd late night drink.

(the new parents in the local tiki bar)

And lots and lots of time spent in my parents' back garden, lounging among the begonias and hummingbirds. It was just as idyllic as it sounds.

And now I'm back in New York which has suddenly become intensely autumnal. Which I love. Or will love, rather, once I get over the shock that the change in seasons brings about.

The Dark Horse

2010-09-01T13:00:00.062-04:00

I always say that I love chocolate but can't be bothered with chocolate desserts. Chocolate on its own is so fabulous that I find that few chocolatey confections can top the deep pleasure that is an 85% Valrhona bar. I do make a notable exception for excellent chocolate truffles, which heretofore essentially meant anything from La Maison du Chocolat and virtually nothing else.

But a few months back I discovered a La Maison competitor mere blocks from my office. In the old Fleur de Sel space on West 20th Street, the exquisite L.A. Burdick has taken up residence.

The shop itself is charming, as are the shop girls who man the chocolate laden counter. But most importantly, the product is stunningly good.

Their little chocolate mice and chocolate penguins are adorable, the coffee is quite good (although it still doesn't hold a candle to my beloved Stumptown, but then nobody does) and the orange hazelnut cake is tender as can be, but I have to admit that once I discovered the pave glace I pretty much abandoned all other L.A. Burdick related pursuits.

These smooth cubes of hazelnut and dark chocolate dusted with bitter cocoa are perfection. Well, not quite. I'm afraid I do end up with a light dusting of brown down the front of an otherwise pure white button down shirt more often than I'd like. But it is a small price to pay.

A Rare Evening

2010-08-29T21:24:00.000-04:00

I enjoy few things more than a great meal in pleasant environs with friends on a Saturday night. Ideally, we arrive around 8 and don't get up from the dinner table until several hours later.

A couple of Saturdays ago Paul and I had just one of these (surprisingly rare, given the myriad of restaurant options in New York) evenings.

Two dear friends wanted to take us out to celebrate our (somewhat) recent engagement and we of course happily accepted. As the male half of our little foursome was going to be out watching a band in Brooklyn during the early evening, Prime Meats in Carroll Gardens was suggested. As it is run by the team behind the fabulous Frankies spots, I was more than happy to give it a go.

Paul, employing his exceptional powers of persuasion and adorable English accent, was able to reduce our wait for a table from sixty minutes to thirty, which left us just enough time for one (or two) of the expertly mixed cocktails.

Dave was enthralled by the homemade bitters and other potions that the bartenders relied on to make their intoxicating brews.

I personally was deeply enthralled with my drink, as well as the deliciously retro glass it was served in. I know people frown upon those flat champagne goblets (they supposedly allow champagne bubbles to dissipate too quickly) but I don't care, I will love them now and forever. But perhaps that is because I quaff champagne at an above average rate?

Presently we were seated at a prime outdoor table, relishing the warm mid-August evening. Dave and Melinda are master orderers so we left them to it. Our server, who was one of the most pleasant and knowledgeable waitresses I've come across in quite some time, was perhaps slightly horrified by the quantity of food we had coming, but no matter, we were up to it.

We started with big, freshly baked pretzels and, ripping them apart, dunked them in a variety of sweet and spicy mustards. Living in New York, the land of horrible street pretzels, one can easily forget how good they can be when done right. Prime Meats will remind you.

An "alpine tasting board", otherwise known as a germanic choucroute platter followed, then a few salads, and then the food started to come out fast and furious. Roasted marrow bones, sauerbraten with red cabbage, a surkrut garnie (german version of choucroute garnie) and a very serious cote de boeuf (better than the twice as costly one at Minetta Tavern I might add). All accompanied by a lovely pinot noir.

I was initially stumped by all of the appetizing options...

...but once I started tucking in to the grub I could not have been happier.

We were, sadly, far too full for dessert, so after a couple of espressos (me and Paul) and some light tisanes (Dave and Melinda), it was back into the car for the trip back to Manhattan and then, after a bit of a breather on the sofa, straight to bed, more sated, physically and emotionally, than I had been in quite some time.

From the Days of Old

2010-08-22T18:29:00.000-04:00

I always bristle a bit when I hear reference made to this thing with women and shoes. It feels dismissive somehow, implying that all women have this frivolous relationship with inanimate objects, and that we lose all control over a good pair of stilettos. But that said, when I think back on the memories I have from childhood, a striking number of them do include a pair of shoes.

I recall annual trips to the shoe store in Berkeley to pick up saltwater sandals, or perhaps some jellies, for the summer. I recall being inordinately proud of my pair of pink sneakers with bits of pink satin on the outside of each foot, and I loved my little slip-ons from Esprit. But the name that I recall as a standout in the world of children's shoes was Bass. It evokes the sensible, well-made styles that my parents always approved of and were happy to provide to me and my sister. And I have many recollections of my friends' moms wearing those leather criss-cross Bass flip flops, and my grandma wearing those cute little lace up leather sneakers that they make as well.

But to my utter shock, Bass is not only still around, but also has some surprisingly hip options for the adults that remember the brand from their childhood, or for those who simply remember the shoes from earlier days.

Bass is riding the resurgence of the brogue and the current infatuation designers seem to have with the 1950s with this cute little number:

At $69 the price is certainly right.

And can't you just see these on a downtown hipster paired with shorts, a blazer and a great pair of legs?

But my favorite is this one.

Ideally I'd be tromping through the misty moors of Scotland in this boot and a Barbour coat, but given my lack of a country estate, I'd settle for wearing these on a tromp through the east village on a nippy Sunday afternoon with a smart pair of rolled up jeans and one of those gorgeous sheepskin Burberry coats that I have been coveting intensely despite the steamy summer temps. Now that there is the odd bit of fall in the air here and there, I feel the purchase is justified. I'd better do it quick before the 90 degree days return!

2010-08-19T19:57:00.000-04:00

Considering how obsessive and anal I am about some things in life (the cleanliness of my sheets and the orderliness of my dish cabinet for instance) it is perhaps odd how much influence I am willing to cede to third parties in other areas of my life, most notably when it comes to food and drink.

I am that irritating person who, in restaurants, asks the waiter what he recommends, whether he likes the steak or the fish, or perhaps the risotto is better? My feeling is that having most likely eaten everything on the menu, the waiter is probably in a better position to choose than I, a mere visitor, would ever be.

I subscribe to the same theory when it comes to wine. I love love love a glass of wine. But, although I've occasionally tried to learn something about the stuff, my interest tends to wane when the tasting ends and the lecturing begins. It just feels too much like school to me.

So I have to rely on great wine stores for advice instead. One of my absolute favorite spots is Italian Wine Merchants, located conveniently enough just down the street from my office. I went in there the other day in search of a red to go with sausage and pasta, and attempted to describe a bottle that I thought would be perfect that I had bought there some time ago and enjoyed immensely but the name of which I had of course forgotten.

The always helpful staff looked it up. We honed in on the correct bottle using a combination of approximate date of purchase and my description of the label, only to learn that they were out of it. As it turns out this was a blessing, because the woman told me she had a much better option.. She promised it drank like a $30 bottle, despite the $12 price tag. Quattro Mani Montepulciano d'Abruzzo it was then.

And as I found out once I was home and cracked open the bottle, she had not steered me wrong! The wine was smooth, mellow and the fruit was just lovely. It is exactly what I want to be quaffing in the early evening with simply Italian food with a laid back group of friends. Or in the early evening on the couch watching bad TV. It's not only delicious but also versatile.

Back at the Market

2010-08-14T16:03:00.000-04:00

It goes without saying that this is a fabulous time of year for those who haunt farmers markets. Usually I wax on about my local greenmarket starting sometime around the end of June, but this year I was so distraught about missing cherry season that I just couldn't bring myself to even speak of the place. By the way, I have no idea how I missed out on my favorite fruit this year...I was out of town for a few weeks of course, but was the season unusually short this year? Anyone know?

Anyway, last Saturday the bounty was just too, well, bountiful, to ignore, and I felt compelled to buy up half the market. I could barely carry all of my loot, the weight of it was so great. I came stunningly close to hailing a cab rather than taking the subway, but my utter and absolute abhorrence of New York City cabs won out in the end and I struggled home like a poor beaten down pack mule instead. But just look at the treasures I was able to gather.

I had lost a few window box herbs during one of my trips out of town, so picked up a couple of new pots...new thyme, marjoram and tarragon (out with the dead sage and lemon verbena). They would be well pampered in the Lower East Side Ecological Center's potting soil...

...the product of all of those food scraps I bring every week to be composted.

And these San Marzano tomatoes from the ladies at Cherry Lane Farms were just to die for.

I later cooked them down into the sweetest, most delicious tomato sauce for a gorgeous pasta dinner.

I may have to start canning them though, they really are quite special.

It is clearly kirby cucumber season! The cukes are all over the market, and the prices are incredibly low, not just by Greenmarket standards, but by any standards at all. I picked up a few pounds for pickles.

As we speak I've got a massive jar of bread and butter pickles in my fridge and an even bigger jar of Michael Ruhlman's pickles fermenting in the bedroom (I put them on my side of the bed, let's just not tell Paul about them, shall we? Last time I cured/fermented anything in the bedroom I hung various bits of meat from his bike and he was less than pleased).

The best peaches in the market are from the Cheerful Cherry. Last summer it was a quirky older woman and her husband handing them out. This year, I believe that, sadly, the woman has passed away. But she quite oddly has been replaced by a gaggle of the most stylish English girls you've ever met. Tall, thin, gorgeous and with impeccably unstudied style a la Kate Moss, they will I'm sure be discovered in absolutely no time.

Wonderful for them of course, but I will miss that je ne sais quoi that they add to the market experience.

These peaches and the intensely sweet blueberries (from a very nice vendor who's name escapes me) made it into just about every breakfast I ate for several days afterwards.

With ricotta and honey,

and then along with this incredible bread (a malted prune loaf spread with ricotta).

Often times Flying Pigs Farm has sold out of sweet Italian sausage by the time I get to them, but this day was different, so I happily picked up a package.

Now I find the sanctimonious free range people just as irritating as the next guy, but I have to tell you they do (annoyingly) have a point. This humanely raised pork is really like nothing you've had before, and is completely worth the price. I put one or two of these sausages in with some pasta and plain tomato sauce once and Paul proclaimed it to be the best thing he'd ever eaten. I'm not sure I would go that far, but it was far better than such a simple dish had any business being, and I attribute that completely to the sausages.

Thanks to my very crafty sister I have the pleasure of a new market bag (my old one, which she also made for me officially died).

The outside is a natural canvas and the interior is lined with the cutest oilcloth (to avoid any persistent staining from overripe fruit you see). She has occasionally threatened to make these bags en masse and sell them. I think she should, don't you?

All of my veggies and dairy products were in the bag. The milk was presently made into yogurt, the zucchini made its way into a few pastas, and those beets are destined for Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall's beetroot and chocolate brownies. What became of the tuscan kale? This:

Turns out that if you've got good kale to begin with it is actually quite nice raw in a salad with a few other veggies, some pumpkin seeds and a nice garlicky vinaigrette. And if you mix up a big batch of this, it makes a wonderful ready-made pasta sauce to have on hand. Just throw the lot in a pan and saute, maybe with a few tomatoes if you have them around and some nice cheese and pasta and voila! Readymade dinner.

Heirloom tomatoes are really starting to take over the market these days, as are the plums. I fear the peaches may be on their way out soon, but I suppose that just makes room for other gorgeous things...

Summer Ennui

2010-08-10T22:20:00.000-04:00

I think there comes a time in every food lover's life when a bit of ennui with respect to restaurants sets in. Everything starts to seem the same, everything seems overpriced, no meal is as good as what you could make at home if you put forth a small effort.

After some delicious, terribly inventive meals at the likes of Ribouldingue while I was in Paris a few weeks back, I returned to New York and almost instantly became gustatorily bored. Between a heat induced reduction in my desire to cook and a few mediocre and overpriced meals at restaurants that had been recently lauded by the critics, I was dangerously close to being "over" the New York food scene. Tragic I realize, especially given the myriad culinary options here. I assure you it was a temporary fatigue though. It was The Hunger which yanked me out of it.

Not a rumbling in my stomach...but rather a pop-up restaurant. A restaurant that forms for a few days at a time once every few months, in a different location with difference food each time. After reading a quick blurb on Sunday Suppers about the newly available spots at The Hunger's second incarnation, and viewing the gorgeous photos of the meal that was served at its first, I was on the phone quick as can be begging for a spot for me and three friends.

The event was to be held in an undisclosed outdoor location in Soho and the theme was Argentinian BBQ. Armed with this information about the likely prevalence of meat I easily persuaded some men (Paul and my friend Tom) to accompany me. And because Elaine is usually up for just about anything, she happily joined our merry crew.

We arrived at The Yard at the Soho Grand and were faced with a bouncer, a list and a velvet rope. I was baffled, saddened...had I totally misjudged this event? Thankfully no. All we had to do was walk through the very high maintenance Cosmo party to get to our little low key nook in the back.

An outdoor oasis in a sea of urbanity (with perhaps just a touch of faux edge inside of said oasis), it was exactly what I was in the mood for on a warm Friday evening.

After we got ourselves situated with some sangria, the food began to flow.

Everyone agreed that the fried cheese was just to die for, and that the salad was uncommonly good.

We were a tad concerned about what seemed to be small portion sizes of meat, but presently realized that after consuming what was handed out we were all perfectly sated. I suppose this is what these french woman have been trying to tell us all this time, no?

The sides were a bit different than those you might encounter at most steak dinners, but they matched the light, summery feeling of the meal perfectly.

And eventually the dessert rolled around. None of us had high hopes for the grilled oranges (Paul predicted they would be a bit boring) but I have to say we were mightily impressed. Infused with the perfume of rosemary and set on a dollop of sour, thick yogurt, the orange was a delightful end to the meal.

Our senses pleasantly dulled from the sangria and our bellies just full enough, we all tripped home happily to our respective homes, uplifted by the time with friends and the inventiveness of the event. It was official: my ennui had ended.

Worth Your $12

2010-08-04T22:22:00.000-04:00

Summer is, of course, traditionally the season of bad movies. And we have had some pretty terrifically bad ones this year. But we've also had some terrifically good ones, two of which I've just seen in quick succession and simply can't get out of my head.

........

On Saturday I dragged my poor friend Elaine from her enclave on the Upper West Side down to the Landmark Sunshine Cinema on the Lower East Side for a late showing of I Am Love.

I was predisposed to love this movie as I practically worship at the altar of Tilda Swinton, but I promise you it was indeed wonderful even if you are not quite so obsessed with the otherworldly beauty of this extraordinary creature as I am.

Ms. Swinton plays a Russian who has married into a wealthy Milanese family, the dissolution of which the movie chronicles. But really, I have to admit that I paid more attention to the beautiful homes, scenery, clothes and people than I did to the story itself.

It all looked so rich that I wanted to dive right in.

The family home, an art deco specimen with a vaguely brutalist bent (perhaps due somehow to the fascist regime's influence?) contained a fascinating tension between lush but restrained modern decor (like that insanely gorgeous wood paneling in the photo above) and frivolous sparkle (chandeliers, heavy gilded curtains...like bits of the Pitti Palace strewn throughout).

I died all over again each time a shot of this front door came on the screen, but it was the steps which provided a setting for great drama towards the end.

This is not to say of course that the story was not engrossing in its own right...it certainly was, as were the characters themselves. There is always something terribly compelling about a behind the scenes look at the way a dysfunctional wealthy household works. But with visuals like this (I include Ms. Swinton in this category) the remaining components hardly stand a chance.

.......

The New York Times reviewer of Joan Rivers: A Piece of Work wondered, after having seen this movie, where the great dame had been all her life. I have no such lament. I have loved Joan Rivers for years. I enjoyed her as the center square on Hollywood Squares, I watched her daytime talk show religiously (I was a bit bored in middle school and took a slightly ridiculous number of sick days as a result...her show always made me "feel better") and in college my roommate and I would never miss her red carpet interviews. We adored her in the way that you might adore a dotty aunt with a filthy mouth.

So it made perfect sense for the two of us to head down to the west village for an early evening showing of her year in the life documentary. We came out of it loving her even more deeply than we had before, vowing to find tickets to one of the standup shows she seems to do periodically in New York.

We came away impressed by Joan's wisdom, her compassion, her wit, her humor and her work ethic. I would say she's fearless except she apparently does have one intense fear: no work! She's a workaholic in the extreme. As she says, "I work so I can live well. I could live carefully and not work, but that would be ridiculous." And she does live well. I believe she said that her apartment is where Marie Antoinette would have lived if she had money, and she is not far off.

The movie is at times absurdly funny...we were certainly not the only ones howling out loud at ten minute intervals. But at the same time, Joan lays bare her wounds, her insecurities, her hurts and her regrets. And it all rings true, perhaps because the movie doesn't seem to have an angle. It is not critical, it is not fawning. It is just a year in an incomparable character's life.

Odds and Ends

2010-08-01T23:10:00.000-04:00

This summer my time in New York has largely been spent indoors, avoiding the wall of heat just beyond my front door. Rather than skipping through the streets in sundresses and kicky sandals in the pure bright sun, my activities have resembled those I might undertake in the deep of winter more than in the height of summer. So to that end, I have spent most of the last week immersed in DVDs of Season 1 of Friday Night Lights, which is my excuse for the light posting this week.

I came to this show late...Season 4 I believe...but became instantly obsessed. A friend of mine from Texas turned me onto it, promising that the show resembled his adolescent experience in the great republic to a frightening degree. Watching Season 1, seeing where it all began for the cast of characters I've come to know and love, is like listening to a successful yet enigmatic acquaintance with a knack for storytelling reveal to you how they got to where they are today. Engrossing and illuminating in equal measures.

But that said, the crippling heat has broken, which means that I can tear myself away from the TV and once again face cooking. This time of year makes me yearn for full vegetable drawers, counters piled with delicate summer fruit but oddly, a relatively empty freezer and pantry. I like to stock up when the cold weather is approaching, and I like a clean slate against which to do it. Which means that I spend a lot of time over the summer months trying to figure out how to use odds and ends in creative and delicious ways.

There aren't too many food traditions in my family...everyone has always like to experiment so repeated dishes were few and far between. But I have inherited the delicious poppyseed bread recipe, a love of farmers markets and the inability to throw out a banana. The majority of my family members have almost always got a bunch of blackened overripe bananas in the freezer. I am of course no different, so the other day set out to figure out a home for a bunch of my own.

I was also trying to figure out a use for a stray bit of quinoa, so turned to my favorite source of whole grain quickbread recipes, Deborah Madison. She of course had the perfect recipe...quinoa muffins. I made a loaf rather than muffins and threw in some bananas in place of some of the yogurt. Perfectly crunchy exterior, golden (in look and taste) interior, I was very pleased with the home I'd found for my dwindling supplies.

Quinoa Banana Bread
adapted from Deborah Madison's Quinoa Muffin recipe

1 cup cooked or 1/2 cup raw quinoa
1 cup whole wheat pastry flour
1 cup quinoa flour
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 cup packed light brown sugar
1 egg
1/4 cup butter, melted, or vegetable oil
3/4 cup yogurt or buttermilk
1 teaspoon vanilla
2 ripe bananas, mashed

Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Spray or oil one loaf pan.

If cooking quinoa, rinse it well, put it in a small saucepan with 1 cup of water, and bring to a boil. Simmer, covered, until the water is absorbed, about 15 minutes, then drain.

Meanwhile, combine the flours, salt, soda and sugar in a mixing bowl (sift if you so desire). Beat the egg with the oil, buttermilk and vanilla, and then mix in the mashed banana. Stir the wet ingredients into the dry, add the quinoa, and mix with a spatula, scraping up from the bottom so that the flour is mixed in thoroughly. Pour the batter into the loaf pan and bake until firm and light brown on top, 50-60 minutes.

Whiling Away The Summer

2010-07-27T21:34:00.001-04:00

Normally at this time of year I would be embarking on a mad cleaning frenzy of some sort, or restocking the kitchen, or some other such household based endeavor. I've always liked a clean, orderly and well-functioning home in the summer months.

But this summer, the apartment is in "a bit of a tip" as Paul would say. The putrid weather has sapped my energy entirely, and I just can't bring myself to do anything of a useful household nature. Rather, I am reduced to laying on my couch near the window reading books and magazines littered about my place of repose that I have been too indifferent to to pick up and put away. A bit too Grey Gardens for my liking, but as those holistic healers who are quoted regularly in GOOP like to tell us, one must live in rhythm with the seasons. And this sloth-like state is the rhythm that I'm currently feeling.

But that said, I'm not a absolute and total loss. I have been coming across loads of yarn balls over the past few months and had an ongoing resolution to do something about them. And finally I made good on that resolution. I've been sitting on the couch knitting away while watching bad summer TV. And it has been lovely.

The fruits of my labor have mostly borne baby hats. I've made many of these baby hats over the years as gifts for friends...I enjoy making them and people seem to enjoy receiving handmade baby gifts so I've kept it up over time. But there are only so many baby heads that need covering in my life, so I've put the majority of these cute little things up for sale on Etsy.

Hop on over and take a look...

...and let me know what you think (but only if you like them).

The Great Falafel Debate

2010-07-25T09:43:00.000-04:00

We are quite squarely in the dog days of summer now here in the northeast (although it seems our European, midwestern and southern counterparts are suffering similarly). So this means I don't have a lot of interest in doing much of anything really, or at least anything that doesn't include a cool cocktail. Cooking is a fairly unattractive option, and frankly so is eating. Food that I generally find appealing is anything but, with a few choice exceptions of course. When the mercury climbs I crave cool briny oysters, peaches and nectarines and falafel.

Falafel? Although its a crispy, warm food, somehow it jibes well with warm weather. Something about its Middle Eastern origins? Perhaps. Or perhaps I like the cool tahini sauce and the fresh veggies that accompany it, and the unchallenging pita that keeps the whole mess together. Either way, I am lucky to work in the great falafel mecca of New York...Union Square.

You were perhaps expecting some obscure neighborhood far from Manhattan? As would I, but there's no accounting for these things I suppose.

Everyone has their loyalties in these situations (the eternal debate between Pat's and Gino's cheesesteaks in South Philly comes to mind), and although I adore the salad bar at the Dutch falafel franchise Maoz ($3.25 for a small container of whatever you'd like), it is the hole in the wall option on the west side of the square on 17th Street...Rainbow Falafel....that I am drawn to time and again.

The shop is a tiny storefront, with not a seating option to be found.

But the men behind the counter are kind and the falafel is unusually dark and crispy, studded with bits of onion, garlic and herbs which lends a real like-your-mom makes it feel to the little fritters. The pita itself is either flimsy or the man behind the counter adorns the whole mess with more delicious sauces than average, but either way you must be sure to keep the sandwich in the foil as you eat, otherwise you will end up with falafel on your lap. But I must admit I don't consider this a flaw...I feel that this is the type of food that should get everywhere. It shows a welcome exuberance if food simply cannot be contained.

As for the other menu items, the greek salad is far more interesting than just about any other greek salad I've ever had. But that's the only non-falafel item I've ever eaten, and I've only had it once...you can tell that I rarely deviate from my tried and true? I suggest you get here posthaste and follow my lead.

All Things In Miniature

2010-07-18T19:36:00.000-04:00

When those seemingly arbitrary airline restrictions regarding liquids and toiletries first came into existence I, like most of the traveling public, was irrationally annoyed. I read horror stories of Cle de Peau concealers being tossed away as the owners wept (so mean, these TSA people!), of Bobbi Brown shimmer bricks being confiscated (how could you relegate something so pretty to the wastebasket?) and of those gorgeous pictorial Chantecaille compacts summarily disposed of and I sympathized with the poor voyagers. I railed against the idiocy of the rules...endlessly.

But one day, as one does, I got over it. Now, in an odd way, I almost like the rules. They've forced me to be a bit more practical with my packing, to be more organized. And now that I've found a quart-sized bag that resembles a chic pouch rather than something one might find in the lunch box of a third grader, I am utterly and absolutely on board.

But best of all? The TSA has introduced me to the delightful world of travel sized lotions and potions. Now of course, for the painfully practical among us, that simply means small containers (I love the ones from Muji) into which one decants cleansers, lotions and the like (I reserve these for Dr. Bronner's in case a bit of bathroom sink laundry is in order). But I find the miniature versions of the adult-sized products to be much more fun. I become so easily smitten with the tiny containers and the tiny labels...it's a bit like playing with a dollhouse.

So for my last trip, the item at the top of my to-do list was to find enough tiny containers of gunk and goop to maintain my oh-so-delicate visage for nearly two weeks. At my last visit to the dermatologist the nurse had foisted enough sample sunscreens on me to last a lifetime, so that was sorted (Elta MD UV SPF 40 is my new love). But I needed the rest.

In a fit of laziness, rather than search far and wide for each individual product need, I picked up the Evan Healy sample kit in Whole Foods. I swear by the line's eye cream so figured I couldn't go too wrong with the rest of the products. And at $30 for five items, it wasn't too much of an investment if things went south.

Now may I just say that as much as I love traveling, my skin abhors it. Rather than coming back looking relaxed and fabulous from a sojourn overseas, I tend to come back blotchy, spotty and flushed. This time, I returned to multiple compliments about how wonderful I looked. How my skin nearly glowed. Now I certainly spent no shortage of time on planes or in airports (thanks American for that canceled New York flight), nor did I avoid extreme weather nor did I avoid dust, dirt and grime. So I can only assume that all credit must go to the fantastically gentle, plant-based Evan Healy products that I was sampling.

The lavender cleanser was creamy and smelled like a field in provence, the rose hip treatment oil was just moisturizing enough, never heavy or greasy, especially when used in tandem with the facial spray, and as odd as it did smell, the moisturizer, when used in the evening, left me with baby soft skin the next morning. I can't tell you whether the green tea mask did anything, but I sure enjoyed using it...the experience lent a bit of luxury to my spartan Parisian digs. And shockingly enough, the tiny, tiny bits of product lasted me through the entire trip!

Between the near-perfect scores that all of the products receive on the toxicity-revealing Cosmetics Database website and their (I think) fair prices, it just may be time to upgrade to the grown-up versions...

Swanning About: The City of Light

2010-07-15T22:34:00.002-04:00

After Manchester, Paul was headed to Rotterdam and other Dutch locales to attend to some professional obligations, so I opted to leave him to it and hopped a plane to Paris for a few days of personal indulgence.

I arrived in the midst of a heat wave, a fact I first realized on the train from the airport, which, in true European style, was not air conditioned. Luckily I keep a fan, which I picked up in Seville a few years back, in my purse. For fear of coming off as some faux flamenco dancer, I tend not to use it in New York. But french girls seem to have no such compunction, so I did as the locals do and fanned away, all the way to the Seine.

After a short walk through the St-Germain-des-Pres, I arrived at my incredibly well located, very cheap and therefore very funky hotel. I checked in with Madame downstairs.

- Vous-etes anglaise?

- Non, je suis americaine.

- Ah, j'adore les americaines!

I half expected her to put my twenty euro cash deposit (for what I'm still not sure) in her very ample cleavage.

I was faced with a few stairs.

But after a week of English food, exercise is not necessarily a bad thing so I gamely dragged my suitcase upwards, around and around again.

I arrived in my room to find Ivanka Trump on my wall.

And after I checked out my shower, I spent quite a lot of time trying to find my toilet before realizing that it was across the hall. But then again I did have an adorable garret window with lace curtains. And a view of Parisian rooftops above a quaint little street within spitting distance of half of the attractions in Paris. I kind of liked the place.

After some pre-dinner relaxation I set off for a meal that I had been hotly anticipating for days. Lauded for its delightful preparations of offal in Clotilde's Edible Adventures in Paris, I could not wait to dine at Ribouldingue. Situated on a small left bank street a stone's throw from Notre Dame, I was instantly charmed by the establishment's decor, staff and clientele.

Once seated, I was immediately approached by an incredibly sweet waiter who was eager to try out his English on me. As my French was just about as halting as his English, we were a perfect linguistic match, switching languages when one became too difficult (read: often). He wasted no time in bringing me the best glass of wine of the trip, the name of which I have tragically forgotten.

I started with a plate of roasted marrow bones. A bit heavy for the weather, but you see I had a small problem. For years I loved this dish. But after a disappointing meal that Paul and I had at Minetta Tavern a while back, which included copious quantities of mediocre marrow bones, I had gone off of them. I figured if I could rediscover my love for them anywhere it would be here. And they were indeed delicious, though far too rich given the massive quantity I was handed.

The bones were followed by a lamb's heart preparation which I fell in love with. The meat, braised in a surprisingly light broth flecked with bits of fresh green herbs, was plump, juicy and gorgeously toothsome. I used the entire bread basket (and then some) to sop up the delectable juice.

In an effort to balance out all of this decadence I opted for the most refreshing grapefruit and Campari jelly dessert. Blessedly cool and bitter, it was studded with morsels of ruby red grapefruit and drizzled with creme anglaise (very important to include some fat in each and every dessert I think). Between the revelatory food and the friendly couple from Montreal with whom I chatted all evening, I was positively smitten with my experience.

Apres dinner, I strolled about a bit, enjoying the shockingly late sunset and the consistently gorgeous sights. I am still terribly jealous of whoever has this top floor apartment with french doors leading out to a balcony overlooking the Ile de Cite.

The whole city just felt like a sophisticated, sparkling party--one that is so fun you refuse to leave until the sun comes up.

The next day I awoke to a continuation of the heat wave. In an effort to escape the Parisian oven, I headed out to Giverny to contemplate the water lilies in the shade of weeping willows.

The famous lilies were indeed blooming

but not much else was.

Still, I could see how Monet must have found endless inspiration in this place. I mean the porch alone was pure rapture.

After a couple of hours among the plantings it was back to gay Paris, where I made a bee-line for the famous Rose Bakery in the 9th Arrondissement.

After contemplating the purchase of the establishment's cookbook for so long, I could hardly come to Paris without giving the place a try, now could I?

Housed in an old garage, the space is long and narrow, and when I came, it was nigh filled with crates of produce.

Clearly I had come towards the end of service, so I settled for the bits and pieces that were left over from lunch. The salads were incredible, and I cannot remember consuming a dessert as quickly as I consumed their pineapple cake. If these were the bits and pieces I can't even imagine the main events. I will be purchasing the cookbook post haste.

Given that my main activity that day had been so cliched and touristy, I figured I ought to embrace the fact, and continue the tourist theme into the evening; I headed to the famed Cafe de Flore for an early dinner. The food was nothing to write home about and the service was a bit dismissive but the people watching was fantastic. And I thoroughly enjoyed my conversation with my friendly neighbors...a movie producer and his vaguely employed friend. After taking the man's card I'm still not clear what his occupation is, but he did apparently know the owner of the largest jazz club in Paris. I told him that regrettably I was not a fan of jazz!

The next day I awoke to gloom.

Steady rain. But I could not bear to stay inside all day, so I borrowed Madame's massive umbrella (really, it must have been the heaviest umbrella in Paris) and headed to the right bank. I simply had to check out the famed G. Detou.

Loads of foodstuffs packed into a surprisingly small shop. I came away with some loot, let me tell you. And around the corner I came upon a cookbook store, and was amused to find a book on American cooking titled "Yes We Cook!". However, I could not bring myself to purchase a book which grouped Florida and California into the same "region".

Presently I made my way to Pierre Herme, which I idiotically missed the last time I was in Paris, as I fulfilled my macaron craving at Laduree. Judging by the line this is Paris's version of the Magnolia Bakery.

Let me tell you, they got the better end of the bargain.

Macarons in hand, I headed back to my hotel and surveyed my purchases.

The best macarons known to man,

medicinal (but more importantly, delicious smelling) herbal tea,

an unfamiliar chocolate brand,

and totally unfamiliar mustard variety.

I cannot wait to give this pot of purple paste a try.

After gorging myself on macarons, I could think of only one appropriate dinner...oysters! It was off to the 11th Arrondissement.

One of the more fantastic waiters in Paris served me what I can only assume are some of the more fantastic oysters in Paris at L'Ecailler du Bistrot. I walked nearly all the way home, enchanted with the street performers, the lights, the buildings, and oh all of those top floor apartments with the fabulous french doors!

The next day I was determined to make a day trip out to Reims to see the renowned cathedral and drink some champagne in the region from whence it comes. But after dawdling at the train station for far too long, I realized that in fact I had no desire to travel. The weather in Paris was just too perfect and it was my last day in town!

So I headed down to a farmer's market...why had I been wasting my time doing anything else?! The market was, as one might expect, phenomenal. The produce was luscious and fragrant and the cheese was oozing and pungent and the pastries...oh don't get me started! I picked up provisions for the day, and after a quick stop at the Centre Pompidou (admission was free that day)

I headed to the spot I had really wanted to be all this time, to the spot I've been pining over since I last visited this beguiling city...the Jardins de Luxembourg. Best park in the world, hands down. No offense to Central Park of course, but come on.

Between the perfectly groomed walkways lined with moveable furniture,

those crazy square trees that the french adore (as do I, it must be said),

the lawns designated for lounging and relaxation,

and the apiaries (!)

there just is no comparison.

I spent the afternoon eating

and reading a book about love. I practically melted from pleasure.

Later on, I came quite close to grabbing a famous Parisian falafel for my last dinner in the city, but at the last minute opted for a traditional meal in a very traditional bistro. Discovery of the evening? I love tomato mousse. I ambled around the corner from my dinner spot to check out this falafel place about which I have heard so much, and was so glad I had made the decision I did...

...the line was worse than at Pierre Herme!

I spent the rest of the evening wandering the old Jewish quarter, nearly weeping with despair at the prospect of leaving the city. Like New York (but different), it just gets under your skin and stays there, imploring you to return. Which I shall.

Swanning About: Up North

2010-07-11T20:29:00.000-04:00

After an action packed few days in the south, it was time to head up north for some relaxation and family time. Paul and I were ferried to Euston Station by a cabbie who had an enviable knowledge of the local shortcuts, and who insisted on dropping us off at the front of the station, despite our protestations that we would be fine at the corner. I could take cabs in London all day long, I love them so.

We hopped on the Richard Branson-branded train (I must admit that I don't love Virgin trains nearly as much as I love Virgin America Airlines) headed to Manchester. After a couple of hours and a charming conversation with our Anglican priest seatmate, we were in the city of Paul's youth.

We were greeted, warmly as always, by his family and headed out back in short order to bask in the garden.

Paul's salty, irreverent and hilarious Auntie Pat came by for dinner in the evening. Topics of conversation ranged from the royals ("Now what do you think about that prostitute Camilla that Charles married?") to...well, to just about everything else. After a quick drink at the local pub, Paul and I fell on our pillows, happy to be back in the embrace of a familiar bed.

The next morning, after tea and toast in the conservatory, we all headed to Chester (in the county of Cheshire), a town founded during Roman times and flawlessly maintained ever since, from the looks of things. After a lunch of lamb balti in the cathedral the four of us ambled over the ancient wall down to the river. The motor boats at the dock caught Paul's eye, so the two of us took one for a spin.

We headed, full throttle, up the river, past sprawling homes and compact townhouses.

Although the motor was not the most powerful, the ride was thrilling nonetheless, as it had been quite some time since I'd been on a boat, no matter how miniscule. We were momentarily the captains of our own vessel, waving gleefully to those on shore (all but two of whom had no idea who we were) and politely maneuvering around our fellow boaters.

Our twenty minutes was soon up though, and we were back to being landlubbers. After a quick coffee in town it was back to the homestead, and to a dinner of fish and vegetables from the family allotment. Delicious. After four days of festival food I was seriously craving something fresh!

The next morning, Paul was in the mood for a root around Manchester, so off we went.

First to his favorite record store...

...where he spent the vast majority of his youth rifling through records.

Great selection of music and excellent, useful advice for DJs:

He loved being able to pick up his favorite new single (from a band he happens to manage) in his favorite record shop.

Then it was off to his favorite Manchester lunch spot, Mr. Thomas's Chophouse.

I had to admit that the name had me a bit worried, but as I walked in my concerns were dispelled. The staff were polite, the interior was full of dark wood and gorgeous tiling, and there was even an outdoor space in which to enjoy the rare bit of sunshine that graces the Macunian sky.

I could not quite stomach the idea of their famous steak and kidney pie (although Paul had no problem with it) so I opted for a Manchester salad. Delicious but was approximately 50% meat. So my tastebuds were happy but my food guilt barometer was once again off the charts!

In a near food coma, we headed next door to the Royal Exchange Theater to meet up with Paul's parents and loads of their friends. We had all gathered there to watch a farce, a perfect choice of play for a summer afternoon.

The Royal Exchange building itself was fascinating. You see, Manchester was once a center of the British cotton and textile industry, and this building served as the cotton exchange for the area. It has, over the years, been damaged in various bombings (first during WWII, then in the 1990s by the IRA) but has been restored beautifully, with a small freestanding stage, in the round, constructed in the middle of what was once the trading floor. And, to keep a bit of history, the original trading prices from the last day of trading are kept on the big board near the ceiling.

The theater experience was wonderfully intimate, as the enclosure was relatively small, and I always enjoy seeing performances in the round. The play was riotously funny, and, followed by a dinner with all of our theater companions and then drinks along an old canal with some of Paul's oldest friends, the day was an unmitigated delight.

Sad to be leaving but excited for my next stop, I spent the evening packing for the final leg of the trip...

Swanning About: The Festivals

2010-07-08T22:55:00.000-04:00

At 8:00 on a sunny Saturday morning, the annual comedy show that is me driving a stick shift on the wrong side of the road began. One of those fabulously polite and navigationally astute London cabbies dropped us off in Victoria where we picked up our very sexy Ford Focus, and hence the road trip began.

Eventually, after some streets, highways, mini-highways and tiny country roads, we came to what would be our home for the next twenty-four hours, the Hollies Hotel in Bower Hinton (near Yeovil).

I was utterly charmed from the start...how could I resist a place so enamored with the various roofing options in the world that it couldn't pick just one?

And any establishment with such a soft spot for gargoyles is OK in my book.

It had been quite some time since I'd been outside of a city, so I was loving the uninterrupted expanses of green.

I should also point out that the rooms were lovely and the breakfast was top notch so if you are looking for a place to lay your head in Bower Hinton (near Yeovil), look no further.

After we dropped off our things and met up with our friends Dan and Nicky, and it was off to Glastonbury. Thank god Dan was kind enough to do the driving. As a native Brit he's better on the left side. And besides, bourgeois as it may be, his Land Rover was a more appropriate vehicle for a farm than our Ford Focus.

Now last year, as is the case nearly every year, the site of this fabulous festival was a mud pit. Everyone was frolicking happily in their wellies, with nary a sunburn in sight. This year we were faced with a hot dust bowl.

The crowds were parched and listless.

the dry as a bone, limited shade hospitality area

Eventually, after attempting in vain to eke out some shade in the noontime shadow of a fence, we gave up and headed to one of the tented stages.

Sprawled on the grass at the side of the John Peele stage in the blessed shade, I gazed upward, thankful for a respite from the searing sun and for the breeze, however slight.

Luckily we hit the good old John Peele at the right time. The stylings of the fantastic band Delphic were followed by the gorgeous strains of Marina and the Diamonds, which I enjoyed immensely as I lounged. After a bit of Lissie over at the Queens Head and a few stolen moments watching the US v. Ghana World Cup game, it was time for the main event, the reason we drove halfway across England for a mere day. MUSE.

Night fell, the temperatures cooled and the boys took the stage. The dazzling light show alone would have been worth the trip, but man oh man did that band perform. With more energy and vigor than I could ever imagine mustering, they played what can only be described as a blinder. The crowd (myself included) would have followed them anywhere. In fact this young gentleman was so enthralled that he climbed 15 feet up on a rickety wooden trellis in order to get a better view:

And I image he was handsomely rewarded, especially once the Edge took the stage with the band to play a bit of U2.

But, as is always the case, all good things must come to an end, and presently it was time to head back to good old Hollies Hotel. We left our 150,000 fellow festival goers to their tents and sleeping mats, while, after cool showers with lovely scented soap, we laid down in our nice comfy beds. It was perhaps the boring old person way to go, but I can't say I regretted it!

Stopping only for some roadside strawberries along the way, we hauled back to London the next day. It was of course imperative that Paul get to Hyde Park in time for the 2:00 kick-off of the England vs. Germany game (the less said about the better, obviously).

After dropping him off and a brief stop at the borrowed apartment, I took the opportunity to relax and wander around town. I was very nearly the only one on the streets, but the pubs were packed with soccer fans!

I ambled down Bond Street, then over to the Phaidan store, Fortnum and Mason and finally into the courtyard of the Royal Academy of the Arts,

where I joined the other tourists in kicking back, putting my toes in the fountains, and gazing at the sky.

Delightful. After a stroll by Buckingham Palace and a lounge by the Serpentine in Hyde Park, I was ready for the evening's entertainment.

McCartney.

We spent a lot of the first half of his set relaxing towards the back of the field.

But once Live and Let Die and the accompanying pyrotechnics came about we were on our feet. And once he got hot and heavy with the Beatles catalogue it was all over. As it turns out, there aren't many things better than seeing a Beatle play the Beatles.

We were too jazzed to sleep so Paul and I took the long way home, strolling about the wide boulevards, the tiny side streets and the occasional green squares. And presently we fell into bed, spent but happy from our musical adventures.

Swanning About: Londontown

2010-07-06T23:03:00.002-04:00

Ah London. Land of efficient airport transport and soaring train stations. Hello dear friend.

a light-filled Paddington Station

After a reasonably relaxing overnight flight I was in central London in practically no time, hauling my bits of luggage through Paddington Station en route to what was to be our apartment for the next few days. Luckily, a dear friend of Paul's had recently moved in with his girlfriend well in advance of his lease expiration, so we had a furnished apartment just off of Hyde Park to ourselves during our stay in the city.

The location could not have been better, as it was quite literally in the middle of it all. Greenery on one side, a thrilling urban maze on the other.

the view from the flat

But paradoxically, one of our first moves once we were both in town was to head to the outskirts for a barbecue at the offices of Paul's very favorite record label. We met up with his favorite band and an old friend at Vauxhall and continued onward to the lovely neighborhood of Wandsworth.

Back behind the label's offices preparations for a barbecue were occurring. Tables were being set up, and a man who went by the name Smokey Joe was firing up the grill. Now I have to admit that my enthusiasm for barbecue has always been middling at best, and the inordinate popularity of the cuisine in New York in recent years has done nothing to improve my attitude. So I was skeptical of Mr. Joe and his smoke, despite the tales of him having cooked for Bob Marley back in the day that were circulating through the gathering crowd.

But I have to say, the man won me over. Easily some of the best meat I've ever eaten. EVER. His mustardy brisket was my favorite, and I don't even particularly like brisket. Who knew? Best barbecue in the world is apparently British.

After a bit too much food and one too many Peronis, Paul and I laid back to contemplate life for a moment. And I marveled at the incredible frequency of the planes overhead. At least one every three minutes. Insane.

one of many

Both of us were too tired to be particularly interesting that evening so after a quick drink at Soho House, it was off to our borrowed bed.

I awoke the next morning to sunlight streaming through the wall of windows in our adopted bedroom. Thrilled at the prospect of a largely free day in one of my favorite cities, after a late breakfast with Paul I set off for a wander.

Feeling in a posh mood, I headed in the direction of Belgravia, stopping off in Harvey Nicks along the way, where I was deeply tempted by some Alexander McQueen sale items. My bank account was saved by the simple fact that everything I had my eye on was wool, which I just could not bear to try on in warm weather. Thank goodness for small favors!

With Nigella on the brain, I headed down to her husband's namesake, the Saatchi Gallery. Everything here is either beautiful (the building), stylish (the patio umbrellas),

witty (the art),

or free (the admission). All the characteristics of the ideal friend, or at least the ideal party guest.

From the expansive grounds to the series of minimalist galleries

to the art that I found to be far more engrossing than average

speakers playing strains from a piano and from a vacuum cleaner

to the Phillips de Pury space on the top floor, I simply could not get enough. The Saatchi Gallery may just become a regular London stop for me now.

But sadly I had a schedule to keep, so eventually had to pry myself away from my new crush. Up through the verdant streets

towards Hyde Park I went,

stopping to admire small vignettes as I passed by. One of my favorite things about London are the multitude of small scale parks and squares that are interspersed about the city. How great would it be as a child to have such access as these little ones do?

Presently I was back up by Hyde Park to meet Paul for our evening activities. You see, in the summer this park becomes host to lots and lots of music, and that night we were lucky enough to see some of the best.

In the early evening Paul's boys played a fantastic show to an enthusiastic crowd. Afterwards we took a breather to enjoy some cold cider and then it was off to see Pearl Jam.

my arm, adorned

Ten was the first cool album I ever owned, so I always get a bit sentimental when I see this band play. But it is not just the sentiment that keeps me coming back...they are quite simply incredible live, far better than 95% of their peers. The crowd was so enthusiastic that we opted to act our age and stay far back from the stage, but the show was overwhelmingly great nonetheless.

After a bit of chill time backstage with a few old friends, we trotted home to the apartment to rest up for the drive that lay ahead of us the next day.

Yet Again

2010-06-24T12:00:00.045-04:00

Barely a week after I swore not to neglect you ever again, I realize I'm going to have to beg forgiveness (again) and break that promise. I'm headed for foreign shores until after the July 4th holiday, and will be taking a break from posting while I'm away.

But in the meantime, a few things I've been enjoying lately:

1) The British Larder: A gorgeous food diary (aka blog), all of the recipes on which I have the desire to eat, about a third of which I have a desire to make. Regardless of the feasibility of the recipes for the average home cook, the photos are consistently mouth watering, and given the hot and sticky weather, the ice cream and sorbet recipes are terribly hard to resist.

2) AllSaints Spitalfields: This British retailer recently opened a US outpost in Soho, and this weekend, while wandering the streets of downtown Manhattan, the store and I were properly introduced. An odd cross between Vivienne Westwood, Rick Owens and Osklen, I loved virtually everything. And shockingly enough, I didn't find anything to be inordinately expensive. Certainly a spot to revisit upon my return, when I am perhaps in a bit more of a shopping mood.

3) The Cooking Channel: Ah, real cooks cooking on TV again. I DVRed loads of shows I'd never heard of and came up with a few winners. Bill Granger, who I'm sure has become passe in his native Australia by this time, makes what looks to be light, tasty and easy food in a beach house setting. His sunny humor, handy tips and appealing recipes have endeared him to me enormously. And Anjum Anand, on her show Indian Food Made Easy, lives up to the title. She knows a ton about the cuisine, and her recipes look not only delicious but are also considerably less work than those of my beloved Madhur Jaffrey. And, in addition to introducing me to entirely new TV chefs, this channel allows me to indulge my love of old Nigella episodes to my heart's content. Along with a few old Julia Child episodes and a Galloping Gourmet here and there (Ms. Child has held up much better than Mr. Gourmet I must say) the network has a bit of something for everyone.

Until after the holiday...enjoy yourselves while I'm away!