A wee shuffle

I thought I would refresh this whole space once I left NYC, but I've gotten a little antsy and my impatience got the best of me. With the weather cooling down, changes elsewhere (more on that soon), and a general feeling of blahness with *sparklingly, I wanted to make a move sooner rather than later, even if it means a fairly subtle one, given my lack of design/HTML coding skills.

But first I had to figure out exactly what I wanted to call this new place. Since my day job involves similar queries (what space can this "brand" own? why would anyone care about it? what's its reason for being?), I employed similar strategies to figure this out—I asked a few people what they think I write about and why they like reading and there was definitely a clear thread:

J/*sparklingly = a place filled with homemaking, simple pleasures, balancing city and country, how to indulge graciously and elegantly, tweaks for a gentler life, real/whole foods and living, plus a little snark. Which to me all mostly boiled down to my favorite thing to do ever:

Feather my nest.

I love making something prettier, cozier, homier and more welcoming. Whether it's my apartment, a hotel room when I'm traveling for work, my desk when I'm working at a client site for the day or even an hour, or a little nook at a cafe nearby for a weekend coffee. My thinking is consumed by ideas of how to make my surroundings sweeter, softer, more sacred—which goes for my physical surroundings as well as my physical self.

Thus was born a feathery nest.

But of course I'm still shy and prone to anonymity, so I needed another little handle to sign off with and use on Instagram and things. I created a rationale for *sparklingly before, but it really annoys me now, so a new one had to be made. This time, though, I decided to just use a nickname I already have (General J / Gen J / il Generale) thanks to my particular, some-say-bossy, ways, plus a little finessing to make it better encapsulate me (and my puritanical, modest, hostessing ways), hence ladygenj.

Everything will switch over later today / tomorrow, but just in case my ability to understand complicated code is less stellar than I imagine it to be, I'm posting this last post here on *sparklingly with a breadcrumb trail so you can still find me after today if your feeds and things don't automatically update:

site
http://www.afeatherynest.blogspot.com

feeds
RSS
Atom

readers
Feedly
Feedspot
Bloglovin'

I've also switched my social media accounts over to my new handle, so if you follow me on those, you'll notice my shares under a new name.

Hope to see you on the other side!

Xx,
J.

The notion of home

Now that we're back home after the most amazing of trips, bumpy re-entry included, I've realized I'm at the point where I'm completely sick of our apartment. I've lived in it so long that it's last refreshing was years ago, so the walls seem a bit crusty, the floors need refinishing, and the whole thing needs a good scrubbing. And everything about it now irritates me: the way the walls soak up cooking splatters and no amount of scrubbing seems to get rid of the telltale signs. Same goes for the bathroom walls and doors where dust combined with flying oils from my overzealous applications have created an impenetrable barrier.

Then there's the floor, a horrid parquet—I should say faux parquet—comprised of uneven pieces, meaning dust and wayward hair and fluff gets embedded around each splintery piece, making sweeping a futile exercise and walking barefoot painful. Not to mention the ear-splitting creaking that echoes every single step we take from March through November, thanks to the humidity. Speaking of humidity, it's impossible to keep the shower, especially the grout lines clean because of the dampness in the air (we're not quite at fall weather yet) and I'm so sick of cleaning so often only to have the whole place still feel dumpy.

And why is there an inch-long gap between the stove and the counter? Do you know how many crumbs and onion slivers and who knows what else have dropped into our own personal Grand Canyon? And have I mentioned our hyperactive smoke alarm? Anytime we barely sautée a bit of garlic in oil the damn thing goes off and we have to take our positions as door-waver, window-opener, frantic-pillow-beater and dish-coverer to disperse the hot air before the whole system starts spraying water every which way. You don't want to know the hysteria that ensues if God forbid one of us is alone and has to pull off all four with just two hands amidst the pelting whine.

I just want to leave everything behind and start fresh.

One year later

When I first decided to start writing this wee blog here, I had no intention of ever sharing it. I just wanted a little place to keep track of what I then hoped/thought would be my last year in NYC and play around with coding (I should say "coding"). I also thought it was only fair that after so many years of listening in to others share their stories, that I reciprocated, especially when it comes to people I've been following for years.

Right now, as far as I know, no one in my family (apart from R), nor people in my life here know about my corner of the Web—two friends that live far away do, as well as all the people I've "met" through the blog world, but that's it. And my reluctance to share is not because I write anything scandalous (as you know), but just because I started quietly and to be honest, after two aborted attempts previously, I didn't think it would stick around this long. So after thinking about it for a few weeks last year, I just powered up Blogger and gave it a go.

I didn't give much thought to the context or the "lens" through which I write (as you might have guessed from the somewhat flimsy name/address I post under). But now that it's lasted this long, perhaps it's time for a little dusting? A bit of updating and re-skinning? I've got some ideas, but haven't had a chance to think them through all the way, but perhaps in a few weeks (or, months) you'll find me in a new place. A place you'd be most welcome to join me.

But, I do have one teensy favor to ask of you.

There will be pancakes

Yesterday was a bit of a doozy.

Forget the fact that we had a bumpy re-entry, but I woke up with yet another set of maladies which made for a rough first-morning-back-to-work. Then of course the actual act of going back to work. Followed by a semi-big decision that R and I had to make. And then a few hours later, an even-bigger decision was made for me, which throws everything back into the blender again.

All of that equals a somewhat rumpled in body, mind and spirit J returning home last night.

But, there was wine waiting. The discovery of new-to-me White Collar episodes available online. And, comfy pajamas. All of which were at least a temporary panacea to my blue spirit.

R went to bed, but I stayed up glued to my screen doing research to counteract the aforementioned myriad of somewhat disturbing decisions. As I clicked around online, I also kept a chat box open. Typing here and there, simultaneously. A friend reminded me that every down is followed by an up and all we know is that. And all we have is the ability to enjoy the moment that we're in. Wholly, completely, unquestionably.

Who needs to meditate when you can make pancakes?

Which is why I woke up early today to make the most of my morning, cooking a proper breakfast for R and myself while he was still sleeping. His weekend started today and he's worked every day since we came back from vacation, including a 7AM start when we arrived home only 6 hours previously, so I don't know who was more excited about this, me or him.

On the menu were a batch of silky, eggy, proper French crepes with apricot jam for him, and butternut squash flapjacks (making use of my abundance from Sunday) with a side of bacon for me. A piping hot moka and a pitcher of cream rounded us out.

In the name of doing more kind things for ourselves, R met me in the evening in Soho, looking dapper in his white dress shirt edged in purple (my favorite). He took my bag and we ambled down Mulberry Street, finally able to take nice deep breaths as we walked. Autumn in New York is conducive to proper inhales. Summer, with its ability to turn garbage bags lining the sidewalk into highly odoriferous obstacles, not so much.

Never was a wait so enjoyable

We turned left on Grand Street and popped into Di Palo Fine Foods and took a number. And then we waited. And waited. The neighborhood salumeria doesn't care if you're tired or have heavy bags. The proprietors talk to most everyone. Chatting about nothing and everything while they weigh your provolone, your sausages, your fresh ravioli and fettuccine. I people watched, surprised as always to see how encroaching neighborhoods create unexpected mixes. The Italian-American man with a Chinese-American wife making a quick trip down from their apartment upstairs because they forgot something for their dinner. Both speaking the others language. The Indonesian tourists on the border of Chinatown, hungry for Italian.

R ambled about the display cases, waiting for number 80 to be called. Watching a mother try to calm her daughter who wanted nothing to do with a taste of almond cookies. When he was finally called up he placed our order and watched as a little tub of burrata was snapped closed, a satiny pile of mortadella and prosciutto crudo was sliced off of the weft on the counter, and the exact right cotoletta was chosen.

Then home, the long way, on foot.

Another glass of wine. Another escape to Puerto Rico-cum-Capo Verde. A few squares of dark chocolate with chili. And then a few minutes here, capturing the day for myself and to share with you.

And even though the balance doesn't seem quite right, somehow today's goodness far outweighs yesterday's lack of it.

I think I'll sleep just fine tonight.

The art of imperfection and choco-buckwheat-banana bread

I'm a bit of a perfectionist, which you might not realize from that less than perfect picture above (grumble grumble at my apartment, which I'm currently sick of with its lack of photograph-able spaces plus my general lack of certainty over how long I'll have to stay here...plus my lack of camera skills). Maybe as I get older, though, it's finally starting to sink in that not everything has to be perfect all the time, and sometimes the best stuff isn't perfect at all.

Take this bread. Which is by no means perfect. But it started with a perfect intention. R bought a huge bunch-o-bananas for post-boxing smoothies, but they were languishing on the counter top. Before they went too far, though, I came home from work and decided that banana bread must be made.

(We already had a Pyrex dish full of frozen banana slices in the freezer, otherwise I would have shoved them in there, as I'm not a fan of after-work baking.)

Now, gluten-free baking is a little tricky, especially for people like me who can't be bothered with measurements, and therefore don't really have any business being bakers at all. But, like all my other cooking and creative endeavors, I had at it and hoped for the best.

And, this came out...okay. But with a few tweaks, it's elevated all the way to super yummy:

(1) It tastes infinitely better when warmed up. Buckwheat is dense, and since I only used buckwheat flour, these loaves came out pretty compact and a little warming up helped amp up the coziness factor and tamp down the why-am-I-eating-a-brick factor.

(2) You need to serve it with either a dollop of good yogurt or swiped with a rash of butter. Either way, you'll also need a sprinkle of sea salt on top because, oopsie, forgot that below (so if you make this and add salt to the batter, no need to when serving).

// Choco-buckwheat-banana bread
Makes two 9-inch circular pan loaves

5      bananas (1 lb 5 oz)
2.5   cups buckwheat flour
2.5   teaspoons baking powder
2      tablespoons cinnamon
2      eggs
1      cup milk
2      teaspoons vanilla extract
1/2   cup chopped hazelnuts (optional)
5      tablespoons cacao powder
2      tablespoons maple syrup

Preheat oven to 375F. Whisk together your wet ingredients. Then sift together the dry ingredients before combining all together. Pour into pans and bake for 30 minutes. //

Next time doing this I'll include salt in the batter, put in a little less cacao, and perhaps use a mix of almond flour and buckwheat flour. I might also add in some coconut oil, so they have more of that traditional banana bread texture and mouthfeel.

But the thing is, even with all the changes I'd make next time, this bread is still perfect just as is when enjoyed at home, with R, after sharing a nice meal together and chatting about what comes next.

(As long as it's warmed up with the requisite toppings, of course).

End of summer pullover

I think what I love most about knitting, when I don't have a ton of redo's to do, is the crazy transformation of a ball of fiber into something I can wear out into the world. I know it seems from my scribbles here that I watch a lot of TV/movies, but in reality, 95% of the time that there's something playing, I'm doing something else. The only times I'm ever really solely watching a screen is if it's a specific movie with R. Otherwise, it's usually a program or documentary on in the background, while I do something with my hands. For a long time they were hovering over a keyboard of some sort, but for the last few years they've been immersed in a fluff of woolen bits. Stitch by stitch, from a lap full of yarn, alongside a mug of Sunday morning coffee or weeknight glass of fizzy water (or...wine), to a drawer full of sweaters and tanks.

While I used to stay up late to finish a good book, now almost every time I pull an all-nighter, it's because I made a mistake in whatever I'm knitting and want to redo it, or I'm just on a roll and have to keep on rolling, or I have a ball of yarn to wind—which takes concentration so I don't create a tear-inducing snarled mess. Granted, now that I share my bed, I can't really stay up late snuggled between the sheets immersed in a good book (and late-night page turning on the couch just isn't as good), but I'm pretty sure that it'd be the case, regardless.

Unlike sewing, knitting requires quite a bit of forethought—which of course isn't something I always excel at doing because I'm so impatient to get cracking. You can't just rip a seam and redo. Knitting requires that you plan ahead, unless you want to unravel all your work and start over. It's not nearly as forgiving as other crafts, and maybe that's why I like it: you have to work (really) hard for it, especially when it comes to something to wear vs. something to use, and it forces you to either love it or hate it. I don't think there's really an in-between—I suppose you could say there are some parallels with that sentiment and with how people feel about me, but we can talk about that later.

Knitting is addictive, too. As soon as I bound off that baby set, I cast on for this (literally, the same evening). And, when I bound off these stitches, I cast on later that day for another project.

It can be a little daunting to have multiple pieces of a knit creation floating around, because any time you hold stitches aside and pick them up later to knit (as you would for a sweater when you start at the shoulder and continue down the body, holding stitches aside for the sleeve), you (well, maybe not you, but certainly I), risk that you might pull at the structure and inadvertently muss up the lines.

Which is why I'm crazy for projects that are either worked in the round (as you would do a sock) and / or worked flat, and then seamed up at the edges to create something wearable. The latter is how this pullover was created.

Do you see those diagonal seam lines? The way this is constructed, you knit one long rhomboid, with a hole in the center for your neck and funny batwings hanging off either edge. Then, because this stitch creates a diagonal pull like a bias-cut dress, you have to wind the flaps around themselves to create the tubes that become the body and sleeves. So those seams you see across the arm and midsection aren't design elements, but the foundation for turning a misshapen blob of fiber (both R and I were thinking that I had just wasted a whole week when we saw what I was left with before seaming) into something that actually resembles a sweater.

I could have stood to make this a wee bit bigger at the hemline so it lay flat instead of that little foldover, but, as usual, I worried that it was going to be too floppy, so I erred on the smaller side and luckily it juuust fits. Any fewer stitches and it would probably have been too uncomfortable to wear.

And: a few more vanity shots, just because. Now, what to knit next?

Waltzing waterfront walks

I have a bad habit of cocooning myself at home on the weekend—give me an uninterrupted block of 48 hours and I'll fill them up with projects and cooking and cleaning and reading and planning and exercising and nesting to my heart's content, all from the comfort of our apartment. R does not understand this at all. He rarely spends an entire day at home when he's not working, whereas I do it quite often.

But last Sunday I had it in my head to take an early morning walk along the waterfront with a good classical radio station playing. I meant to head out for half an hour, but instead, I meandered about for almost three times that, weaving amidst families and dogs and couples and runners and toddlers while listening to Chopin's Mazurkas and Mozart's Rondeaus. 

I started off at Pier 15 on the East River Esplanade, wound my way around the southernmost tip of Manhattan, up through Robert Wagner Park and in and around Battery Park City. Doggie heads were patted, new construction was noted, and the rest of my day was planned.

I had told R the day before that I was making a roast chicken for dinner that evening, and he begged me to roast it over a pan of potatoes, but I insisted that I couldn't, since I had already decided the rest of the meal and potatoes played no part. Plus, I had already done the shopping and no potatoes were to be found in our fridge.

Before we went to sleep he said, "really, no potatoes?". I stood firm.

But of course before I made my way home Sunday morning I took a loop by the market and picked some up. Although, if potatoes had to be had, they'd be done my way, so I also scooped up some sweet potatoes and parsnips to combine with the carrots and onion wedges at home. Altogether I had a nice little bed for my chickadee to roast over.

There was also a cabbage salad with a mouth-puckering vinegar dressing dotted with mustard seeds and tossed with bacon, its renderings and pickled onion, plus a roasted puree of eggplants and poblano peppers. Followed up by a platter of blueberries and homemade chocolate.

The mister was delighted to see some crispy-skinned potatoes and I was delighted that he let me have all the best bits of the chicken, including the parson's nose, as he was too busy spearing his tubers to notice me taking it all for myself. Turns out a little break from the weekend cocoon is a good thing.

Dante's layette

In a few months a couple will descend from a plane for the holidays here in New York and after a handful of weeks they'll board another to return to their new home in Italy. Only on the flight back across the Atlantic they'll be a trio, instead of a duo.

Rather than welcome their firstborn child on their new-found expat soil, they've decided to come home and birth (another!) American. Lucky for me, as things are a bit too crazy at the moment for me to jet there for the wee one's arrival and baptism (that's right, you're looking at a first time godmother here!).

I'm sure it will be surreal when the day comes for R and me to grow our own little family, but for now, I can't imagine anything more surreal than someone I grew up with creating another little someone.

The pops is a bit of a professorial sort: academic, studious, down in the weeds when it comes to history, a penchant for pontificating—all of which make him an excellent lawyer. And, all of which helped me decide to make a collegiate cardigan for his newborn son, instead of a baby blanket or onesie.

It's probably also why in my head (and on my Ravelry project page), I've been referring to this set of handknit goodies for the babe as Dante's Cardigan, Hat, & Booties.

When picking out colors I was dead-set against anything blue (I like to be unexpected, plus my mom was whipping up her own blue set), nor did I want to use burgundy (as suggested to me by the father-to-be—?!). But, a creamy white and soft heather gray seemed the perfect combination for this winter baby boy.

As usual when it comes to me creating wearable knits, this too required a reboot. I suppose I approach every area of my life: from cooking, to falling in love, to knitting, in the same way. Jump in and adjust later. Which is odd, given how much of a planner and organizational nutcase I am. But then again, I am an impatient gal, too. So, quite the combination, indeed. And, to be fair, I did plan this out—I just planned pretty poorly.

The pattern for this was for a newborn, but I wanted this to last my little godson his whole first winter, so I purposely knit it bigger. Only thing is, my calculations were a bit off and the shoulders looked like a Meg Ryan blazer from the 80's. But being stubborn, I thought I could just even it all out at the end, so I kept knitting. Once I bound off the last stitch, it of course still looked just as wonky as it did at the beginning. As R watched in horror, I ripped the whole thing apart and started over. The idea of gifting something that I wasn't 100% proud of was worse to me than the idea of redoing the cardigan.

So, back to Row 1, this time with newly calculated measurements. Much better.

Thankfully the hat and booties were good to go after the first attempt. Here's hoping it all fits him—and that he, and his parents, approve!

Slothful sleuthing

Over the last few weekends I've been knitting and cooking along to the sounds of Netflix'd art mystery / heist documentaries—a favorite topic of mine, along with foreign espionage shenanigans, obscure religious symbolism found throughout architecture and art, and double meanings, hidden clues, and secret trails.

Is it any wonder I have a soft spot for Dan Brown's Robert Langdon, Daniel Silva's Gabriel Allon and White Collar's Neal Caffrey?

My only regret* from college is that I didn't follow through with my minor in art history, because it would have required that I only take art history classes along with classes for my major, a double concentration in finance and management within my university's commerce school. That seemed altogether much too limiting, so I made up for it then by squeezing in as many classes as I could, and now by digging into mostly-plausible novels and sometimes badly-lit documentaries.

Watching art restorers, historians, and authenticators attempt to analyze the brushstrokes, canvas material, and clues hidden within a painting is ridiculously engaging to me. The two best films I've found on Netflix streaming recently are Nova: Mystery of a Masterpiece (about experts investigating whether a portrait sold for about $20,000 in 1998 is actually a lost Leonardo da Vinci worth millions) and Stolen (about the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum heist in 1990).

The whole experience is of course much improved when a thrilling bout of detective work enjoyed vicariously from my den is followed by a tasty homemade pizza.

Have y'all been Netflixing anything good recently?

(*Actually, I have another regret from my college chapter: not doing a semester abroad.)

{ first image via }

Reveling in the regression

{  The morning after  |  View from the East River Esplanade  |  Lower Manhattan  }

There's something deliciously illicit about staying up late, after everyone has tucked themselves in for the night—both in my apartment, and from the looks of the dark windows across the way from ours, in our neighborhood, too. When I have the whole couch to myself, the cushions and nested coffee tables arranged just the way I like them and the whole world wide web available to me to putter about in for as long as I like. The TV's on low, some nonsense that I've already seen is playing, just to keep me company. I like being alone, but not too alone, and the digital chatter is just enough to keep things sociable without infringing on my bubble. I usually have a tangle of yarn at my toes, too—I'm nothing if not an excellent multi-tasker.

The green glow of the microwave clock, which is now just a glorified time keeper, is the only reminder that I've edged into tomorrow. That and the slow, steadily-increasing droop of my eyelids. By the time I finally find my way to bed I'm already chastising myself for doing this again.

Because come morning I'll be burny-eyed and achy-headed, and even though I know it, I still pull this tomfoolery every few weeks. Why, I don't know. It's like why babysitters the world over (I'm assuming), always take parents at their word when they say "help yourself" and once the kids go to bed they find themselves watching some silly Lifetime movie with a bowl of popcorn, bar of chocolate, and saucer of ice cream on the table in front of them. Or, why kids prop up a flashlight under the covers to keep reading the scary book even though they're supposed to have the lights out.

I have a big birthday coming up and maybe I keep doing this, even though I know I don't bounce back the way I used to, because it's my tiny rebellion against time. My teensy stake in the ground of, yes I'm getting older, yes, people keep asking when we're going to start having kids, but I don't care! I'm basking in my blissful state of childless, semi-yuppy freedom and staying up until 2AM reading blogs and you can't stop me.

That could be it.

Arancini Taorminesi and how I cook

{  Arancini, before  }

The first time I bit into an arancino it was a massive disappointment. I had finally arrived in Sicily via the overnight boat train from Reggio Calabria to Messina and then down the coastline to Taormina-Giardini Naxos before taking a bus up into the hilltop perch of Taormina proper.

The view, the streets, my goodness, the people!—it was all glorious, beautiful, magical.

But that first taste of Sicily in the form of an arancino obtained from the very first tavola calda my panicky, hunger-stricken eyes set upon, was oily, gummy, and burnt.

Years later I get a huge kick out of eating proper Sicilian, nay, Taorminesi, arancini made in my own house, by my very own Sicilian (procured on that initial trip). True, the view from my apartment isn't quite the same, but crunching on these rotund pockets of bliss without purchasing a plane ticket isn't too shabby, either.

Arancini take their name from arancia, the Italian word for "orange". These adorable, portly (and portable!) little balls of rice are filled with any number of things, depending on where you find yourself. They always have cooked rice and mozzarella/pecorino tucked inside, but the ingredients that come next vary—you might find ragù (tomato meat sauce) or béchamel or peas or eggplant or some combination of those, or something entirely different. Regardless of what's concealed within, arancini are true Sicilian street food, made to munch on while standing at a bar or a vendor's stall.

Other regions of Italy have similar balls of goodness, like Rome's suppli.

The arancini from R's hometown, though, are a wonder unto themselves, being filled with rice that's run through with pesto al pistachio, a heady pesto made from the famed pistachio of Bronte, near Mt. Etna. The nuttiness is spectacular.

But, they take a quite a lot of doing to create, especially at home with our very limited counter space, so it's not often that we have them. Thankfully, R has finally seen the beauty of making extra, so now he takes a portion of the formed arancini and wraps them for safekeeping in the freezer and we can enjoy his hard work for a few more weeks.

Which is how we came to be tucking into a plate of these this past Sunday evening.

{  Arancini, after with a handmade knit cotton napkin }

There was just enough for a flirty taste, so I tossed together a salad to accompany our dinner. The fridge was a little sparse, though, so I made do, which is how I cook. I'm not one to follow recipes—I typically get ideas and inspiration from them, but hardly ever wait until I have all the right ingredients, nor do I measure the ones I do have. I'm not afraid to substitute or estimate—sometimes it works out perfectly, but there have been some rather lackluster dishes to come out of my kitchen thanks to my lack of patience and unwillingness to follow someone else's directions.

That's okay, though—this salad was one of the winners: roughly chopped romaine + red onion marinated in an olive oil and white vinegar bath to mellow its sharpness + wedges of apricot + hefts of mozzarella + a few shreds of fresh chili + a generous grind of black pepper + a sprinkle of salt = the perfect accompaniment to the enveloping crunch of a well-made arancino.

The day to day

{  Sneaking in a few rounds of knitting and cold-brewed coffee before work  }

Much as a I'm a "career city girl" that takes a teensy bit of pleasure in being busy and productive in an office, dressing up for work, flying business class internationally, having a job that affords me the ability to live well and not worry about money, it's not really what makes me happy. It's just what I feel like I'm supposed to be doing—and of course it's nice to contribute to supporting our little family of two—but it's not at all something that gives me joy.

Which is not ideal, of course.

But sometimes when you're on this path, it takes a bit of doing to get off. I think I'm secretly (or maybe less secretly) hoping that a big physical move will also lead to a big creative move. Maybe I won't have to spend my hours chained to a desk and a computer (much as I love the fact that I can work from anywhere, the truth is I don't work from anywhere but my company's office).

I never intended to stay here for long, and yet the end of this month marks 6 years of living in Manhattan as an adult. Sometimes I can't believe I live here—an introverted, homebody living in a place that makes the news around the world. And I'm not talking about the stock market, but a random subway flooding will be mentioned on the streets of R's Sicilian hometown. People dream about living in New York, and somehow I still do, even though I know the truth about living here. After years of putting up with the insane rents, the pricey treats, the hyped-up restaurants, the non-stop buzz that may be what makes me feel so fuzzy-headed, the rats setting up villages in the subways, plus the thousand-and-one other inhumanities New Yorkers must succumb to, I'm still here.

And then sometimes, I think, well of course I live here, where else would I live? Maybe I don't take advantage of living next to the best clubs, theaters, and museums (the restaurants, I definitely take advantage of), but I just like knowing that they're there if I feel like climbing out of my cocoon. Where else would I live but somewhere that's pro-walking, pro-all-kinds-of-love, pro-efficiency, pro-multicured everything, pro-locavorism, etc.? It's when I leave the city and run into the opposite of all that, that I realize, no way could I live somewhere else.

Well, that's not true. Of course I could live somewhere else, but what I need is a better blending of city and country. The ability to walk everywhere during the week married to the ability to walk in woods and meadows on the weekend.

The idea of living in a charming little village (near a bustle-y town or city) makes me giddy. The idea of having chickens. Growing my own garden. Living near the woods. Spending weekends doing homesteading'esque rituals (and then actual ones, too, of course).

Maybe the problem is that the type of work I do is in the wrong field, because to be honest, I do love running things and making things happen, but maybe I'm just doing it in the wrong arena. Which is a shame, since 50 hours a week are spent at work or getting to and from work and I'm just wondering at what point enough is enough.

I'm not really sure what I'm saying here, other than that I know something's missing. I know I love taking care of my family, I know I love putting things together and making them work, I know I love being creative (with words, with ideas, with my hands), but how it all comes together so that the things I love aren't only relegated to a few hours a week is all a bit of a mystery to me still.

+ + +

PS. The final post in my 3-part Gentler Day series on Amanda's Pickles & Honey went up yesterday. If you haven't seen it yet, click on over for Tips for a Gentler Evening & Night.

P.P.S. In case you missed the first two: Tips for a Gentler Morning and Tips for a Gentler Workday.

Cavorting with the masses, or not

{  The Consulate General of Sweden's Midsommar party in Battery Park  |  21 June 2013  }

Crowds. Navigating the masses, trying to avoid trampling toddlers, straining to hear above the clatter.

Big parties. Introductions, mingling, small talk, pleasantries.

Two situations that I'm exceedingly bad at. It's the reason I hyperventilate at the Union Square Greenmarket (and why I never go anymore). It's also why I never rushed a sorority, and why I'm not  too enthusiastic about big gatherings or festivals (last week I took the ferry across to Williamsburg to visit the original outpost of Smorgasburg and I panicked getting off the boat when I saw the crowds.) Probably a combination of my huge level of shyness and my inability to be calm when I'm thirsty / hungry and it looks like procuring something to assuage my parched mouth and grumbling stomach will be difficult (which is exactly what happened at Smorgasburg).

All this slipped my mind this weekend.

First, when we realized that we could finally make this year's Midsommar party thrown by the Consulate General of Sweden. To be fair, I didn't think we'd be in the midst of masses of people. Seriously, look at these pictures (this is from last year, but the crowds were the same, if not increased, this year)! Who knew there were so many Swedes in New York?

I walked down from work in Soho (carrying my laptop and walking 2 miles in the heat probably didn't help my frame of mind) to meet R outside the park. Within two seconds two things were clear: Swedish children with wreaths of flowers are adorable, especially when they're holding hands and skipping around and, there were only 5-6 kiosks with food and drink for the hundreds of people milling around. The lines were ridiculously long, but at least Swedes, being Swedes, the lines were also frighteningly straight and orderly.

We had already missed the raising of the Maypole (it's done at 5PM and we were still at work), but we had hoped to watch the dancing and singing. Sadly, after 20 minutes of trying to fight our way through the crowds we decided we had soaked up enough Swedishness and walked up the Esplanade to the North Cove Harbor to sit out by the yachts with a platter of chips & guacamole and pork tacos for me, burgers for R and beer for both.

It was delightful. And there were no crowds.

And, because I hadn't learned my lesson, I went to a housewarming in Dumbo Saturday night and didn't time my arrival well. R wasn't able to come (he excels in large social situations), so I was left to fend for myself and try to talk to people for the first hour and a half. Then, mercifully, another gal I'm close to arrived and we escaped to the roof with two others (one being the hostess), and finally, we got to chat and sip our drinks and enjoy the view of Manhattan.

So, here's my new official lesson/survival tactic for overwhelming social situations: When at a big party, form your own smaller one. (And if smothered in a large crowd, leave and create your own—because who needs that?).

All the small things

{  Pre-incident  |  May 2013  }

I sometimes find myself getting catastrophically upset / disappointed over small things (also known as: seriously sweating the small stuff).

Like last week. I was walking a few blocks in Soho to drop off a bag of clothes at a thrift store. I had on camel flats with gold accents, hot pink cropped pants, and a gray tee with a hot pink graphic. I also had my hair up in my Scandi braided bun and was sporting an Indian gold ring with a fuchsia ruby and one of my pairs of dangly, probably-too-much-for-work, gold earrings. I tell you this to underscore how cute I felt—until the usually charming cobblestoned Crosby street caused me to lurch awkwardly forward, sending my beloved gleaming Samsung Galaxy 3 shooting out of my pants pocket and tumbling down onto the rocky street.

After swaddling the poor thing and toting it back to the office I examined it thoroughly (post-disinfection, naturally), and lo—after just over a year of ownership, I had my first smattering of screen scratches. At first I thought they were linty bits from my tote bag—that's how airy and light they are, but no. Obnoxious, full-on scratches on my Gorilla Glass. Pretty remarkable that it lasted a year being scratch free, but now my formerly glam phone is looking a little schlumpy. Of course I'm the only one who would ever notice, but that didn't prevent a frenzied, panicky Googling episode to figure out how to remove all those pesky marks without spending a fortune.

See? Totally sweating the small stuff.

Me, then (again)

{ NYC from across the Hudson this weekend }

And so as not to be too much of a downer, here's another few snippets of my (formerly?) snarky self:

Monday, May 29, 2006 95N is NOT the Place to Scrimp Clearly I didn't learn anything the last time I purchased an inexpensive Greyhound ticket to NYC. Maybe next time I'll spring for Amtrak...or JetBlue, as I don't think I can take another trip with these characters: International Princess: Must be nice to be pampered and petted, and live the good life as a DC sorority girl slumming it up by taking the bus to NYC for the weekend. Did you really feel the need to spend the majority of the four hour bus trip discussing the merits and demerits of various celebrities' bone structures? Were my deathly glares and aggressive rustling of the NYT pages in your direction not enough to clue you in that you were REALLY PISSING ME OFF?! Heroic Bus Driver: He must have known I was in hell, so he kindly turned up the air conditioning ALL. THE. WAY. Not only were my ears bleeding, but my appendages were then frozen. Nice balance, no? But, luckily he got my heart racing again by having lengthy cell phone conversations with his buddies while driving a few tons of steel. Up 95. In. the. rain.

Sunday, June 27, 2006 Maintenance Know what's a really big pain in the ass? Personal maintenance. I mean really, do you know how much time a day I spend doing the bare minimum? After getting out of bed I have to brush my teeth, rinse my face, put on deodorant, go to the gym...then, come home, shower, again with the deodorant, spend (too much) time slathering pretty cream all over my various appendages, swipe my ears with a q-tip, slap on some moisturizer....then, after breakfast, again with the teeth brushing and putting on of makeup, perfume, clothes, jewelry, etc. It's like, enough already, right? And I'm not even someone high maintenance that's applying—I don't know, eyebrow gel—but even the minimalist approach is tiring! Then, when I come home from work I have to spend time making a healthy, vegetable/whole grain laden dinner, wash my dishes, make my coffee, rinse out the appliance, pack lunch for the next day, reset the espresso machine, put out breakfast. Enough is enough. And to think, all this stemming from me realizing I have to schedule my 6-month teeth cleaning.

Sunday, June 29, 2006 Adventures in Indian Dining Let me paint a little picture for you: I sit at an outdoor table waiting for friends to join me for dinner. The nice waiter comes over to ask if I'd like to order a drink while I wait. I politely decline, motioning that the water is fine. While minding my own business the following happens. Drunk Lecherous Man With Cigarette Dangling from Lips (while standing behind me): Are you Persian? Me (barely turning around): No. DLMWCDFL: Where are you from? Me: I'm Portuguese & Indian. DLMWCDFL: Like, East Indian? Me: No, I'm from the western part of India. DLMWCFDL: So not like Cowboys and Indians? Me: No, Indian as in from the country of India. DLMWCFDL: And from Brazil? Me: No, Portuguese as in from the country of Portugal. DLMWCFDL: Oh really? Like in that movie Moon River? [Edited to note in 2013 that I still don't know what movie he meant...] Me: (to myself) "WTF?!", (to waiter) Sir? Actually, I think I'll have a drink.

100

{ Buds & bubbles! }

And just like that, I'm at one hundred. After keeping my old, post-college blog alive for only 7 months and perhaps no more than 40 or so posts, I'm a little shocked that I made it this far.

Before deleting it I backed up the pages offline, and "flipping" through it now it's just as good as discovering one of those plastic, padlocked diaries little girls have. Some of my scribbling seems so  grownup, yet so incredibly naive. Like this, from almost exactly 7 years ago: 

Sunday, June 11, 2006 And you said, be still my love When I first heard Colin Hay's "Waiting For My Real Life to Begin" three years ago, I felt sure it was my song. Like most, when I get a whiff of certain scents, or hear the faint chords of a familiar song I'm instantly transported to a specific moment in time. But this song doesn't take me to a point in my life, rather it seems to define my life. My constant search for...something. "Any minute now my ship is coming in I'll keep checking the horizon And I'll stand on the bow And feel the waves come crashing Come crashing down, down, down on me" This morning I walked through my door at five o'clock as the sky began to lighten. I changed from my dress of high expectations and sat on my bed in my pajamas facing the glass door. I pulled the blinds and the door open and sat, thinking. Watching, as the night retreated and I was left alone to watch the day begin. "And you said,"Be still, my love Open up your heart Let the light shine in" Don't you understand? I already have a plan I'm waiting for my real life to begin" Why does it seem that nothing ever works out the way I thought it would? Leaving school one has so many dreams and ideas about what life will hold, and a year out, nothing has morphed into what I expected. Of course, I can't sit and uselessly blame the gods, I'm sure part of the problem is me, but how much?  "When I awoke today suddenly nothing happened But in my dreams I slew the dragon And down this beaten path And up this cobbled lane I'm walking in my own footsteps once again" How unfulfilled can one person be? How many times do I have to sit and quietly hold my jealousy in as I watch friends live their dreams? How often do I lose people close to me to their romantic partners? "And you say,"Just be here now Forget about the past Your mask is wearing thin" Let me throw one more dice I know that I can win I'm waiting for my real life to begin" After a long night filled with too many introductions, too many dissapointments, and too many bouts of jealousy I realized I was too weak to subject myself to a morning of torment. I wiped my eyes and pulled the covers over me. "And you say,"Be still, my love Open up your heart Let the light shine in" Don't you understand? I already have a plan I'm waiting for my real life to begin"

Funny how some things change, and some things really never do.

I wonder how it will be to look back at this place 7 years from now. Where I'll be, what I'll be doing, what I'll be thinking of...

Blueprints

{ via }

I'm the first to say that I love apartment living—small, simple spaces that are easy to maintain, don't allow you to indulge in clutter and excess, and come with supers that will fix things for you. Sometimes I even love it, and cocooning myself within its walls, a little too much.

But as much as I love apartments, I can't stop day dreaming about a proper house. Not a McMansion-type deal, but something quaint and cozy—maybe a stone cottage or a brick colonial—with land (but not too much). Enough to grow a flowering garden and a vegetable garden, enough to have plenty of blades of grass to wiggle my toes in and lay a blanket down on top of to gulp in some fresh air and ground myself. Enough that it wouldn't be out-of-the-realm-of-possibility that I'd need to spend a Saturday morning weeding and pruning and transplanting cuttings. My mom had long, tapered nails when I was growing up and I remember her never missing a chance to burrow them into the soil of our flower beds, even though she attracted mosquitoes like honey and had a million other things to do. I'd like that to be me someday.

I loved the house I grew up in in Virginia, but I'd want a different style for myself. At that time the format-du-decade was to have very distinct living spaces, so I grew up with a den (informal), living room (formal, guests only, and lots of breakables!), a dining room, a breakfast nook, a kitchen, a pantry, a laundry room, a downstairs bathroom, a sunroom, a deck, an over-the-garage-gigantic-room (that became my brother's when he was a teenager), a walk-in-closet on the upstairs hallway for my dad's collection of fancy suits), my bedroom, my bathroom, my mom's crafting/sewing room (which was previously my brother's bedroom), and my parents' master bedroom (with another walk-in-closet for my mom and a double-vanity bathroom with jacuzzi and separate shower). All sitting on almost an acre of land, on a cul-de-sac, that stretched into the woods, which made running around like hooligans exceptionally fun (and very safe—no traffic!).

But for me some day? Much as I fantasize about the Walker compound, all I really want are a handful of comfortably-sized bedrooms upstairs (or at least separated by a few steps up or a hallway for a one-level house), a proper entryway (obsessed with this—so many apartments in NYC open up directly into the living room which freaks me out, luckily ours has a separate entrance, and most houses do, too), a kitchen that opens into a great room with a fireplace and lots of cozy seating options. Some windowboxes. A porch or a deck. At least two bathrooms. And that's it.

Definitely no need for a formal dining room or living room for us, though. But, hardwood floors, a fireplace or two and high ceilings are a must. And, maybe a terrazzo-lined outdoor space with a brick oven. I wouldn't mind that at all.

The problem is that with everything so "who-the-heck-knows" with our future plans, we have no idea where this home will be. Just off the extensive subway line of Stockholm proper? In the hills above R's Sicilian hometown? In, or near, a charming, American university town like Providence, RI or Charlottesville, VA? Somewhere I haven't even dreamed of yet?

To be determined.

{ Simple...[via] }

{ ...Or slightly less so [via] }

Waking from a deep sleep

{ Our former Police Headquarters—Google the current one if you want to cry  |  1 April 2013 }

This winter seems to be dragging on a bit, despite the sporadic bouts of warmth, and with it, I've definitely been dragging a bit, too. My hibernation mode means I'm not feeling as sleek (cold air and high heaters wreck havoc on the skin!), strong (have been quite the lazybones when it comes to weights and things), or flexible (ditto on yoga) as I did just a few months ago.

The only thing that has been somewhat countering this yucky situation I find myself in are the loooooong walks I've been taking—and even those I had to stop for a while because they were too painful. Watery eyes from blustery winds + freezing temperatures = Frozen face. You may think this doesn't bode well for any future move to Sweden, but at least there I'll be expecting it and will be prepared. Here I'm still in denial about the meteorologic state of things.

Clearly I need a little seasonal freshening up, so recently I've been:

Comings and goings

{ Snowy Saturday in Central Park  |  Bow Bridge  |  9 February 2013 }

This weekend R and I helped our (now former!) houseguest move into his very own apartment—he's been going through a particularly rough patch of things, so he'd been sharing our home for the last five months as he tried to sort it out.

Yep. Five months.

But, E is super thoughtful and considerate, so it wasn't really an ordeal at all—but no matter how kind someone is, it's a pretty big adjustment (did I mention we live in a 600 square-foot apartment?), especially since the duration was up in the air and, harder for me to handle, E's situation isn't good.

The only thing that's changed now is that he has his own space and doesn't have to feel like he's taxing us, but let's be real, New York is either the best city in the world, or the worst, to be on a run of bad luck. It breaks my heart and overwhelms me with guilt and sadness that I haven't been able to do more to help.

+ + +

After an afternoon putting together IKEA furniture in E's new apartment on Sunday, R and I came home to a beautiful bottle of Australian Shiraz and a flourless chocolate cake—even though I'm still blue over E, a small marking-of-the-occasion was definitely in order.

+ + +

Yesterday I was off from work, so I fired up the moka, simmered a little pot of Ronnybrook milk on the stove with freshly-split cardamom pods, streamed the inky black espresso and the fluffy, spiced cream into my mug, and enjoyed my version of a caffe latte while watching morning TV and doing a little crocheting. Then I met a friend way uptown to finally try Marcus Samuelsson's Red Rooster for an indulgent meal of oddly-named, but delicious, "fried yard bird", Bloody Mary's and crab cakes with a curry aioli.

To take advantage of the gloriously bright, clear winter day, we then walked all the way from 125th Street through the North Woods of Central Park and down 70'ish blocks to take tea at Knave at Le Parker Meridien before I met R (who didn't have the day off from work).

After my friend headed off to her subway stop, R and I walked hand-in-hand to ours and hopped on a train downtown where our usual finally-back-home-shuffle was back on track: scurry into apartment, hang up coats/scarves/gloves/etc., shimmy into "comfies" (my word for pajama-y, lounge-y, cuddly clothes) and slippers and then shuffle around lighting pillar and taper candles before settling into our corners of the couch for a glass of wine and a chat.

I missed it.

These women

{ Granny squares—so addictive!  |  9 Feb 2013 }

Get any small group of women together, anywhere, and at some point they'll get around to discussing whether they're more of a Carrie or a Samantha. Or, a Rachel or a Monica.

I've had the discussion so many times that I can now rattle off that I'm as:


+ Fastidious, competitive, hyper-organized and obsessed with purple as Monica.

+ Enamored with bold, bright colors and statement jewelry as Samantha.

+ Driven, independent, pro-woman and bossy as Miranda...and Lynette.

+ Concerned with etiquette, propriety and lady-likeness as Charlotte...and Bree (with whom I sometimes share a penchant for old-fashioned ways).

+ Feisty, hot-tempered and admiring of lush fabric, exotic flowers, warm colors, dark wood and marble accents as Gabrielle

+ Fast-of-a-talker as Lorelai (and while I may not be an inn owner, it's always been a particular dream of mine).

+ Not at all like Rachel, Phoebe, Carrie or Susan.


Remember I mentioned dueling dualities before? I'm definitely full of them.

What about you?