Autumnal oil concoction

For the transition from Summer to Autumn, and before I need to turn completely to the spiced yumminess of my Winter Oil Concoction, how about one to ease us in to this frostier time of year?

The cool weather we're experiencing in NYC now means gloves and an easier subway ride for germophobes like me—so nice to not play the balancing game I do to avoid touching anything in the subway during the nasty, muggy hotness of the city from April to September.

I mixed up a batch of this Autumnal Oil last weekend, trying a few new blends together, and applied liberally before heading uptown to meet friends for brunch and a stroll to see one of the gal's new apartment on the Upper West Side. As we walked off our massive (and delicious) meal I kept getting a whiff of something mysterious and toasty, but I chalked it up to the lightly-spiced nip in the air. Imagine my delight when I realized it was actually me!

But before I share, I have to tell you how nice it is to rediscover something charming close to home. I always wrote the UWS of the city off, but meandering around its brick townhouses with honest-to-goodness front "yards" (okay, stoops), with gardens and harvest bounty displays, and peeking through windows to see fireplaces and chandeliers and bannisters wrapping around and around was so foreign and homey and intriguing, all at the same time. And now that I have a friend living on the top floor of one of those townhouses (complete with mahogany wood paneling, window boxes, a skylight and a view over the sidewalks where children are skipping), I'm sure I'll indulge in its neighborhoody goodness a bit more.

Autumnal oil concoction: lovely as an after-shower moisturizer, face wash, perfume, and/or massage oil
+    1 1/2 cups of coconut oil (or your favorite carrier oil)
+  20 drops vanilla for warmth, comfort and fresh-out-of-the-oven coziness
+  15 drops germ-fighting/thieves (lemon, clove, cinnamon, eucalyptus, rosemary) for spicy cleansing
+  10 drops orange for zest and freshness

Melt together and store in a glass container.

P.S. Previous oil concoctions: Winter and Lullaby
P.P.S. My essential oils are all from Plant Therapy—love their quality and value!
P.P.P.S. Why I use coconut oil and how I use it

Autumnal things: walks and more knits

I know it's been a bit quiet over here. Everything's okay—just working through a few things. But, I haven't been too busy to enjoy my favorite season of the year. I'm practically giddy with the weather right now. Well, the theoretical weather. The leaves have changed colors and fallen a bit in some places, but the temperatures keep fluctuating between mid-50's and low 70's. No matter, though, because the air smells fall'ish and the foliage looks it, so I'm happy!

Last week R and I explored the nether regions of Prospect Park in Brooklyn, a place I'd only skirted around the edges of after brunch in Caroll Gardens. Turns out, if you wend your way deeper toward the southeastern borders, there are wooded paths, lakes and ducks and swans swimming in formation.

Like the North Woods of Central Park, the Ravine section of Prospect Park has lots of opportunities for "off roading". Meandering through woodsy paths, hopping over fallen trees, kicking through piles of fiery leaves. Nothing makes me happier than stomping through the underbrush and taking huge gulps of air in before whoooshing them out. I'm like a child with a rain puddle.

I've also been reserving pockets of time for my ever-calming knitting habit. The last few things I've finished are another Purl Soho Pebble Tank (same as this one, but more flowy/loose-fitting), a few more knit goodies for "Dante", including a matching set of mittens and booties and another hat, plus a little coffee/cell phone doily from leftover yarn. I hate to have scraps hanging about, so I used the very last bits of coral cotton from my myriad of napkins to crochet something Downton Abbey'esque (albeit much more colorful) to rest my coffee cup and saucer or phone on while typing away on my computer at the dining table.

After all that crafting for the baby and selfish knitting for myself, R finally insisted that I make something for him again. He has a whole drawer full of socks, scarves, ties, and pocket squares, but now I'm (gulp) starting a full on sweater for him with a fancy collar and stitch pattern. The biggest, (he's 6'4"), thus scariest thing I've tried so far. I've already started and re-started a few times, so you might not see any pics of it until next year.

Hopefully will be back soon with some updates for you on that, though, and things in general. Until then, get outside (if you're in the same hemisphere) and breathe in some smoky, spicy fall air! I also highly recommend crunching through a few piles of leaves—it does wonders for a stormy soul.

The international travel essential we forgot

Funny story for you. Remember that time R became an American? And then we left the country 3 weeks later? And remember how long it takes to get a passport (hint: about 6 weeks)?

Yep, we had a bit of a situation on our hands.

After a massive freak out (right on the heels of that morning's sprint), I ended up staying late at the office to see how the heck we forgot to account for this timing snafu. What happened was, we were told of the oath ceremony date 3 weeks ahead, and sometime between getting that notification and the day of the oath, we booked our St. Lucia trip. What we hadn't considered is that when you get your Certificate of Naturalization, you surrender your Green Card. Meaning that the only proof R had of his new status was a piece of paper. A piece of paper that must be handed over when you apply for your passport. And in doing so, he'd be essentially proof-less of his citizenship. That plus the fact that once you become a citizen it is illegal to leave or enter the US on any other passport (making his Italian and Swedish ones irrelevant), meant he couldn't leave the country.

But, praise be that we live in NYC. The land where everything can be head: pierogies at 2AM, a wedding dress tailored in an afternoon, and, most relevant to us, a passport applied for, processed and returned in a day (!). After some Googling and Yelping I found a government agency called the NY Passport Agency. Now when you think of filing bureaucratic paperwork (as sadly, I know all too well), you immediately think of the DMV and the rampant lack of efficiency, right? Well, if Yelp was to be believed, apparently this office (located conveniently near us!) not only processed SAME DAY passports with a smile, they also only charged the ridiculously low sum of $60 for this service.

If you Google "expedited passport service" you'll find a whole slew of shady internet companies that (1) cost upwards of $300; (2) tack on more fees for overnight shipping; and (3) aren't really even done overnight anyway.

So of course I was skeptical, but I sent R over there with a printout of our confirmed travel itinerary, his certificate of naturalization, a passport photo and the passport application. He got there at 12:30PM, took a number, waited less than 10 minutes, handed over his documentation, and was told that since his trip wasn't within the next 7 days, they'd mail him his passport (if it was for a same day flight they would turn it around immediately and for a flight within 7 days it's ready the next day). Regardless of timing it all cost $60.

He came home and two days later a little Express Mail envelope followed him with his beautiful new American passport and his returned Certificate of Naturalization.

Incredible service.

Which, likewise, rendered us incredibly grateful, especially given our non-refundable vacation and my non-moveable birthday!

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.

Properly ushering autumn in

While some people may welcome Autumn with pagan rituals around a bonfire, I chose to wave my favorite season in with a leaf crunching walk and an afternoon's immersion into rich, opulent, amber-colored art. I convinced a friend she had to join me so we met at the northwest corner of Central Park for an autumnal afternoon. We started by tromping through the North Woods, making a few loops around dirt paths, scrambling up mini rock faces, and traipsing across bridges over wee waterfalls. There were loads of tiger-eye colored foliage on the ground which made for a pleasant crackly soundtrack as we walked, even though the temperature was more Indian Summer than October Fall.

By the time we emerged on the east side of the park at The Metropolitan Museum of Art we were a little out of breath and ready for the coolness of the museum's galleries. Every time I go I forget that there's absolutely no point checking out the exhibitions online beforehand, because no matter where you plan to go, you'll never get there. You just have to wander.

Which is how we came across a gorgeously recreated Venetian bedroom and loads of Egyptian gold. Refilling our tanks with seasonally-appropriate colored works of art? Check.

Then we made our way up to the museum's rooftop for the view and a chat in the sunshine, where another friend met us. People always rave about the Met's rooftop, but I found it to be just okay. Maybe because it became really hot up there and there was very little shade, and maybe because the current exhibition was a little underwhelming to me. The view, though, made up for it.

Around 5PM I went to meet R, who had just finished working, and we headed home together for a bit on foot before hopping on a bus. At that point I checked Moves, a new app on my phone that tracks your movement (walking, cycling, running or transport) with a really simple infographic and map. I had walked 10,971 steps, covering 5.9 miles in about three hours. No wonder my feet were hurting—and why as soon as I walked in the door I took a cool shower and poured myself a tumbler of my favorite gin with a splash of sparkling water and a squeeze of lemon. Excellent end to the day.

Sunday morning broke bright and gray and misty. Perfect strolling weather, made even more perfect because R finally had a weekend day off. We decided to go for a coffee walk through Tribeca to try a new'ish cafè—FIKA Tribeca Chocolate Factory. "Fika" means coffee break in Swedish and those Scandinavians are serious about their coffee and the sanctity of the twice-daily fika.

FIKA began in NYC with one post in Midtown and now there are five in the city, plus their products are sold at Whole Foods. Speaking of products, the Tribeca FIKA is one part cafè, one part a Willy Wonka-like chocolate factory that shares a glass wall with the dining side and a window onto the sidewalk so you get a nice view of chocolatey goodness being crafted.

It's also got that swanky, industrial vibe going on, with lots of light since they have a prime corner spot. But, all my happy feelings about the place and space evaporated when our bill came to $22 for two cappuccinos, a kanelbulle (cinnamon bun) for R and 4 teensy chocolate truffles for me.

To be fair though, it was all delicious.

I had a hankering for some more creamy, cappuccino goodness, but didn't feel like another at FIKA, so we took a walk deeper into Tribeca to Laughing Man Coffee & Tea—a teensy to-go spot with a cozy vibe, a nice manifesto at the door, and handsome pictures of Hugh Jackman on a coffee plantation tucked onto the retail shelves. He started the place—which now has three locations downtown—so it's fitting. While I did like the clean white, unbranded to-go cup, my coffee wasn't as good as at FIKA (not quite creamy and rich enough). But, it was still nice to tote along and sip while we walked home.

We had an hour at home to relax before one of R's friends picked us up and took us to the Polish section of Greenpoint in Brooklyn to join him and his daughter at Amber Steakhouse. Amber is R's man-date restaurant of choice. He and his friends meet there often for carnivorous, wine-fueled and vodka-finished extravaganzas before going for espresso and a rum baba at Fortunato Brothers—it's their little tradition, so it's quite the thing that I finally got to inhabit their manly space.

Amber had some more of that opulent (though muted), dark-wood, Eastern European autumnal tones going on, perfectly fitting into the weekend's theme. We shared a bottle of cabernet sauvignon, and I tucked into a steak tartare to start and then a bone-in rib eye with a side of broccoli and mixed mushrooms. It was so intense and delicious and I had to take a walk around the block afterwards while the men ordered another bottle of wine.

Of course I still had room for an affogato at Fortunato's with scoops of bacio and nocciola gelato.

Seems like a fitting end to the weekend, no? I thought so, too, until we were coming over the Williamsburg bridge and the sky exploded into color. The annual Diwali festival at the South Street Seaport was just wrapping up with a firework show and we literally had a front-row seat to a 20-minute spectacle. I've never seen fireworks that colorful, intense, and filled with purply-gold, peacock-feathery wonder (better even than any July 4th display I can remember!) Hand it to the vibrant-hue obsessed Indians to have the most fantastic fireworks. And to see it all against the backdrop of the East River bridges and the antique ships docked in the port? Incredible.

{ via, but lightly edited by me }

Welcome back, Fall. I've missed 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.

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.

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.

Shut eye

{  This sense of peacefulness is completely foreign to me right now  }

All these lovely ideas for a calming evening that will lead to a restful night's sleep are completely useless when you have a team of jackhammerers jackhammering outside your building every night (morning?) from 2AM to 6AM. Prime REM sleep cycle time = completely ruined.

I haven't slept properly in a week.

Which translates to: I've been in a foul mood for a week.

Not only is my mood foul, but my eyes are red, my skin is a little ragged, and my sense of humor is completely gone.

Because I happen to live in what has historically been a commercial area, it's a big no-no for construction work to happen during the day. Apparently the world will end if fancypants investment bankers' thoughts are disrupted (was there a lot of construction work happening in 2007-08, then?). Once they're all in their lush Tribeca lofts or expansive Upper East Side penthouses or off in bucolic Scarsdale for a peaceful night's rest, the WHISTLING construction workers come out to play in the moonlight (moonlight of course being INDUSTRIAL STRENGTH SPOTLIGHTS).

And we, the people who inhabit former bank buildings, are treated to a nightly symphony of pneumatic drilling, bricks dropping, pipes clanking, and insults being tossed handily about. Being smushed amidst other high rises, the noises echo, too. A never-ending coda.

Now that the weekend is here I was looking forward to sleeping in today, but ho, how naive! Since the bankers aren't here on a Saturday, the construction workers are—and they have been since 5AM!

Here's hoping they take an early lunch break...or that the skies open up to a deluge.

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.

Almost an American

{  Our coffee table reading material for the last month  |  Civics Lessons for the U.S. Naturalization Test  }

Last we heard, R was waiting to jump through his final hoop for American citizenship: an oral English exam, a written English exam, plus a test on American history, politics and laws. I was considerably more angsty about the whole affair than he was (naturally), and gladly quizzed him from the booklet above whenever he asked.

And then one morning last week, we walked up to 26 Federal Plaza, although perhaps "sweltered our way up" is more accurate, and stood in line for the security checkpoint. At which point I was told the romantic Christmas gift Roberto gave me a few years ago was not allowed inside. The heavily-weaponed guard told me I could either "surrender" my mace (which means I won't get it back), or I could put it somewhere for safekeeping until after our appointment. No way was I going to walk all the way back home, so I ran out and hid it under the rose bushes out front—and when some women looked at me all squirrelly, I had to explain what I was doing so they wouldn't set security on me.

Once all that was handled, we headed up to the 7th floor and waited for R to be called. I'll admit, I was a little peeved that I wasn't required to go in with R. After all, he's getting citizenship through marriage to me, and I've never met with an immigration officer! He's been interviewed at the US Consulate in Naples before immigrating to the U.S., and a few times here in NYC, but I've never had to join him for one of those joint interviews that cover questions like, "What side of the bed does she sleep on? How does she take her coffee?", etc.

{  U.S. Citizenship & Immigration Services  |  26 Federal Plaza  |  Manhattan  }

Which means that when R was called in, he was asked to come alone (carrying the hefty folder of documents proving our legitimate marriage and cohabitation that I put together). He was gone for just under an hour and the exam ended up being fairly easy—R already speaks near fluent English (that he picked up over the years, he never really studied) and he can write well enough when necessary (because he never studied, sometimes he still writes phonetically), so that just left 100 possible questions like, why did the colonists come to America? Who wrote the Federalist Papers (this is one of the ones I didn't know)? Who's your representative (and, here's another I didn't know)?

Since the American history test was administered orally, that counted as the oral English exam. You had to answer 6 out of 10 correctly, and as R got his first 6 right (yay!), they stopped there. Then he was asked to write down a few sentences in response to a prompt for the written oral exam and that was it!

He walked out carrying a sheet of paper saying his request for citizenship was being recommended for approval and that if it goes through (and no reason it shouldn't), we would receive a letter in the next few weeks with the date and time of his oath-taking ceremony!

Thisclose to being 1 down, 2 to go!

Feasting at Eleven Madison Park

There are a couple of restaurants in New York that are just known.

Known for their verging-on-absurd tasting menus, the impeccable service, the crazy chefs, the gorgeous dècor and the impossible-to-get reservations. A few that come to mind are Per Se, Daniel, Megu, Masa, Alain Ducasse, Le Bernardin and Gramercy Tavern.

And of course, Eleven Madison Park.

{  Kitchen tour before our molecular cocktail  }

Where I was most fortunately invited as a guest last week.

Thank goodness, too, because the restaurant only serves a 16-course tasting menu (both at lunch and at dinner), offered at $195 per person.

I had heard of the restaurant because it's so highly-ranked (one of the top restaurants in the world and the Swiss chef, Daniel Humm, has received a James Beard award, etc.) and it's apparently quite innovative (molecular gastronomy and all that).

Now, I didn't know I was invited until the day of, which is probably good because otherwise I would have been so hyped up, but instead, I just "prepared" by reading a few Yelp reviews that got me really excited because they all seemed to talk about the same good things: incredibly attentive service, a fun and surprising presentation with dishes that are actually recognizable and appetizing (not always the case, apparently, in these molecular gastronomy situations), and an overwhelming concurrence that it was completely worth it. The last is especially shocking because, let's be honest, that price tag (before tax and tip!) is quite steep.

As for my own review, post-meal?

Popping by the Swedish Consulate

{  Consulate General of Sweden in New York  }

In the ongoing, but hopefully rapidly winding down saga that has become my bureaucratic life, I visited the Swedish Consulate earlier this week for my residency interview. What I thought would be a pretty cut-and-dried experience (husband was born a Swedish citizen, wife has the right to live and work there via marriage to said-husband, so, we just fill out some forms, write a check and we're done—right?) turned out to be a bit convoluted—at least initially.

I submitted my request online at the beginning of the year, which called for filled-out forms, proof of marriage and our life together and payment, naturally. Since the Swedes wanted to know where we'd live when we arrive if they granted my residency request, they required that my mother-in-law fill out paperwork, too, confirming that she would let us stay with her until we get set up.

But after she filled out her forms, we were then asked by the Immigration Board in Sweden to confirm where we live and work in Sweden today (and to provide proof of such), despite the (obvious) issue that we currently live in NYC and are in fact asking permission for me to live and work in Sweden. How can we give proof if we haven't received permission for me to do just that? Why would I rent an apartment or buy a plane ticket without the legal documents necessary?

Silly Swedes.

So after some more strongly-worded emails, things seemed to be sifting out and I finally received notice two weeks ago for my interview this week (it would have been even sooner if I was in town). Oddly enough, the Swedish Consulate here seemed to be moving ahead, while the Migration Board in Sweden was still asking for more documentation of our non-existing life in Sweden (foolish).

I was told to come alone and bring the original documents I had submitted online (marriage certificate, passport, bank statements, tax filings, apartment lease, etc.) to meet with them. So I armed myself with all of that, and donned some cerulean blue pants and a cornflower yellow silk top (I'm a big believer in wearing bright colors anyway, but a subtle nod to the Swedish flag via my outfit was definitely on my mind, too) and headed up to Park Avenue in midtown.

The Swedish Consulate is not nearly as charming and lovely as the townhouse completely committed to the Italian Consulate—instead, the Swedish Consulate is housed in a huge edifice and takes up a few floors—but on the welcoming side, they had a plate of fresh kanelbullar waiting for visitors and I was in and out in 20 minutes!

My interviewer (who shares the same name as my mother-in-law, which I took as a good sign) asked me super straightforward questions, like my husband's name and date of birth, where we were married, did I marry of my own free will, why do I want to live in Sweden and what type of work I do and that was it!

Now I wait...again—although the woman did tell me that she saw no reason why the wait would be long, so fingers crossed!

Coffee mornings at Gasoline Alley

{ Coffee shop mornings via }

Now that I'm back, I take my weekday morning coffee at a bar in Noho, instead of at the table in a breakfast nook overlooking a horse paddock. Have to say, last week's view was pretty damn good, but this week's isn't so bad, either.

A guy named Patrick (no, seriously, @aguynamedpatrick) recently shared an Instagram video (click the 'via' link above) that perfectly captures (one of) my local coffee spot(s) (the other being La Colombe). Go watch it real quick.

So breezy, airy and delightful, no? Plus, a cute couple kissing out front just makes it perfect.

Gasoline Alley is run by Australians and they just serve basic coffee drinks (no venti-caramel-mocha nonsense) and a few pastries. And of course homemade, hefty-sized kombucha ($5) which is delightful, especially on IF days. My usual order is a cappuccino ($4), which is one of the best I've found in the city. Perfectly frothed with pillowy milk that lends a lushness and a slight sweetness to the cup, and espresso that's not too bitter.

They also used to serve Brooklyn's Mast Brothers Chocolate at the best prices I've ever seen, but they don't keep them in stock anymore, unfortunately.

If that isn't enough to convince you of the awesomeness of this place, and persuade you to stop by if you're nearby—look, there's a bike hanging from the ceiling for no conceivable reason!

Tacos and tortillas and tequila, oh my!

{ Delicious Mexican dishes from Fonda Manhattan  |  25 June 2013 }

My heart beats for tacos. Soft, pillowy masa rounds filled with slow-cooked pork, topped with pickled onions, dotted (let's be honest: drenched) with fiery salsa and washed down with a potent tequila.

I've always felt this way about Mexican food, but our little jaunt down to the Yucatán Peninsula earlier this summer, plus non-stop taco (and taco-like) eating, confirms that yes: I am wholly consumed by the thought of my last taco and where my next will be coming from.

That's where my dear Fonda comes in. I first went to the restaurant with a few girlfriends a year or so ago. It was the end of summer and already a little fall'ish outside—the food was delicious and memorable, but there's just something about tucking into a table full of tacos and tortillas when the weather outside is sultry. After refreshing my memory of its goodness at the Seaport Smorgasbar, I had to take R (whose eyes grew wide as he took his first bite from the kiosk) for a proper dinner date.

So in the midst of the heatwave this week we booked a table at Fonda. The morning of I made sure to wash my hair and wind it up while wet in braids and buns (my portable A/C), to put on a blowsy brightly-colored top (I like to echo my surroundings), and pulled up the menu on my computer (to periodically re-tabulate my ordering strategy throughout the day).

And, my goodness, when our reservation time finally rolled around (and I swam through the mugginess of Soho and the East Village to arrive in Alphabet City) it didn't disappoint. The only thing I would do differently the next time we go (because, yes, there will most certainly be a next time), is not to make the rookie mistake of sitting at a table a few feet to the left of the bar, instead of right at it, because the menu served over there offers most of the same dishes that we ordered, but at "Happy Hour" (which lasts the whole evening!) prices. Noted: cocktails and apps at the bar, entrees and tequila at a table.

A smorgasbord of Smorgasburg

{ The East River Ferry from Wall St./Pier 11 to Williamsburg  |  June 2013 }

I've now experienced all three of the Smorgasburg food outposts (have yet to visit either of the Brooklyn Flea locations), and I can say that the South Street Seaport Smorgasbar is my favorite. And no, I'm not giving it more weight because it's in my neighborhood (although, that's obviously a nice perk!), but it's just so much more manageable. Crowds and I do not mix, as you may remember.

I visited the Dumbo Smorgasburg way back in October last year, at the tail end of our Hurricane Sandy experience. After a week of no electricity, water or heat, we gratefully took my boss up on her very generous offer to use her family's apartment in Dumbo for the day while they were upstate so we could clean up, warm up, charge up and generally feel like humans again. Part of that included a fall'ish walk around the neighborhood and stumbling across the Sunday Smorgasburg in Dumbo's gorgeous Tobacco Warehouse. It was so lovely and tranquil, until I realized we were only in one section of it, and I had already purchased some nibblies before coming upon another whole area with (even tastier) options! A little whining ensued.

As for the original Williamsburg Smorgasburg, I finally experienced it a few weeks ago when friends met me downtown for $20 manicure/pedicures in ridiculously comfortable massage chairs (Bless you, New York), before hopping on the East River Ferry up the water to Williamsburg. The New York Water Taxi (the jaunty yellow boat in front of ours in the picture above) runs a similar line, including the free trip to IKEA in Red Hook. But, the East River Ferry is the only one (that I know of) that will take you right from my backyard to Smorgasburg's for $4.

We arrived pretty quickly (although we were in no rush—any time you get to be on a boat in the NY Harbor in good weather, it's time to savor). But, I got a little nervous / cranky when I saw the crowds from the boat's deck. We decided to do one fast loop so we had an idea of all the options available (lesson learned from the Dumbo Smorgasburg) and then split up to forage for our lunches.

I chose Palenque Colombian Food (can't get enough of arepas and tacos this summer!) for my lunch, followed by dessert from Alchemy Creamery. My $8 pork arepa was tasty, if a little dry, and my $6 teensy cup of vegan, gluten-free dark chocolate sea-salt chai "potion" from Alchemy was also delicious, but the price tag (especially for the size) took away from my ice cream euphoria. I'm generally more "relaxed" about food options at festivals, but both did leave me a little miffed (note: Fonda's tacos at Smorgasbar were delicious! I've been to the brick-and-mortar restaurant a few times, and the dishes we had at the Seaport were just as good.).

It was also not the prettiest of locations to me—lots of open space, but not very many shady/sitting areas. Luckily I bought my picnic blanket and there was a sparse little sapling throwing off a few feet of shadow, so we parked ourselves under it (a bit too close to the porta potties for my liking), and made the best of it.

In the end we did enjoy ourselves, I mean, spicy food + good friends + a beautiful day is pretty much all you need, right? But, perhaps the nicest bit of the whole Williamsburg jaunt was a walk around the block after we finished our lunch and leisurely chat and happening upon Fabbrica, the prettiest little Italian lounge / restaurant / market occupying the corner space of a chic block. Think huge lofty windows and French doors opening to the sidewalk, black interiors brightened up by pretty fixtures and antique mirrors that reflected light every which way. We sat at the bar in the direct path of the breeze for a refreshing tonic before heading home.

I'll consider this a win for Williamsburg (although, thanks be that the Seaport Smorgasbar is only a few blocks away until October!).

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?).

An Italian intermezzo

{  Consulate Generale d'Italia a New York  |  18 June 2013  }

After some depressing revelations plus a fluster-filled trip to the bank last week, I'm happy to say the long-awaited, much-feared morning of my appointment at the Italian consulate has come and gone and I am done. D.O.N.E.

First though, you need to hear about that bank trip.

Despite not having a key document (at least the technically not-expired-one) yet, we decided to just act like we had everything we needed and go to our appointment at the Consulate Generale d'Italia a New York this morning as planned. To do that though, we needed to complete a wire transfer to the Minister of the Interior in Italy for my application.

So last week I went to my bank with instructions (printed from the Italian Consulate's website) and hand them over to the banker to get the money on its way. She informs me that the information I've given her is missing an address, which is required for foreign transfers. Luckily I had 10 minutes before the Italian Consulate's phone line closed (they're only open for 90 minutes a day—obviously), so I quickly call and explain the situation and asked for the address to include in the transfer.

The woman says:

"No one has ever needed an address, so I do not know why you decide to need one."

I relay this to the banker, who says she absolutely cannot send money abroad without an address, to which the Italian woman says in all seriousness:

"All the information you need is on the website, I cannot offer you any more advice than I already have, so if your banker requires something extra, I suggest you to change banks."

Awesome. So helpful. Mille grazie.

After hanging up I did some furious Googling while the banker taps her pen on the desk and found the address on the Consulate General d'Italia a Melbourne's website—thank you, Australia!—so I was able to leave with my receipt showing that yes, I did send a few hundred dollars to the Minister of the Interior in Italy for my citizenship request.

This morning I woke up completely nauseous, as I was 100% sure they'd deny my documents—either the one that was older than three months or some other one for a silly reason. Once we arrived at the Consulate (see the picture I snapped this morning, isn't it pretty?) with all my newly re-issued, doubly-paid-for, generously notarized and Apostille'd documents + stack of filled-out forms + hefty wire transfer receipt, I calmed down a teensy bit. Especially after I realized it's almost exactly 8 years to the day from when I first met R, so there's got to be some luck in that, right?

Turns out our case reviewer was the same woman who I spoke with on the phone! While I was a little annoyed with her last week, she turned out to be quite sweet and understanding. And, except for one tiny little snafu (the Italian document we have that certifies our marriage is registered in R's city hall is only a "certificate" instead of the long-form registration), all our documents were accepted!

We did have to pay another sizable fee (which was not mentioned anywhere else, of course), but we left with the promise that we'd receive a case number via email in a day or two and that the Italian government says the maximum waiting period to receive citizenship is 730 days (two years)! So, I have no idea why the woman we met last week is still waiting, but I'm holding them to their promise!

Technically we still have to get the longer (proper) form certifying our marriage is registered in Italy to have as backup just in case our abbreviated version doesn't suffice, but I'm just going to go ahead and declare that I am done! DONE!

If we move, it's easy enough to transfer our case (so they say), so sometime in the next two years, regardless of where I am, I'll get an email that asks me to come to my local consulate to swear my oath to Italy.

Best part of all this? No exam! (You actually don't even have to speak Italian, which put our case reviewer into a huff when she told us, and understandably so). For American citizenship, you have to pass a written and oral English exam AND take a test on American history, politics and laws! (I may have forgotten to mention, but we got a letter last week that R's American citizenship interview and exam is scheduled for next month, so he's studying and things are just rolling along nicely now!).

So, there you have it, my long-winded story to get to this point and now I shall make like an Italian and enjoy my much-deserved intermezzo. Whew!