the process - a post for february 22, 2008

They say no two snowflakes are the same. We can't ever prove that this is true. The melted snowflakes of yore and the incalculable googolplexes of snowflakes of the future make the statement a mere theory despite the scientific probability. What never errs is the process by which snowflakes, beautiful branched bits of ice, are made. The physical reaction of water to cold, the crystalline structure of molecules and their atoms. It's microscopic and its product is ephemeral. This I know. Today, I went to play amongst the 6-pointed stars before their inevitable disappearance. Carpe snowflake.

I had watched the snow from my room all morning. I lollygagged in my bed, my only movement to turn over now and again. By the time I'd put on my only boots of the leather cowboy variety, the city had warmed up and the snow had a touch of slush. The trees were white with ice, the underside of branches dark with moisture. I walked to our little corner of Central Park armed with two cameras and a bit of ribbon. Mr. Kansas had given me an idea. After a 20 year hiatus, I picked a spot and gathered snow in my mittens and made a snowman.

I'm no sculptor. I couldn't visualize the snowman in my mind's eye before I got the media in my hands. For me, the process was more important than the the product. I got out of bed to play in the snow. How awesome is my life? I watched my breath escape in white steam from my lips. I packed snow into a round and set it up for my photo shoot. As the snowman evolved, so did my love for creating art. I had forgotten what it felt like to make something unique out of something so simple.

During this process, a group of children passed the "set" on their way home from school. A little girl, forward and probably 8 years old, called out to me from the path and asked if I had made this snowman. I replied yes. She said it was a good snowman. They were accompanied by a woman who produced a camera and asked if she could also take a photo of it. Some of the kids took great interest in it. Some hung back and left their footprints in the unmarred blanket of white. A boy asked me if I still wanted the snowman. I told him I wasn't done photographing it. I couldn't tell if he wanted to take it home and freeze it or exterminate it with his boot. You know how boys are.

I stood back for a moment and watched the interested children lay on the ground next to the snowman to admire it. I asked the kids if they wanted to have their picture taken which they did. I asked the woman for permission which she granted. Two photos later, they continued on their way and the boy with the boots asked again if I still wanted the snowman. I told him I did. This creation of mine had made friends on a grey day in the park. It was worth photographing further.

For art, I will suffer many indignities. Wearing brown cowboy boots with grey fleece track pants, for example. Clomping around looking for suitable twig arms and digging through the detritus of fallen leaves blown up on the steps of a public park with my bare hands are not things I normally engage in. At one point, as I crouched to get a good shot while concurrently trying to keep my digital SLR dry, I slipped and fell, belly-first into the snow. I laughed out loud and then realized that I was actually at the perfect height for a great shot. By the end of the photo shoot, I had dirt and bark under my fingernails, a wet camera lens and soaking, soggy fleece pants which grew increasingly wet as I walked home and the hems dragged in the slush. But I have this to share with you, my friends who read my blog and whoever else has stumbled across it. Forget the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue, these will make you smile:

From my bedroom window. I watched the man plow the sidewalk for a good long time.

Walking east on 110th Street also known as Cathedral Parkway.

Ah yes, there it is.

A close-up of the nascent snowman.

Speechless.

A pleasant man of snow in a scarf made of ribbon from La Maison du Chocolat where, were he ever to visit, he would cease to exist. Now the ribbon seems less like a scarf and more like a noose. Twisted.

The Friends of Small Snowmen Coalition. Look at that rascal on the right. He's the one who kept asking me if I was done with the snowman.

A candid with Frawley Circle in the background.

My favorite shot.

My pant leg after I fell the first time.

The snowman looks away.

Both of my pant legs after I fell the second time.

While I was down, I took advantage of the angle. But it was time to go home.

The door to our apartment building with layers of imagery--the foyer, the buildings across the street, me--provided by glass and light, not Photoshop and a mouse.

And now, for the food report. I was late for dinner due to a change in service on the subway of which I was unaware until I'd already wasted time waiting for a canceled train. I arrived at Joe Shanghai in Chinatown to meet my friends for soup dumplings. They'd already finished and I was starving and ate the leftovers with a speed that should have been embarrassing. The food was delicious. Sauteed ong choy, sticky rice flour discs with pork and onion, pork soup dumplings in a thin, stretchy wrapper. Nearby, we stopped for steamed pork buns from the Mei Lai Wah Coffeeshop where I introduced myself to Mr. Lam, one of the servers who reminds me of a pancake. My friend bought me a ton of buns and we headed back to their apartment on the LES where we chatted and played with Martin (short for Martini), the sweet labradoodle who was visiting.

Today was a day I appreciated because I knew that I couldn't predict when it would snow again this winter. It was a chance to take advantage of circumstances. To seize a completely unique moment that would never happen again. Like the same snowflake twice. And though it may not be a fact, it is a theory that inspires me to make the most of time and snow.

day on

The irony of living with 3 employed persons is that I'm often the only one who knows what the date is. It must be my internal clock. I know the day of the week, the date and the time. I'm atomically accurate.

Karen has one weekday off that changes every 7 days. As a pastry cook the rest of the week, on this wholly decompartmentalized day, she just wants to be a normal human being who sees the sun and walks into stores during normal business hours. She doesn't want to plan or navigate or think. Her day off becomes my day on because it is her day of leisure. It's my day to schedule crucial meetings with clothing we don't need and bakeries with cakes of laughable but delicious simplicity.

A few weeks ago, Karen slept while I went for a long run on 110th Street, along the north edge of Central Park. I needed stamps so I headed to the post office in Spanish Harlem. Along this route, I passed carnecerias and panaderias filled with the hungry people who prefer their rice orange with cumin. The day was bright and sharp. When I got home, I was sunburnt which reminded me of the sun's power even at this latitude. My skin didn't register its heat but its rays made me look cheerful. As if I needed the help! Today was someone's day off and I would appreciate the morning promise as if it were my own.

Our first stop was the Korin shop downtown where a knife would be purchased. Dramatically lit with steel blades of noblesse displayed in glass cases along the walls and on islands in the middle, the store is serene. And deadly. They don't have silk screen printed art for decoration. They use swords.

Conveniently, Korin is downtown near the bargain fashion mecca Century 21 which is one of my favorite stores here. I purchased a pair of boots and we met up with April, meeting-taker/ laptop dragger. The poor girl was weighed down like a mule but in office clothing. We took a train to her hotel The London where we dined on small plates at the London Bar. Gordon Ramsay's kitchen may be hellish but the pale aqua green upholstery of the space was chic and cool. Mirrors reflected the afterwork crowd of women in cowl neck sweaters and pencil skirts. Seemingly oversized men huddled around tiny tables with tiny dishes and large drinks. The three of us had a slew of snacks... hamachi tartare rolled in cucumber which was mediocre and fishy tasting, wonderful cubes formed of braised short rib topped with fat, sliders with an extra side of fries (the frozen kind but still acceptable), Caesar salad with real anchovies and a pleasant charcuterie plate.

We saw April off as she prepared for the next leg of her trip which meant Vancouver to be on set with one of the corporate partners on a film. Before she left us, her enthusiasm and focus was inspiring. I've known her for a long time and was never more proud to call her my friend.

Before going home, Karen and I walked two blocks to Kate's Paperie where we stood agape at the intricate and expensive wedding invitations that so many exuberant brides must decide on. The books of samples were heavy with proofs for envelopes and card stocks so carefully designed that you'd never want to throw the announcement away. Oh but wait, YOU WILL. Quite possibly the greatest waste of money and time because the hours spent choosing the right one and then the cost associated with printing up the specifics will both go into the wire mesh garbage can in the guest bedroom eventually. Our smug disbelief evaporated when we stumbled across what may be the greatest piece of correspondence stationery we'd ever seen - a box of fine paper notecards in a classy shade of off-white but not with a monogram or a graceful flower, no, that'd be pedestrian. Instead, in raised lavender ink, two sumo wrestlers locked in battle. If the box of 6 cards wasn't $30, we would have still laughed at whatever price it was. Even though the cards are awesome.

At home, we sat complacently on Ed's leather couches and watched a bit of bad reality on the ALT. Despite the variegated ways that Rock of Love (I think that's what it's called) offends me, the way it gets me the most is that it reminds me of how skinny women inaccurately represent the general population and how no matter the intelligence or willingness to sleep with him, the dipshit with the long hair and bandana wouldn't ever give a "backstage pass" to the girl in the turtleneck and khaki pants. I have successfully avoided a lot of trashy TV in my day. In New York, this is the first time I've ever felt so appalled at the lows of human transparency. And I'm from LA!

On another of Karen's days off, I ran, and I use the term loosely, 30 blocks to Zabar's with a canvas tote rolled up in the pouch of my hoodie. I bought lox and bagels and orange juice again and took the train home what with a heavy bag of groceries on my arm. Canvas shopping bag, public transportation...I was feeling very green.

We spent most of the day shopping at the many discount clothing stores here that put the ones in California to shame. Karen exclaimed that she never realized I was such a bargain hunter. For a period of about 6 months during the ghastly I'm-about-to-turn/ I've-just-turned 30 phase, I bought every and any retail item I wanted. Now, in the cluttered aisles of Daffy's I give many hours of my time to make up for the shoes and dresses I've so capriciously purchased at full price. Oh, my father would be proud. Sort of. He still wouldn't understand the coup of finding a $650 blazer for $200. Even though it's made in Italy. And it fits me perfectly. And I'm spoiled.

That particular afternoon included a stop at NYC Cake and Baking where I found Callebaut chocolate chips for cookies that I wanted to make for a dinner party. I've truly fallen in love with the smooth, Belgian/French confection that has a hint of coffee mingled with the cocoa. I don't know that I will ever bake with another chocolate again. Other people swear by Valrhona or Scharffen Berger... but me, my heart belongs to Callebaut.

The store is a smaller, cramped, baking version of Surfas in Culver City, another one of my favorite stores. Shelves were crammed with cake molds and styrofoam rounds for displays. But Karen and I hit the jackpot when we discovered scads and scads of silver and gold dragees which are illegal in California. Small round sugar centers coated in real silver which leave them looking like ball bearings that make cakes look darling. So what if you eat 10 pounds of them they'll give you silver poisoning. Who's going to eat 10 pounds, you big bad FDA? We will be back for supplies as both of our sisters are getting married in the next year and have bestowed Karen with the honor (or horror) of creating their wedding cakes. I look forward to being her first mate in the sea of bridal decision making hell.

That evening, we had dinner at the new Blue Ribbon Sushi Bar and Grill which is near Columbus Circle. We asked to sit at the sushi bar where we admired the graceful movements of hands and knives over smooth wood.

We started with a tofu salad followed by a few bites of sushi and sashimi which made me want to run back under the stern gaze of Mr. Nozawa on Ventura Blvd. I miss that man more than some of my friends. My friends can't cut fish for beans. After sushi, we had a few chunks of grilled hamachi collar which was salty but fine. Then, a new friend Chef David who oversees the grill in the kitchen sent out a scallop dish which really came together nicely. A scallop shell (think of the eponymous gas station) filled with sauteed mushrooms, tender scallops topped with smelt roe mixed with a touch of mayonnaise. It was a supple spoonful of delicious subtlety. Before we got our "fried chicken" which we ended up canceling, David also sent us a beef and bone marrow skewer, sort of like takoyaki but without the octopus. This was by far the most incredible dish of the night. The charm of beef flavor sprang out with the first bite with bone marrow oozing out all around. The ratio of beef with other ingredients yielded a fantastic spring and soft chew. It erased the mediocre sushi and the service which was friendly but somewhat uninformed as evidenced by the waiters suggestion of having a light dessert like creme brulee. We ordered it because we wanted a heavy dessert and it was good, flavored with roasted green tea powder which made it a touch gritty a times but, we did manage to eat most of it. Light, my ass.

Karen says that she just lets me lead her around on her days off because I know where I'm going whether by train or bus or foot. She tells me that it's great that she doesn't have to think. I've since passed on to her a small pocket map of the city I don't use very much. Which is ironic because I am still jobless and I don't know where I'm going but I certainly have a lot of fun finding my way. I never feel lost.

calling a spade a spade

Maybe it's not a bad idea for every restaurant to name itself according to its menu. Though it would drastically redefine the Zagat guide, it would steer us clear of the not-so-delicious. No more witty puns like "eat. on sunset". No more names like "Joe's". Just call a spade a spade. A place that sells really awesome spaghetti should be named as such.

I was lucky enough to be invited to dinner this evening at the aptly named Quality Meats. The bar area was crowded with business types meeting for drinks after work. I rushed through because I was late meeting Mr. Z and his friends from SNL - a few members of the technical team who were funny and incredibly smart. What you don't see when you watch the show is the faces of the people responsible for the fact that you are indeed ACTUALLY watching the show. The HD cameras take Tina Fey and produce the pixels that are compressed in a room (which I stood in and which was totally Mission Impossibly) that are sent to your local affiliate which are sent through a tunnel with little Alsatian gnomes who put them on your television. That's how they explained it to me.

In a dark booth under the stairs, next to a room with creepy meat hook chandeliers we were fed charcuterie plates and bottles of Robert Mondavi and Clean Slate wine. I ordered the crabcake to start followed by an aged sirloin cooked rare. I had originally ordered a rib steak but the waitress told me that it was too fatty to be cooked to a pleasant rare which meant with "a cool red center." Too fatty? I grit my teeth but allowed her to bring me the sirloin. The crabcake was essentially a mountain of crab with tangy bits of dill and mayonnaise topped with a crunchy bruleed breading. The sirloin was a bit tough but had good flavor and a singed bone which I gnawed on the next day.

For dessert, they brought us a selection on the house but I audaciously ordered two scoops - an orange creamsicle sorbet and a cookies and cream. Both of them were amazing. I don't say this often nor am I a huge ice cream fan especially as for dessert. The orange creamsicle was citrusy and creamy placed atop wedges of orange. The cookies were not just the standard bits of crumbled Oreo but also a homemade chocolate chip cookie resulting in a milky sweet chewy delight. I'd go back just for the desserts.

We stopped by Gilt at the Palace Hotel for a drink before heading home. More alcohol for the adults, water for me. The room was painted in gold and has been landmarked so the interior contains the original ornate carvings. To modernize the room, a god-awful wall was constructed which looks a little like a segmented igloo with violet lighting shining up from the floor. I turned away from it because it made me angry. As an artist. As a person. As a person with eyeballs.

I saw the boys again live on Saturday night when I tagged along with Mr. Z to the first post-strike taping. I was met in the lobby of 30 Rock and hung out in the hallway behind the set before the show started. I've always watched the show through its many iterations of cast. An institution with a rich history headed by a brilliant Canadian and I was honored to be on the very floor where the magic has and continues to happen. It's not hilarious all the time but, that night sitting in the risers above the set, I'd have to say, during one particular skit, I laughed harder than I had in a year. Later that night at the afterparty, I told Bill Hader how much I enjoyed it. What a sweet, gentle person he was. Gracious and humble. Like THIS brilliant Canadian. I'm just calling myself a spade.

quality not quantity

The comfort I get from this apartment is unparalleled by any other place I've lived. Never have I felt more peaceful in a home than here, in the late morning after the roommates have all trudged to their jobs. Walk into the living room and you will find me sitting in the corner between two windows with just the sunlight, the sound of children playing outside and my laptop. It's not a big room nor a big apartment. But, it's quality not quantity.

I leave it occasionally. Yesterday I left to finally retrieve my Time magazine from Isaac at Pennyfeathers Cafe. He is a pleasant man with a childlike innocence that sparkles when he greets the guests. I arrived at the end of his shift and after he handed me the magazine, he informed me he was going to go home with a grilled cheese sandwich and head straight to bed. He would, however, love to have dinner with me on one of his days off. I agreed to it immediately. This would be my first dinner proposition of the day. Red letter!

I sat in "my" corner table after Isaac left and sipped a cranberry juice he comped me. I tried to focus on Heart of Darkness but had difficulty with the thick, archaic language and colloquialisms. The soft sponge of a brain required to bend to literary classics is no longer contained within me. I like my books short and modern. But Heart of Darkness is only a hundred or so pages you say, you erudite knaves. 'Tis. 'Tis approximately one hundred dense pages of what I endeavor to understand is a story told almost like a stream of consciousness by an old man on a boat. I'm supposed to watch Apocalypse Now too for the book club. My avoidance is completely collegiate.

Molly rang at 6ish and I met her in Brooklyn for a freezing night's adventure. We first stopped at Mullanes Bar and Grill where we snacked on sweet potato fries. It's a big space with dark wood and the promise of loud, raucous Saturday nights. This was a quiet Tuesday of few patrons and newspapers strewn about the bar. Our caravan included Molly's boyfriend, the food stylist and his wife. We were met by a sixth at Di Fara.

Oft-reviewed and completely hyped, the small green room was thick with hungry people and smoke. Domenico De Marco is a small man with a spine curved to his countertop. I don't think that he will ever straighten himself or that he would ever want to. I mean, he makes pizza all day, may the process do to one's body what it do! We ordered our pizza a little after 8:45pm and stood about for the next hour waiting for it. Mr. De Marco makes each pizza by hand. This means throwing the dough, ladling the sauce, shaving the fresh mozzarella, adding the toppings, firing the pizza in the oven which only holds about 4 at a time, removing the pizza when it's done and cutting fresh basil, which he grows himself, onto it with a pair of scissors before rolling the pizza cutter through the finished artisanal product. What you taste is a soft crust with a gentle sauce and fresh cheese that makes you wonder why Italians ever leave Italy. You taste the time each ingredient spends in Mr. De Marco's floury, rough hands. He pours olive oil from a teapot onto each pie in slow, caring swirls before he sends it away like a parent dropping off his child at school. Half or even a quarter of Mr. De Marco's dedication would yield a very different world were we each to adopt a bit of his work ethic. Take the trouble, spend the time, find the best parts to render your sum a result of which to be proud. Imagine the toys from China!

I encountered more attempts at perfection when I arrived at Pegu Club and was treated to an Earl Grey MarTEAni. Gin infused with bergamot, a little bit of egg and lemon zest in a small glass became one of the most amazing drinks I've ever had in my limited experience in the adult world of alcohol appreciation. It was a friendly, mildly sweet mixture made smooth by the egg which does something to bind the alcohol to the rest of the elements. A silver martini, it's called. I call it a drink so delicious that for the first time I understood how people become shitfaced without realizing it. I used to think it was impossible to find an alcoholic libation completely disguised in flavor but I was 2 sheets to the wind off of one martini.

Despite the aid of firewater, the conversation was animated and educational. Mr. Z was in town from L.A. and I met his friends J.J. and Henry, both insanely smart individuals and each with a gentility not found often anymore. When I reached to shake Henry's hand, he remained distant and said apologetically, "I don't shake hands. Germs." He gets enough microbes from his children. I told him I understood and suggested we shake our bodies in unison. He was seated so I shook for the both of us. J.J. complimented my sweater, a Rebecca Taylor cashmere shrug purchased at a thrift store in San Diego for $30. The compliment was not simply a "looks nice" type of pedestrian aside, it was a full discussion of the yarn, the buttons, the craftsmanship and the purl instead of knit stitching. A straight man who understands these subtle differences is rare. I may build J.J. a shrine. In the meantime, he invited me to dinner with his wife and daughter at a restaurant called Buddha Bodai which he claims has the best vegetarian Chinese food in the city. The anticipation consumes me.

Mr. Z, his colleague and I hopped a cab and headed uptown. After dropping them at their hotels, the cabbie and I continued to Harlem. Along the way up Central Park West, we chatted pleasantly about Senegal and L.A., our respective origins and the unfamiliar winter cold. The cabbie gave me career advice and as he delivered me to my destination, asked me if I wanted to go to a club or to dinner. I declined as any man who asks me to go to a club is not the man for me. I told him I was a quiet person and preferred places of a lesser volume.

Gastronomically, today was a day of quality and a lesson in the attempt at and success of creating a bite or sip of perfection. All told, I was asked to dinner three times. Each time by a man I didn't want to smooch. As dates go, today was a day of quantity.

April in february

It's one of those strange phenomena. The first day when a friend visits from a different climate, the weather changes. Usually, and magically I might add, the weather matches the guest. My friend April arrived from L.A. on Sunday night and today New York warmed up to nearly 60 degrees. It was incredible! One sunny blonde gets off a plane and the natives are practically nude in celebration.

En route to her midtown hotel, my eyes met with a stranger's on the train. A relatively handsome but petite man with a beard and earphones sitting across from me. I looked away but realized that I was not going to be the demure young lady who averts her eyes. I literally stared at him until he looked at me again and then I smiled. He smiled back in embarrassment as we continued our ride in silence.

The car door opened while we were motion and a man dressed in black with a large plastic bag scanned the passengers. He approached me and of all the things he could pull out, genitalia excluded, nothing could have been more fateful than a pirated DVD of Welcome Home Roscoe Jenkins, a script which I had read over a year ago, a project which we had greenlit last year and a film currently in theaters released by my people, my company! The DVD was the one-sheet art, clear, crisp, perfect. I asked this peddler of stolen intellectual property if it was the real DVD. He assured me it was. WRONG MOVE. I considered buying the DVD from him for analysis by our anti-piracy team which includes my friend the Vice Chairman of the studio. I considered kicking him in the shins and stealing from him as he had stolen from us. Instead, when he tried one last time to convince me on purchasing the movie, I told him that I worked for Universal Pictures and that he really shouldn't be selling it to me or anyone else. He seemed unfazed and I felt helpless. There is a great world out there of unscrupulous individuals and this saddens me. I'm currently not being paid to defend the company but I defend it nonetheless because it's just not fair. I defend it even if no one is listening. The Glancer was though and when I got up to disembark, he smiled and nodded at me. I waved. Don't buy the DVD, dude.

April was bundled in a black coat and a green scarf which I told her she might not need but I remembered that she's a California girl through and through. We took a cab to Soho with the intention of having a late lunch at Fiamma but instead we stopped at Pennyfeathers to retrieve my Time magazine from my friend Isaac. When he kissed me and told me he didn't have it, April and I decided to walk around the Village and had pizza at John's on Bleecker which was fantastic. Pepperoni, sausage, mushrooms and peppers on a chewy, crunchy crust. We split a salad of simple iceberg lettuce with fresh tomatoes, onions and mushrooms. We dabbed our pizza with napkins. We couldn't shake our Cali habits.

Outside the restaurant, I spotted a woman with a beagle who looked much like our beloved Steinbeck the dog who is in L.A. with my family. I approached her and asked her permission to pet him. This beagle was only 2 but had a smooth coat and was more than friendly. I missed Steinbeck more than I have the entire time I've been gone. I asked my sister if she surmised that he felt my absence. She advised me that she didn't want to find out because if she were to ask him to search for me in the house and he was unsuccessful, he would begin to whimper and suffer great distress. Ah, thus is the standard reaction of many in L.A.

As we walked through the Village to Soho, we caught up on our lives. April is a gentle and sweet girl. She giggles often and although we don't see each other often, we have stayed friends for almost 7 years. We had gelato - stracciatelli and blueberry for me, caramel for her. We spoke of love. We wandered into the Alessi store on Spring St. where April got a cappuccino. We spoke of the genius of their design aesthetic. We spoke of Italy where April wanted to return. They know how to stop there. They know how to live without living to work. We continued on to the Taschen store and then to Eres where I tried on a $400 bathing suit. I'm heading to Florida in a couple of weeks so I needed to make sure I was appropriately jiggly. No better dipstick for that than a bikini. I needed more fat so at the recommendation of the barista at Alessi who was formerly of Jacques Torres, we found Vosges and got a Parisenne hot chocolate. April and I also know how to live.

A few more stops along Broadway where I introduced April to the beauty of Muji and we were escaping the rain and the resultant dearth of available taxis by taking the train. We hugged goodbye and I switched to the train that would take me closest to home. On the C, I stood next to a petite, sandy-haired woman holding a red rose with a handful of rain on its confluence of velvet petals. She wore a red coat and had friendly eyes. I asked her who gave her the flower. She smiled sheepishly and told me that she found it on the ground and that she just wanted to salvage it. She liked how the droplets glistened. I asked her if she was going to keep it or give it someone special.

"I'm going to give it to my roommate. She's had a bad week. She'll like it."

I liked the idea immensely. A lost object with a found importance. We stood peacefully for a moment until I reached my destination when she offered me the flower at the same time as I told her that the world was a lovelier place with her in it. We were stumbling over each others words of kindness. I declined the rose because I told her that her roommate needed it more than I and that I had had a good week. April showers brought me flowers. For me, the city is a blossom with each avenue and neighborhood a petal which opens itself to me slowly every day.

at home

Some people have salad. Maybe a light soup. Then they have something forgiving...like a chicken breast. Followed by a coffee. Black. Boring.

I can't do that. I forced myself to run this morning because I refuse to stop eating the things that make me stop in my tracks when passing a bakery. The foods that make me loquacious when extolling their flavors. I ran through the park even though it was bitter cold because unlike my body, I like my meals fatty. And so does Molly.

On the train to Brooklyn, I came over the bridge and saw the orange sparkle of industry in the velvet backdrop of night. I almost didn't notice because I'm so accustomed to the soot covered darkness of the tunnels. It felt like I was going somewhere unfamiliar yet I have never really felt out of place here. There are moments when I lose my way for a block or two but despite the vast difference in terrain between cities, I feel strangely at home.

We met, my favorite eating partner and I, and walked in the rain to The Farm on Adderly at which Molly had only gone for brunch. The restaurant was warm and homey with dark wood tables and chairs. Towards the back of the space, there was a wall of exposed reddish brown brick. It's not a unique feature especially in restaurants but the contrast of the brick against the cream colored walls was pleasant.

At a tiny table next to the swinging kitchen door, we fit ourselves to eating. Our dynamic is fairly fluid when we dine. One of us offers a suggestion in terms of an appetizer which is quickly met with a swift, happily resigned "Done." The question that begins with "Wanna share a..." is cut off with a "Yes." In palates we trust. Tonight was no different. "Cheese plate?" "Good." "Hanger steak?" "Do it." "Pork chop?" "Mmm." "Share a vegetable pave even though we both have accompanying sides already?" "Do I really need to answer that?"

The cheese plate ranged from triple creamy to mature and complex. The bread was toasted but still soft and fresh. Chestnut honey was curiously excellent as well as the gooseberries which Molly had to identify for me. I only know my Blackberry. My hanger steak was fantastic. Cooked rare. Tender. Animal. The wine braised red cabbage was sweet and acidic, the perfect compliment. Molly's pork chop was a good cut of meat however was overdone. Thank goodness for the layer of fat around the edge. Kale and sweet potato gnocchi also helped. Our vegetable pave was uninteresting at first. The dark tower of blackened unidentifiables on top of a bed of sauteed Swiss chard was a little unappetizing. But once we cut it up and ate its components, it grew on me. Eggplant layered with Yukon gold potato, roasted tomato and maetake mushroom. The Swiss chard was slick and bitter with chlorophyll. Molly excused herself mid-chop and when she came back, I was done.

For dessert Molly had a coffee with Bailey's (she's Irish, it's basically milk to her) and helped me with an odd chocolate and banana upside down cake which had a fantastic coconut sorbet buddy but also an extraneous and runny caramel sauce. When eaten together, the elements yielded a delicious finish but separately, the banana had a mushroom texture and was unripe. But still, it didn't stand a chance.

We walked off the meal and went to visit friends who lived in the neighborhood in a real home with a real porch and real space. We arrived to find 4 toasty friends sitting around a wooden dining table, laughing, sipping and eating banana cake with Scharffen Berger ganache frosting. "Do you girls want some of..." "I don't, but Katie does." Molly is so brave. I finished the rest of their cake with a bit of Malbec. Sigh.

The conversation was fun. It was a group of friends who had come together through triathlons. Cheerful and diverse, I enjoyed meeting them, the advertiser, the educator, the food stylist and the graphic designer who convinced me to apply for a job at Jet Blue. Free standby air travel was all she had to say. When Molly's boyfriend arrived, we moved from the dining room to the living room where a fire kept us warm. Conversation, wine, a house with wooden floors with inlaid designs. Cozy. I almost fell asleep on the train back to Harlem. Bad. A girl on the subway at midnight is not a girl who should be dozing off in the presence of strangers. But you know, I just felt so at home.

movie busyness

Prior to There Will Be Blood, I had only watched one movie by myself in a theater. It was The Last Kiss starring Zach Braff and that awful girl from The OC who drains the screen of charisma when she appears on it. It was a summer Sunday matinee and the theater had been relatively empty. Last night, I sat in a crowded New York City theatre on Broadway and 70th, wedged between two couples whose men draped their arms around their women. In my bag I had fruity contraband: a Granny Smith apple and an oro blanco grapefruit purchased from The Food Emporium across the street. I'm ghetto like that. But ghetto in a fresh produce way.

The trailers were mostly engaging especially for Stop Loss. Hot Southern boys fighting for the country they love and the women who wait for their return? Perhaps engaging is not le mot juste. Perhaps I meant to say that cowboy hats and honor make me accidentally bite myself while eating an illicit apple in a dark theater. Before I left the apartment, I had watched Memphis Belle on television. These noble boys with their accents, they were everywhere.

There Will Be Blood was haunting. Daniel Day-Lewis always amazes me in his utter disappearance into his character. Though the movie ended oddly, I was left reflecting on the many meanings of blood that were presented. Blood as murder, blood as salvation, blood as family. I moved with the throng of post-movie zombies. I thought about the credits I'd seen and how the names of certain producers and actors have special meaning to me since I worked in the business. It made me feel connected to Hollywood, a land mysterious to many and despicable to the reasonable. I missed it.

Today, a craving for a bagel with cream cheese and lox nearly blinded me and I went for a stroll on the Upper West Side to procure the ingredients from Zabar's and H&H. On my stroll there, I passed a restaurant called Dovetail on W. 77th which looked incredibly interesting. I had spotted people in a subterranean room with soft lighting and linens. I searched for the menu posted on the outside of the restaurant and after reading it made a mental note to return. No Zagat rating, no insider blog info, just a bit of luck. Further along, I saw Cafe Frida at which I would like to write some time.

Zabar's was crowded at 7:30pm on a Saturday night. I got my lox and some orange juice and could not find Callebaut chocolate chips with which to make cookies. I walked next door to H&H and purchased two bagels and cream cheese. I thought I'd head home but the night was mild and I kept walking and came across Westsider Books where I got a 1964 copy of The Heart of Darkness by Conrad and a centennial edition of East of Eden by Steinbeck which I had started reading right before I left L.A. Fortunately, they had the same edition I'd been using. And I bought the Conrad for my book club assignment. A book club! Me! With people who have been to graduate school. I will divert their attention away from my elementary understanding of literature with delicious baked goods. Tasty and distracting.

I bought the 2008 NYC Zagat guide. The task of tallying this city's restaurants is monumental. There were plenty of places that I'd been which weren't listed in the maroon tome. The eateries here are nearly innumerable but sadly, the pounds I'm gaining are. There isn't always a good reason to eat, but there's always something fantastic to eat here (around every corner according to Nina and Tim's minions) and I can feel the memories of these meals becoming part of me. Literally. I stopped at a grocer for blueberries and grapes before returning to my pen.

I smeared the poppy seed bagel with cream cheese and carefully applied the beautifully thin lox. I sat in front of the ALT and happened to catch Garden State which I had always wanted to see. How perfect of an evening, I thought. The bagel was soft and perfectly chewy. The lox was smooth and salted. I sipped orange juice and watched Natalie Portman light up the ALS (Absurdly Large Screen.) I longed for imagination. I was reminded how affecting a movie can be. I've been too preoccupied to sit long enough to absorb a film. All I do is absorb snacks. I'm busy.

public service

Riding the trains on a day like this one, I caught a glimpse into the intimate exchanges between lovers. Not lovers who sniff and devour each other but lovers who simply love and bear gifts. Public transportation offers no nooks in which to caress. Mofos be grabbin' each other e'rywhere and in plain view. Practical men in wool coats with single roses wrapped in cellophane. Mothers with heart-shaped mylar balloons and plush teddybears. Older, solemn women with shiny, pink Victoria's Secret shopping bags quite possibly containing slinky delights. It's always the Hungarian ones.

Mr. Kansas and I plotted. We wanted to be around couples drowning in the perfunctory pleasantries of the obligatory Valentine dinner or perhaps couples so tightly "wound" that they might well begin fornication on the table top. Role play was discussed but not the sexy kind. More he as the boyfriend who proposes, I as the girlfriend who declines and then he as the infuriated reject who throws a glass of wine against the wall. I had my diamond ring and a spare ring box ready to go.

I stood outside the Focus Features office picking lint off my yellow mittens when Mr. Kansas appeared and immediately pulled out his Marlboro lights. "It's been that kind of day," he explained. We walked up towards Union Square and exchanged our last minute Valentine gifts - mix CD from me to him and from him to me a handmade card printed off the internet and decorated with Hershey's chocolates wrapped in seasonally colored foil. I'd say it was fair.

We reached Yama Sushi on Irving Place and 17th Street which was highly recommended by Mr. K's friend the sushi snob. I assured him that there was no sushi snob greater than I but when I saw "yellowtail jalapeno roll" on the specials board, I relented. Rolls and rolls were ordered, lobster tempura, spicy salmon and avocado with flying fish roe to name a few. The fish was acceptable and the rolls were hearty and satisfying though not life altering. Those only exist in L.A. Of this I am certain. The dinner was great. The couple watching was mundane. Mr. Kansas and I had to resort to speaking to each other. I'm sure he wasn't paying attention. Like a real date!

Sushi and two gingerales later, we walked to Union Square proper in search of a movie or a dessert - like a real date! The movies were sold out and the wait at Max Brenner's was laughable. Spontaneous me decided to drag him into a Whole Foods where we got blueberries on sale and slices of almond creme and black and white cake. We made our way to a Starbucks where we got coffee and tea as well as prime seats for observing a very odd couple sitting along the window. We literally turned our seats to face them as the girl coddled not cuddled the boy as if she were consoling him because of some tragedy. She seemed motherly. He seemed despondent. We certainly weren't. We were stuffed and delighted when we said goodbye and boarded our respective trains.

Attention ill-at-ease ladies and gentleman riding the Uptown A on this cool Valentine's night at midnight: Although you may believe it does, staring at the coffee cup rolling back and forth on the floor does not make you invisible. Remain calm. The vociferous young men sitting in this subway car will not harm you. They care little about your fur coats and your Coach bags. Do not become alarmed. Their conversation may be loud and insistent against your thin eardrums but do not mistake it for a discussion on how to assault you. The reason I am able to stand literally in the middle of their group is because I have my earphones in but am not listening to music. I understand who they are and what they are saying and am unafraid. Mainly because I'm taller than they. But for you, below are a few facts to help you cope with your discomfort:

1) They are Puerto Rican gangbangers.

2) These particular gentlemen are "Bloods." They wear the color red to distinguish themselves as members of the faction. You know, like all of your friends at political rallies.

3) Their presumably antagonistic tone towards one another may mislead you in thinking that they will become violent with each other but note their references to the same "shawties they hit" (sexual partners.) Clearly, they are friends. In fact, if you pay attention, they are actually commiserating on the unsurprising turn of events when a particular shawty lamented to the boy in the red bandana the fact that one of his friends "stopped fucking with her because she wouldn't let him hit it." I think everyone agrees that she should have let him hit it.

4) Even though they are not black, they are allowed to use that word that you're not allowed to use. THAT word.

5) "Narc" is slang for what your self-righteous nephew does for the police department.

When you arrive at your station, please rush hurriedly off the train without making eye contact with them as they won't be looking at you to begin with. Save yourself the trouble of feeling sorry for their street-weary existence as they quite enjoy living their lives like hip hop cliches. And remember, like you, they are simply human beings who ride the train. The only difference being that they aren't afraid of you.

Any boy who prevents me from weeping in public due to my loneliness on this Hallmarky holiday is doing a public service. So, thank you to Mr. Kansas for keeping the streets dry and for keeping me company on the day of wine and roses. I've selectively forgotten that his plans for drinks fell through due to a friend's illness and I've also relegated his lack of other options to the far corners of my mind. Happy, happy, deluded Valentine's Day. I truly enjoyed my day in that spoony way. Unlike this girl:



Eeek.

in the fiber optic valley

It was my second snowfall here. I woke to see the soft, white flakes of symmetrically organized water crystals sailing down from the sky. The early ones disappeared into puddles on the ground but slowly, they amassed and the grey world became bright. It's a noiseless transformation. If you don't notice the snow with your eyes, you can be pleasantly surprised. But I watched it fall. I monitored the gradual disappearance of blades of grass, staring out the window like a grandmother waiting for her family.

Last night, I met My Molly at Pearl Oyster Bar for an early dinner. My boots don't have any traction so I walked steadily through the Village to get to her, my redheaded friend who knows her way around and had both sturdy boots on and a glass of wine by the time I arrived.

We sat along a wall in the cream colored side dining room decorated with various marine accouterments. By order of Paul Getto and Eric Lane, we were to have oysters to start, six friend and six raw; the lobster roll and the blueberry crumble (if served - Eric insisted and would reimburse us.) Happily, we obliged.

Molly cooed after her first fried oyster and I slurped the raw. We compliment each other's eating styles because somehow, we always end up loving the same restaurants but the opposite things within them. The lobster roll was fantastic. Perfectly poached lobster chunks tossed with a gentle mayonnaise from Maine and served on a Sara Lee roll (I believe) with shoestring fries. I veered slightly from the plan of attack by having skate which was soft but with a crisp exterior having been dredged in flour and fried. It arrived with Brussels sprouts sauteed with carrots and bacon which were exquisite, the hint of bitterness of the sprouts countered with the sweetness of the carrots and salty smoke of the bacon. I also had an extra side of grilled vegetables - eggplant, zucchini, tomatoes, red peppers, asparagus and fennel. The vegetables were charred a little too dark but were seasoned well and fresh. They didn't offer the reimbursable blueberry crumble so Molly accommodated my devotion to Callebaut and let me order the mousse with which it is made. The dessert disappointed us as it didn't taste of enough chocolate nor did it melt properly. I suspected that they used a stabilizer so that it stood up and could be presented in a large quenelle without any logistical difficulty but the flavor, texture and melt-resistant behavior left us wanting more.

Molly resorted happily to a cigarette. I just stewed. I described to her the luck of living with a pastry chef who brings home leftover desserts which would be otherwise discarded from one of the best restaurants in New York. Some people have an Oreo for a midnight snack. I get to have what the roommates and I call "the chocolate tube." A cylinder made of thin, expertly tempered Valrhona chocolate and then filled with layers of milk chocolate mousse, praline crumble, chocolate cake, chocolate cremeux and more milk chocolate mousse. The seams of my jeans cower at the sight of it in the fridge.

We said goodnight and when Karen returned home after work, I tattled on the Callebaut abomination I had encountered. She had just the remedy: a fresh chocolate tube in a shiny black take-out box. I knew just the person who needed this more than I.

The next day, I used Molly's inexperience with the chocolate tube as a reason to leave my cozy, sunshine-filled apartment where I read and relax most of the day away, I marched into the MTV office with its exposed piping and unfinished ceiling. I handed Molly the triathlete the mystical Daniel dessert. She ate it standing next to her desk and stared at me in disbelief. Could something be that delicious? Yes, my friend, yes.

It was the end of the day so Molly left with me to take the train downtown. I was headed to Yeah Shanghai to have soup dumplings. MTV (the 'M' is for Molly) is located in the heart of Times Square. No matter how crowded it gets with slack jawed Midwesterners wearing sweatshirts with collegiate lettering, I still love it. Every time. It's impossible to navigate but I secretly like getting stuck behind the family with the turtlenecks and the plastic bags from the ESPN Zone store. It is a fiber optic valley with stock updates and music videos marching along the walls. Millions of tiny lights wink. And every time for a fleeting, glorious moment I feel famous.

I had two orders of soup dumplings one pork and and one pea shoots with shiitake mushrooms. Both were delicious although the dough in L.A. is made with more dexterity and is thinner and with better elasticity. However, these dumplings hit the spot. I also ordered a very Shanghainese dish of salted pork belly slices served with knots made of what is known as yuba skin which is translated from the Japanese. I'm not sure of the Chinese translation. Thin soy bean curd is pressed through a screen to produce a pale yellow sheet that sort of has the texture of rubbery eggs. The sheets are then bunched into ropes which are tied into knots and each knot cut off individually. There is a bit of a fermented stink to the dish due to the soy but it was fantastic and who can deny a slice of salted pork belly on a rainy night?

After dinner, I walked across the street to Mei Wah Coffeehouse for pork buns, steamed and baked. The old men behind the counter spoke "country" Cantonese and admonished me when I only ordered one bun. I ended up getting one of each kind and two egg tarts. The buns were fantastic. I had the steamed, Karen the baked. Soft dough with a fatty and not too sugary BBQ pork filling. The tarts had a crisp, flaky shell with a lightly sweetened egg custard. I'll eat anything. Out of respect for my elders obviously.

a girl's day

The wind was icy today. I could feel it through the glass of the windows in the apartment. It called for cashmere and fleece and wool.

I bundled myself from neck to toe because I couldn't find my knitted hat and was blown to Tribeca where I took a meeting with a well-known female producer and one of her directors. The woman power was great. I volunteered to help with a film festival and the opening of a hotel. I'm a Jill of all trades.

When I left the warmth of the office, I walked in triangles trying to find a place to eat. I wasn't satisfied with my most immediate options so I referenced an email from one of my food mentors and went out of my way to find Bouley Bakery. There, I stood on the tiled battleground between macarons, lemon tarts and chiffon cakes versus croissants, breads and rolls. I sided with a plain croissant, a spiced squash soup and orange juice. I carried my wooden tray to the second floor where the sun filled the room with a welcome heat. I ate my lunch and wanted to curl up on the windowsill but I know better than to lay down in public. That's for protesters.

I wanted to picket against the brisk air that made my lips hurt with cold. As I walked to the train station, I stopped to buy a hat from a Chinese man with a street stand. I chose a cream colored one that he said matched nicely with my sweater, a Ralph Lauren which I bought in the summer of 2000 at Bloomingdale's in Century City because I gasped when I walked past the mannequin that displayed it. I didn't feel as passionate about my new hat but it kept my head wicked warm.

At 3:00pm, I had an appointment with Ivan, a friend from Hawaii whom I had never really chatted with at length. Currently an apprentice at Bumble, Ivan invited me to be his model for his one day a week classroom training. He knew I desperately needed a haircut and was grateful to have him go at this raven mane.

I surprised him a package of macarons tied with a red ribbon for Valentine's Day. He surprised me with a pair of fingerless grey gloves with a cap that goes over the fingertips when necessary. I had just noticed them for the first time on a man in the subway and as serendipity and thoughtfulness would have it, they were now on my hands.

Ivan giggled and spoke while he washed and then cut my hair as his instructor periodically checked his work. He was great fun and so silly. We laughed and updated each other on our mutual friends. My haircut was gorgeous and were it not for the angry cold outside, I would have flounced up and down Madison Avenue. I put one boot onto the sidewalk outside and immediately had to cover Ivan's brilliance with my new hat. It was a perfect afternoon followed by a trip to Chelsea for dinner and dessert with Johnny, a fellow Bumble apprentice.

At Nooch, I started with agedashi tofu and a spicy tuna roll. The tofu was fantastic, fried with a coat of mochi in a briny broth with a hint of ponzu. The spicy tuna roll was perfunctory. The nori was thick and chewy and the tuna was bland. For my entree I had pad see oui gai which is a sweet flat rice noodle dish with chicken, egg and broccoli. Nooch's version also included red pepper and cilantro which were pleasant novelties for me. The dish itself was acceptable but a bit too wet.

After dinner, Ivan and I split from our group and walked to a bakery that a man recommended when he couldn't tell us where Billy's was. I'd heard of Billy's bakery before when it was written up in some magazine. I was told recently that Billy sold the bakery and became a lady. I was interested in seeing if he was still on hand to dish out the sweets and as we reached this alternate bakery destination, it turned out that it was indeed Billy's afterall.

Banana cake baking in the oven yields a smell that I would imagine to be like heaven and inhaling it is like watching angels hug. The cream cheese frosting, the small chunks of firm banana, the way your belly glows like E.T.'s finger afterwards...all elements of a perfect dessert. I also had ice box cake which is chocolate wafers layered with whipped cream. When left to lay long enough, the moisture from the whipped cream sneaks into the wafers making them soft and cakey. The effect of properly assembled wafers and whipped cream looks quite fetching. Eating a lot of this makes one look the opposite.

Before returning home, we stopped into a grocery store on 8th where Ivan danced in the aisle as I looked for bread and cheese. I taught him how to choose oranges by the look of the peel and their weight relative to the other oranges in the bin. I miss the oranges in California. The ones here have thick hard rinds and less juice. The ones here are New Yorkers.

snow and the city

People who grow up in cold climates can tell when snow is coming. I can tell. The air becomes kind and warm relative to the chill and then without any herald, the snow silently swoops down and makes Manhattan clean.

I missed my first snowfall here because I was indoors on Broadway. I had unsuccessfully tried to find the Bella Muse card stand on Spring Street so I had gone to the Muji store to get some knick knacks for La Crevette and stumbled upon a newly opened samples shop. The longer it snowed, the more clothes I tried on. The more clothes I tried on, the more clothes I tried not to buy. Two dresses, three tanktops, one missed snowfall.

In search of a pretty Valentine to send to my friend Dale in Honolulu, I went to Pearl River Mart to find something delicate and colorful. The Chinese are deft with paper. I saw lanterns and streamers and found the perfect card for my adopted Hawaiian Daddy.

When it's cold, people who spend their afternoons shopping on an empty stomach look for comfort in noisy French brasseries. At Balthazar I encountered the opportunity to speak French, a great dinner and one of the most fascinating conversations I've ever had the fortune of overhearing.

It was still early when the dining room began to fill with an erudite older crowd. Tall, greying men. Women with frosty blonde bobs. As I waited for a spot at the crowded bar, I stood next to a seated couple, Cranky Man and Emphatic Lady. They were in their late 30s, touching each other as they cupped their slowly draining wine glasses. They were both dark haired, Emphatic Lady's long and laying against her back. Cranky Man wore a grey scarf and a perturbed expression. She gushed.

"I love being with you. I only want to be with you, baby. I love when you make love to me. Our love is amazing." She grabbed his arm. I think I may have hiccuped. I was startled by the frank and forward love arrows she shot at this man. I reached for my Blackberry and took notes. Did love like this truly exist? How rare and exceptional. I almost began smiling to myself at the folly of the infatuated. She had the effervescent fervor of a hormone-ravaged teenager. Cranky Man had surely lucked out to find a disproportionately more attractive woman who was so indefatigably enamored with...

"I can't believe you fucked that guy! Did you just need to get laid or something?!?!"

The typing stopped. Emphatic Lady laughed it off. She seemed to enjoy making her man jealous. But I soon found out that he was not her man when her retort came in the form of "I can't believe you brought your WIFE to my house!"

The typing resumed. People are insane when it comes to adulterous sex. I was waved to my seat by a French waiter with an angular face and a small tight ponytail of dark blond hair. It was two chairs away from the cheating Bickersons and I could no longer discern their inappropriate sentences.

For my dinner, I ordered a Balthazar Bar Steak cooked rare which was served with perfect french fries. The steak was a piece of flank which was quite chewy. The Steak Frites is a different cut which I will try another time. The beurre maitre was delicious, a melting pat of herbed butter that slithered along the sinews of the meat. Emphatic Lady would have enjoyed watching it.

For dessert, I had what will be a dessert I shall always remember. Apple and Frangipane tart. The crust was a crisp, buttery phyllo dough shell with a layer of mild frangipane. The apples were just sour enough and bruleed dark and caramel. On deck, a simple but pure vanilla ice cream. Below deck, a Calvados foam. Crunchy, soft, sweet, acidic, warm, cold, creamy, apple. It was incredible and exemplary.

A stylish girl sitting to my left asked me how it was. I was effusive like a mistress. We started talking and I got my first email address from a stranger in New York City. She's a former Donna Karan designer starting her own clothing label. I told her I had two hands that needed to be put to work doing anything not involving answering a phone or scheduling a meeting. Or compromising a married man. Ick.

the life of my night

You know you're a rock star when you wake up in time for dinner (Doritos and hummus followed by an orange) and take a disco nap immediately afterwards before leaving your house at 10pm to go meet friends at a bar. What's become of me? I am not this cool.

No one sleeps here! At 10:30pm, I was coming out of the subway and walking along Houston. The rain found its way from sky to sidewalk on this sparkling Saturday night but it didn't deter me or the hundreds of other people rushing to find their good time. In fact, the rain only drove people into places more unfamiliar than usual. I met Miss Molly at The Edge on 3rd Street and First Avenue on the Lower East Side. I was covered in raindrops and chatted excitedly as I removed every damp article I could leave on a bar stool to dry. When you spend most of your day asleep or not speaking to anyone because you're alone, drunken boys on a Saturday night make for a game audience. Molly's brother Pete was out with his friends Will and Brendan. There was more explaining of "why New York?" but they were easier to convince than most of the people I've encountered so far. They all love it here as much as I do. They love Crif Dogs where we almost all had the "Chihuahua" which is a bacon wrapped hot dog served with avocado and cream cheese. I threw in some chili cheese fries and a root beer for good measure. Everyone else drinks hip people beer. I drink the drink of teenagers which I've only started to crave since being here. It's quite odd.

After an unsuccessful attempt at ACE Bar, I said goodbye to the stock analyst, the attorney, the musician and my Molly. I was a few blocks away from Katz's Deli so I stopped by for a slice of cheesecake and a black and white. The ability of these people to eat at all hours humbles me. An hour after midnight and there is a line at Katz's for pastrami sandwiches. On the train home, the platforms were crowded. Fellow soggy revelers in their black coats and hats. At home, the cheesecake disappointed with its leaden crust and it's tight cheese. The black and white was perfunctory with no real spark. They bored me and contrary to the rest of the citizens here, I did sleep. But not before having a heated discussion about the kindness and inutility of bidding my roommate to have a good day and to "see you later."

"It's a given, I WILL see you later," the curmudgeon asserted, "What's the point?"

"Because it's nice!" I screeched. Sweetly. The discussion went on for fifteen minutes with the cop growing ever more practical.

The next morning, before heading out to Soho I swung open the bathroom door that doesn't lock while Ed showered. Facing his naked ass diffused by the holographic pebble pattern shower curtain I wished him a FANTASTIC day. I assured him that I would see him later. He agreed and returned to his lather.

movin' on up

My room is about 9 feet by 7 feet. To call it a room is fair but the irony lies in the fact that I don't have a lot of it. Fortunately, the ceiling is 10 feet high so there is space to grow. This room is the smallest space I've ever slept in since wedging myself between my parents in their bed when I was 2.

My bed was delivered today by 3 sweaty gentlemen who didn't see that there is an elevator in our building and who dragged my mattress and boxspring up 4 flights of stairs. As they set up my bed, I gave them the risers on which to place the bed frame. The risers allow me to store things under the bed which now occupies more than half my room. But I've used the vertical as best as I can and although it's no loft, I did buy a step stool to make getting into bed a little easier. Like the rest of Manhattan, I'm movin' on up.

I'm also movin'. As the streets calmed after the initial rush of morning commuters, I put on my running gear and took on the NW corner of Central Park as my new training ground. I hadn't run in at least a month so my soft muscles combined with the cold air made climbing the most conservatively sloped hill feel like running straight up a wall made of oil. My legs seized as if I had asked them to wade through a chest-high bowl of pudding. The run, not so successful. It devolved into a walk mixed with spurts of running past people who looked like I might feel embarrassed for walking in front of. While strolling (and panting) however, I did notice that many of the trees and bushes and flowers in the park are labeled with their common names. It was an educational 10 minutes.

By the time I crawled back to my apartment dragging my offended limbs, I was starving and wolfed down a bowl of leftovers concocted with noodles, char siu pork, shrimp, greens, fish, crab... I ate like I was being paid. The cop lay asleep on the couch while I masticated. When he woke, he dropped me off at Bed Bath and Beyond for yet another trip to procure handy items to make my space more efficient. My doors look like candles, clothing on over-the-door hooks dripping down all surfaces.

I had never strolled through the Upper West side much before and I was quite enamored with the big name stores alongside small boutiques. The pedestrians were mainly middle-aged women with very young children and Columbia students. Not being sweaty or terribly kinetic but very slovenly, I hadn't changed out of my running clothes so I looked pleasantly faux-sporty. A necklace caught my eye in the window of a shop called A Tempo at 290 Columbus Avenue. A necklace I don't need but which I ordered anyway as my first gift to myself here. It's got the silhouette of a small bird on it. I'd also bought a jewelry dish with a bird handle. I've left the nest to build another.

The Magnolia on Columbus beckoned but instead of dense cupcakes with painfully sweet buttercream, I splurged on dark darling Bing cherries from a small grocer. They're not in season but they were passable for dessert following my final meal of Chinese New Year leftovers. Roasted duck and fried rice. The duck was still rich and the rice heated beautifully. I considered returning to the UWS to catch a movie but the comfort of home was so enticing that I stayed in on my Friday night to write and stay in touch with friends online. At the end of my evening, I literally climbed into bed and slept like a princess on a pedestal.

you better watch where i point this thing

Note to aspiring spies: When trying to be inconspicuous while taking candid photos of strangers in the subway, it is best NOT to wear a yellow rabbit fur coat with an enormous sheepskin collar OR use a pink camera.

Hm. I think that was pretty self-explanatory.

I finished the rest of my prime rib from Tavern on the Green this morning with another soft sandwich of beef and cheese. It smelled like the faux Santa Will Ferrell's character suspiciously sniffs out in the movie Elf. Breakfast was again served at around 3pm before I braved the world to head to the Focus Features office to pay another visit to the boys of film: Mr. Kansas and Felipe.

On the B train, I saw this boy who very much so would not take his mind away from his cookie. You can't really see it clearly in the photo but he bore an expression of wry curiosity with a bit of aloofness.

I arrived late enough that the boys could leave for the night and we walked along Bleecker to the Village. Felipe commented on my hurried gait. It's happening. I'm becoming one of them. The fast-walking, no-bullshit New Yorkers who spit and swear at the slightest provocation. But I did neither because we were headed to Pinkberry where Felipe and I plucked Mr. Kansas' Pinkberry flower.

The shop looked the same as the others in L.A., the green striped windows and the pebbled floor. But the yogurt was different. It was fluffy and full instead of cool and clean. I ordered a medium original with strawberries, blueberries and raspberries but got mango instead of the latter. When I mentioned it, they gave me a small cup of raspberries on the side which we all enjoyed. Mr. Kansas liked his first taste of controversial frozen yogurt. Red Mango was across the street. The competition in this city is thick.

Mr. Kansas took his leave early and Felipe and I got a moment to ourselves to speak and wander. He is lovely. Tall. Beautiful. Kind. An ex-lover made a bad choice when he decided to let Felipe go. No one should let someone of his sweetness walk the earth alone. If only I were a boy. Sadly, my burping and farting without apology does not a boy me make.

We parted ways at the West 4th train station and I made my way to Golden Unicorn for Chinese New Year dinner with a friend and her NY entourage. The F train was bare except for what I named "The Snob and the Sleepy Trio of Grey Knitted Cap Wearers". The station at East Broadway was vacant. I walked behind this woman through the tunnel to the street I needed.

Above ground, I consulted my Streetwise map many times to figure out the way to Chinatown. The shops were all closed for the celebration. I walked cautiously as men passed. There were photo opportunities here but somehow I felt unsure of my surroundings enough that my vigilance stifled my inner journalist.

Dinner with strangers is always interesting for me. It is a challenge to connect over a meal. I met four new people this evening and the conversation was never awkward or still. We spoke of coincidences and similarities and bonded over our collective inability to read the Chinese menu. But this was only a minor obstacle as we did order a grand list of foods my parents would deem excessively decadent for a regular dinner. But it's a new year, baby.

We started with roast duck wrapped in rice flour buns with scallions and plum sauce. The duck skin was oily and crisp. Fantastic. We also ordered sweet and sour pork chops, a mixture of duck, pickled vegetables, sprouts and mushrooms, e-fu noodles with crabmeat and chive blossoms, Yang Chow fried rice, steamed fish with ginger, scallions and soy sauce, sauteed pea shoots and salt and pepper shrimp. Everyone was ravenous. We spoke and ate until movement became laughable. For me, the highlight was the women's restroom where the door was decorated with a glass plate that displayed an inlaid rose with a pair of lips at the stem. It was the most romantic restroom door I'd ever seen.

Stuffed and sleepy, we were a caravan of Chinese kids who can't read Chinese headed for the trains. On the D (which I thought was the B) I saw this woman sitting across the aisle from me. She seemed worried and I couldn't stop looking at her. I thought she needed consolation. I wondered what troubled her. At moments I thought she might cry. I wanted to wish her well but I refrained. Something kept me silent. Eventually, she closed her eyes and looked to be dozing. This brought me some relief as if she were truly distressed, sleep would not come so easy on the express train that didn't stop at 110th St.

I didn't realize I was on the wrong one until we breezed through my station and I had to switch to a downtown train. There, at 125th Street, I saw these kids with their father and his friend. The boy in the brown jacket splayed himself on the platform bench with a preternatural swagger. The girls, possible siblings, were haughty and stoic. I tried to take their photo without any to do but their father noticed and seemed to be upset. I couldn't hear him through my iPod shuffle but I could feel his displeasure and caught what sounded like muffled unkind words about me. He was a father who kept his children out until midnight on a school night but nonetheless they were his children and I was the girl in the fur coat who so brazenly and obviously was taking pictures of them. It made me regretful. I am not impervious to the annoyance I may cause. I skipped the train that came in order to avoid a confrontation with the father and also with two drunken Korean boys who asked me if the A train stopped at 86th St. It seemed rhetorical. I sensed their mischief. All these factors made me feel nervous so I called the cop and he met me at the station near our apartment.

Seeing him at the top of the stairs was a moment of relief. We walked in the cold night to our home and I felt safe and protected. He'd had a bad day so I tried to dote on him a bit. Boys are funny that way. They want you to know that they're down but they can easily refuse your care. How bold.

The chefs returned late and our nightly ritual of jokes and anecdotes began at 2am. We come together from the corners of the city and we eat. We laugh. We commiserate. We are a family. I asked the cop if he could smuggle his uniform home so that we might each wear a piece of it and take a portrait. A portrait of my safety in a city that grows increasingly more fascinating and frightening each day. I love to come home and as for our portrait, I'm sort of a big deal when it comes to taking photos with a pink camera, you know.

a taste of balmy

Not one delectable thing that I've eaten here can compare to the magic of a warm New York day. Today was delicious.

Some mornings I can't discern the weather from inside my apartment. This morning was standard in that I woke up after noon and leisurely showered and dressed for a day out. I enjoyed a yoga session to Britney's greatest hits. I don't like the calm, chanting, chakra-soothing crap they force on you at yoga studios. I like hip hop and pop music that pulsates and writhes out of the speakers as I stretch and strengthen. I think the juxtaposition calms me.

Cereal in the belly and wool scarf and coat on the body and I was on the move only to step out of my building into a curious and wonderful New York. A New York of a springtime softness. I removed my coat and beamed with delight. It was a beautiful, balmy day and I had missed the morning rain in the safety of my flannel sheets.

At 5pm, I arrived at Bullfrog and Baum for a meeting about a possible internship. The company represents a lot of chefs and restaurants and also has a burgeoning lifestyle division which is where I would land. In all honesty, not an admonishment of their hiring practices but who would say no to me for an UNPAID internship? I enjoyed meeting the women with whom I would work. They were welcoming and encouraging. It felt strange going from one who would order interns around and who had to conduct interviews to be the one sitting on the scrutinized side of the table. I smiled and did my best. I have nothing to lose except two days a week of furious strolling through the streets of Manhattan.

I asked the ladies of Bullfrog for a restaurant recommendation. I was sent to Cafe Grumpy where I sat in the corner with a green tea latte begrudgingly brewed by an obstinate barista. The tea was roasted and clashed with the cream I'd added to it so I finished it as quickly as I could. I attempted to read "The Memory Keeper's Daughter," a novel I stole from a friend but I was too distracted by the city outside.

The sky had dimmed when I began my stroll up 7th Avenue. I surveyed the shops in the fashion district. Fabric stores and notions stores and stylish future designers everywhere. I was hungry and decided to stop at Ginger House which before I looked at the posted menu I had mistaken for an English pub due to its dark wood paneled walls. It felt like I was in Boston or Washington DC. But better...because I craved roast duck and they had it. My parents were 3000 miles away and it was Chinese New Year's Eve. I connected with them gastronomically.

I sat alone along a wall outside a wait station. Most of the patrons were not Chinese but I don't usually judge Chinese restaurants by the racial barometer reading. The waiters were stern but swift and soon I had BBQ pork, roast duck, sauteed string beans and white rice before me. Starved, I set about my dinner and watched a table of loud, boisterous fashionistas. They were dressed with spunk and loving their conversation. As I finished, I cracked open my fortune cookie which read: "Be calm and collected. Peace is a virtue." And then on the reverse, "haircut" with the Chinese characters in translation. I suppose fate finds me harried and hairy. I am not.

I walked. I walked for blocks. Forty. I carefully crossed forty streets along 7th Avenue and then Broadway. I wove through the tourists in Times Square. The lights, the signs, the bustle, the taxis, the life vibrating in the warm air of this glorious night. The last night of the Lunar New Year and I was standing in the middle of the city that continues to entrance me. I looked up to the top of the skyscrapers, the cliffs of industry and we the meandering river of bodies and strollers and packages that course through the divide. I swelled with peace and joy and light. My heart was brighter than the marquees on Broadway.

At Columbus Circle, I boarded the M10 bus headed north on Central Park West. A homeless man also got on and threw his fare with disdain into the till. There was a bit of tension between the driver and this man. A kind woman swiped her Metrocard for him to avoid a delay in service. The driver was edgy. I sat with my leftovers in my lap, the scent of my people wafting out of the smiling plastic bag. When I returned home, my roommate Ed rang and we met to explore our neighborhood and find his dinner.

It was 9:30pm in Harlem with my roommate as we stopped along the restaurant row of Frederick Douglass Parkway. We will try them all in due time. The air began to change. It was growing cold. I decided to take Ed back to Miss Mamie's where I would have my first repeat restaurant experience here. Where without warning, suddenly I became a frantic cornbread glutton. I had just eaten dinner but I consumed two plates of cornbread. I just walked forty blocks, I justified to Ed, so I had to eat four orders of cornbread so that I wouldn't die. Butter became a game of "How much can Katie use?" I made a small city with the emptied, tiny white plastic containers with their foil lids peeled away. Ed ordered us the "Sampler Platter" with Southern fried chicken, North Carolina BBQ rib, short rib and fried shrimp. We had potato salad and beans and rice on the side. Everything was delicious, especially the short rib. The meat was tender and soaked with a rich glaze.

We barely spoke. The comfort between us like that of people who hate yet tolerate each other. As we strolled home, I shivered in my sweatshirt and Ed repeatedly offered me his jacket. Perhaps we don't hate each other. Or perhaps one beautiful day had thawed a hardened cop turning him into the chivalrous gentleman I glimpse now and again. A man doesn't always have to be a meal of perfection. Sometimes a taste is good enough to tide you over. Much like the day that will resound in my memory. A day that was everything I loved about New York from all my vacations here.

At home, more eating. Nate had made hummus and babaganouj today which we inhaled on soft torn slices of pita bread in front of the ALT (Absurdly Large Television.) We watched Project Runway and retired to our rooms in the wee hours of the morning. Our midnight snacks a new favorite pastime.

wither i wandered

He was late. I stood outside the appointed Starbucks at Hudson and King, thick and perfect Jacques Torres dark hot chocolate in my hand. It was the earliest I'd woken up since moving here. And he was late.

Months ago, a gentleman excused himself from my boss' office during an unexpected phone call my boss had to take that interrupted their meeting. As he sat politely in the chair across from my cubicle, he asked me about my plan at the company. I told him I was moving to New York to be a writer (in theory.) He offered to introduce me to his friend who was a fairly accomplished writer living in the city. The writer who would be late for our meeting.

On the train downtown, I saw a handful of Giants fans wearing the mass produced jerseys of their idols. An Eli Manning stood over me as he examined the MTA map. I asked him if they were going somewhere, like the Pro Bowl perhaps. For those of you who are football deficient, the Pro Bowl is an assembly of the best players in the National Football League who get together after the season just to play for fun. This Sunday LIVE FROM HONOLULU, HAWAII!!! RAWRRRRR!!! BEER BEER BEER MANLY MANLY MANLY. Just when you thought there would be no more football, the money grubbing NFL brings you MORE football!!

The Eli Manning pointed out his father on the train with us. It was sweet. Filial fanaticism. I thought they were merely extra exhuberant but apparently they were headed to a parade! I've only attended gay pride parades and I was fairly certain that this particular one would be decidedly "un-gay."

The writer. I watched him walk past me and survey the Starbucks for the self-described "tall Chinese girl." He looked dodgy. He wore a blue Dodgers hat with a moustache and a beard.

"Kathleen?" he asked as he walked out of the caffeine fray. His expressionless face would later appear bored.

We walked to a diner a few blocks away and had eggs with bacon so dark it looked like strips of tar. He asked me what I wanted to write. I asked him his process. Had he been more interested, I think he might be incredulous at my lack of focus but mostly he sat across from me, clearing his sinuses and telling me about how he never reads what he writes and that he gets paid a lot of money for it. I wasn't sure what I needed to get from him but what I got was the technique of writing the perfect sentence and then leaving it behind to move onto the next. Without fail. He told me not to self edit. He also told me to, well, write. The fundamental key to writing is writing. He said that it didn't seem like I wanted to write badly enough to belly up to the bar alongside writers who can't fathom doing anything else. So here I am.

He paid for my breakfast and we said goodbye on the corner. He told me to email him and let him know how it's going. It was generous of him to meet with me, a complete stranger. I appreciated that. I don't think he appreciated my never having read a single thing he'd written. Presumptuous of him to think that I would have. But then again, he writes without fear and with the assumption that all those who are literate will rush to find his words on the printed page.

After our meeting, I walked through Soho looking for a shop selling Valentines. I stopped at a Daffys and spontaneously tried on a pinstriped Elie Tahari pant suit. It itched. I felt fraudulent. The suit represented the opposite of what I was about to do on a Tuesday afternoon. I had no destination. I had no plan. I had the day to myself.

I wandered in and out of stores. I marveled at the simple yet entirely fantastic items at Muji. I walked on Canal Street. I saw fakes on display. Watches, scarves, small electronics all copied from quality originals. Other fraudulent items. When I reached the Village, it started to rain.

Sans umbrella, I randomly took shelter at Pennyfeathers Cafe on 7th Avenue South and Barrow Street. The enclosed patio in the front was fairly empty and I sat in a corner with windows around me. I opened my Time magazine and ordered lemonade from a lovely and cheerful waiter named Issac. The chill of the rain came through the glass protecting me from its moisture. I asked Issac which soup he liked and he produced a mild black bean with sour cream and onions on the side. He spoke with an Israeli accent and had the manner of a loving auntie. The starchy dark soup comforted me a little but there was something about the day that left me searching for true warmth. When the rain dissipated, I dressed for my departure but I stood next to my table for a moment as Issac came to retrieve my credit card slip. I needed a favor.

"Issac? Would it be weird if I asked you for a hug?"

"NO! Oh, you make me feel so good!" he replied. We hugged near the door of the restaurant. He was delighted and held his hand over his heart. He asked me if I lived in the neighborhood. When I told him I lived in Harlem, a woman at a nearby table asked me where specifically and then told me that her mother lived at 125th and Lenox. Issac told me to come back whenever I felt like talking or having a cup of coffee. He smiled so kindly on me that it was the bit of sunshine I was looking for on this overcast day.

I strolled to Kate's Paperie to look for Valentines (paper not people.) There, I picked up a job application. Imagine me! Amidst the paperpress notecards and ribbons by the yard. Crafty heaven. From Kate's, I stopped at the grocery store for fruit and laundry detergent.

On the C train home, I realized that I had left my Time magazine at Pennyfeathers. I put my laundry in the wash and called my new friend Issac. He told me that he was taking the magazine home so that it didn't get lost in the shuffle at the restaurant and that he would be working Saturday through Tuesday. I told him I'd be back to see him and pick up the rag over the weekend. I look forward to hugging him again.

My evening at home was peaceful and domestic. I sent thank you notes to friends in LA. Belated with more coming but still, gratitude delayed. I walked to the bodega at the corner of our building and traded 5 nickels for the lone quarter I still needed to dry my whites. I made myself a sandwich with the leftover prime rib. Cheddar, beef and a little bit of Gulden's mustard. I liked meeting the man at the bodega. I liked pretty much everyone and everything about my day. It's probably a little odd for New York.

When my roommates came home, we stayed up late recounting the day. We snacked and laughed. They made grilled cheese sandwiches with the bread and sharp cheddar I'd bought at the grocery store. I've deemed Nate's impersonation of Frenchmen to be a new anti-depressant. His intonation is simply, like my day out was, "hah-may-zang-ghah." And for a good belly laugh, it's never too late.