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.