It's here! It's April and it's spring. The weather has finally warmed and bare skin is out in bloom. The trees in Central Park are shivering with new leaves. The ground is yawning awake with daffodils.
The posts have become sparse over the past month because I've been busy working. The days of wine and roses or in my case fresh squeezed orange juice and idle shopping have faded into a blur of production assistant work and helping out on a photo shoot. The shine of Manhattan became tarnished with 5:30am call times which resulted in the common cold which stayed the course of a 2-day photo shoot. Good thing the models were cookies and cheesecake and not wafer-thin models with weak immune systems.
My days on set were long and I didn't realize I was becoming ill. I thought I was merely a large wimp with no desire to get near a director or a famous actor, unlike many of my colleagues working on WANTED re-shoots. The first day I was outside in 40 degree wind for about 12 hours. By the end of the day, I was half asleep in the holding area where I guarded the personal effects of extras with little to no gumption. The second day on set was much more pleasant both in weather and in company. I was assigned to a lead production assistant from LA and we spoke of the sunny city we missed. It was a great experience for me to see the nuts and bolts of where the money I'd see approved in an office faraway would go. From the signature page of a greenlight package to the hiring of a somnolent assistant to direct pedestrians away from the location of a chase scene, the view was very different.
The photo shoot was for Self magazine. I had been introduced to the food stylist through my eating partner Molly. Ed was a lot of fun to work with and a total genius about faking delicious food. A former chef and restauranteur, he had a depth of knowledge which bridged the gap between creating the illusion of something tasty and the actual creation of something tasty. The studio was the quintessential and cliched "movie version" of what a photo studio would be. Big windows, thin gossamer curtains, a view of the Hudson River, white walls. A stocked kitchen with pots and utensils, bowls and counter space. I wanted to live there. But instead, I'm leaving to go back to LA. By the time I go, I would have been a New Yorker for three glorious months minus one trip west, one trip to Boston and one trip to London (since it's so close.)
Yesterday, I ran the curvy perimeter of Harlem Meer which is a small pond near our corner of Central Park. I saw a man catch a largemouth bass. I stomped on the wet dirt and smiled at the freshness of spring. The air was warm and I strolled through Nolita with Molly after dinner at Eight Mile Creek marveling at the change that occurs during a day here. It was overcast, then mild and warm, then sunny. An unpredictable mix of thaw that the city and its inhabitants enjoy.
Dinner was adventurous, emu carpaccio served with rocket (arugula) and lemon with a slathering of fragrant black truffle oil. The dish was surprisingly meaty with the dark, blood-rich emu slices covering the entire plate. We also tried a crawfish soba with miso butter which was good in flavor but soft and pasty in texture due to overcooked soba noodles.
For our entrees, Molly had rack of lamb with garlic mashed potatoes and a rocket salad. The lamb was tender and cooked more rare than she ordered but it suited the meat well. I had seared Maine scallops in a mild curry sauce with a cellophane noodle salad that had carrot and (what?) more rocket. Everything was good.
Dessert was ordered because of its name really.. LAMINGTONS! LAMINGTONS! are sponge cakes dipped in chocolate and covered in dry coconut flakes. One came with a strawberry jam center and both were served with whipped cream. The sponge cake was a bit dry and the combination made Molly exclaim "This is something someone liked eating as a child." It grew on me though as I sipped a mild chamomile tea.
Coming out of the subway on my way home, I was met with a sudden downpour of big, fat raindrops. I laughed as I pulled out my umbrella, the water coming down in waves as if every apartment dweller on Frederick Douglass Boulevard came to their street-facing window with a kitchen sink hose and pulled the trigger. My pant legs were soaked. I looked at the splashes in the puddles at my feet, crowns the size of half dollars popping open and splashing into the sooty mess that drained slowly into the street. It was wonderful. I'm sad to leave it.
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