When I turned 27, I bought a big girl bed. After years of sleeping on a European single which is like an extra-long twin from your old collegiate days, I bought myself a $150 frame from Ikea and a $700 full-sized mattress. Oh, how the extra inches felt like yards and yards of drowsy terrain.
On the bed, during the precious few moments before slumber rolls over me like a fog approaching the shore, I read a few pages from whatever books I'm into. Being too tired to return them to their respective shelves, I've allowed a pillowside library to erect itself on the corner of my mattress. The library usually contains anywhere from 2 to 4 selections. When the number of volumes becomes too high and I can't sleep for fear of a stack of books falling on my head in the middle of the night, the lesser titles find their way to the floor.
It's an interesting barometer of my mental or intellectual state. Sometimes of my emotional state. Consistently over the past few years, dictionaries have appeared and disappeared from the library. In the periodicals, there's usually a section or two of the New York Times. Over the summer, I read On Food and Cooking by Harold McGee. Then it was the September issue of Vogue and the Food Lover's Companion (3rd Edition). A UK paperback of "The Prophet" by Gibran travels back and forth between the mattress and the floor.
If you didn't know me, you could easily take the books and conjure what would probably be fairly accurate assumptions about my interests. I'm probably a "foodie". I'm probably a woman. I probably went to college. Maybe I'm an artist or perhaps a wannabe hippie. Maybe, based on the frequent appearance of dictionaries, I'm an English professor. I'm probably an old English professor as many of the dictionaries were published before 1960. Maybe one of my liberal and fairy-headed students gave me a copy of "The Prophet" as a gift. These are all reasonable paint strokes giving context to a stack of books.
Right now, the assortment of books is fascinating. I'm currently sleeping with three, independently published poetry books one of which was copied at Kinko's and stapled by hand and a book on self-defense. I recently saw the poets Ellyn Maybe and my idol and friend Rachel McKibbens and quickly snatched their chapbooks from them, shoved money into their hands and ran off to immediately crack them open. The "Complete Guide to Unarmed Combat Techniques" was written by man whose nickname is "Lofty". Presumably a reflection of his goals. This one I found sitting in a friend's box of discards.
To save myself, I'm armed with the writhing, tentative words of two poets. I've got the curt directions of a British Survival Instructor whose orders are accompanied by agitated black and white illustrations of people fighting off attacks. You can tell the women by their skirts and black high heels.
Defend your body with your body. Defend your heart with your heart. Here's a better glimpse into the pages that punch and jab and wriggle me free. Reprinted without permission.
"I found a year that likes my body
1921
girl sitting on a rock
Picasso painted a woman with my thighs."
"I lean into the paintings.
I veer to the outside to find out what Picasso
called each work.
I like titles.
Their vocabulary of oil."
-Ellyn Maybe, from the poem "Picasso" found in walking barefoot in the glassblowers museum
"The head on a hinge, the man notices a small light coming
from somewhere inside the cat, possibly between the fourth
and fifth cervical vertebrae. He takes his pen and digs around,
parting flesh and fur chips as best he can.
Inside, he finds Theresa, the first girl to tell him "no."
He can tell it is Theresa, even though she is considerably smaller, because she is sitting on a stool polishing spoons by candlelight and of all the women he has ever known,
only Theresa would do such a considerate thing
at at time like this. Theresa! I knew it was you! How are you?
Theresa looks up and smiles.
I'm doing just fine, Charles. Thank you.
She sets down a polished spoon inside of the other.
There are tall stacks of spoons spooning that surround her
feet and stool. She pulls a new spoon from a crate
and huh huhs her breath into its shallow bowl,
rubbing it with a handkerchief. She is mesmerizing.
A three-inch tall Elizabeth Taylor.
She continues to polish spoons as if he is not there.
The man realizes he has interrupted a meaningful pattern
of pure and absolute beauty. A natural machine, designed for no
one other than the machine itself. Clumsy, he interrupts one last
time. Are you thirst Theresa, would you like me
to bring you a cup of tea?
Theresa continues her stack, then reminds him:
There isn't a teacup small enough. The words
form a dinner table of malice inside his chest,"
-Rachel McKibbens, from the poem "Thirsty Theresa" found in Tomatoes and Daffodils
"The teeth can be very useful in self-defense. If you're a woman, bite on whatever you can get hold of, ideally the ear. And once you bite don't let go - you'll just arouse the attacker. Bite into his neck, his throat, his ear; just bite, chew, rip and spit."
-John "Lofty" Wiseman, "The SAS Self-Defense Handbook: A Complete Guide to Unarmed Combat Techniques - Chapter 2: Your Body's Weapons"
Friday, November 13, 2009
Thursday, November 12, 2009
chickenhead
I roasted my first chicken last week. When I purchased the bird from a Korean market, I stared wanly at the chicken head encased with the body under the cellophane skin. It looked sleepy and featherless.
I prepared a brine with Kosher salt, garlic and a little bit of sugar. "It should taste like the ocean in terms of saltiness" said Nate, my professor. I took teaspoons of brine from my stock pot until the mixture reminded me of my first surf lesson.
Upon tearing the plastic wrap off the bird, I realized that the chicken still had its head on. I had picked it up out of the tray with my bare hands so I leaned over the sink to have a think. Do I put the bird down, wash my hands and take out a knife to decapitate it or do I brine with the head on and return later with the guillotine? I decided on the latter so the whole bird went into the pot and I washed and returned to my other prep.
When it came time to cut it off, I wasn't as squeamish as I thought I'd be. After a pointer from Nate, I took my gyotou and cut the head off at the base of the neck and threw the head into the trash. The stuffing, salting and tying took a while but eventually the bird was placed on a bed of spinach and yams to roast for about an hour. Meanwhile, I made creamed corn with what I thought was fresh corn from the market and a basil plum cobbler.
The chicken was saltier than we thought it'd be but most of the salt fell into the spinach and yams. Those were eaten sparingly. The creamed corn suffered due to old, tough kernels and the basil plum cobbler was surprisingly minty due to Thai instead of Italian basil. All in all, we had a good meal and a lesson that sometimes you have to deal with life head on.
I prepared a brine with Kosher salt, garlic and a little bit of sugar. "It should taste like the ocean in terms of saltiness" said Nate, my professor. I took teaspoons of brine from my stock pot until the mixture reminded me of my first surf lesson.
Upon tearing the plastic wrap off the bird, I realized that the chicken still had its head on. I had picked it up out of the tray with my bare hands so I leaned over the sink to have a think. Do I put the bird down, wash my hands and take out a knife to decapitate it or do I brine with the head on and return later with the guillotine? I decided on the latter so the whole bird went into the pot and I washed and returned to my other prep.
When it came time to cut it off, I wasn't as squeamish as I thought I'd be. After a pointer from Nate, I took my gyotou and cut the head off at the base of the neck and threw the head into the trash. The stuffing, salting and tying took a while but eventually the bird was placed on a bed of spinach and yams to roast for about an hour. Meanwhile, I made creamed corn with what I thought was fresh corn from the market and a basil plum cobbler.
The chicken was saltier than we thought it'd be but most of the salt fell into the spinach and yams. Those were eaten sparingly. The creamed corn suffered due to old, tough kernels and the basil plum cobbler was surprisingly minty due to Thai instead of Italian basil. All in all, we had a good meal and a lesson that sometimes you have to deal with life head on.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
how it all comes around
About a year ago, I posted about returning my keys and my thanks to New York City. I'm back on the blog now, with a year of stories from the marketing trenches of a small, burgeoning restaurant group. I will share some of those moments in time. For now, I want to offer a bit of ridiculousness about how things come around.
I have a baker friend. A brilliant and profoundly dedicated baker. The first time I tasted his pain au lait, the world seemed to shift ever so slightly. The light, slightly elastic white bread melted in my mouth and I understood that I had not eaten the right bread for most of my life. What does right mean? I wish I had the words to explain it. It was as if clarity burst into my brain through the roof of my mouth. The pain au lait was ever so sweet with a moisture-leaving quality that most breads don't have. What do you give to someone who has changed your understanding of a food? Who has created loaf after loaf, croissant after croissant of wonderful, well groomed yeast and flour?
He likes Rice Krispy Squares.
Making him Rice Krispy Squares leaves me feeling like the Little Dummer Boy haphazardly whacking a tom-tom for the baby Jesus. But I took to the task with the precision of a professional. I read and re-read the 5 lines in the recipe (3 of the lines are occupied by the ingredient list) and prepared my mise en place. I measured the marshmallows with my digital food scale. I microwaved the butter in 15 second increments so that I would not overheat it. I stirred in the marshmallows until consistently melted; whatever evil they are made of adequately softened and wrangled. I added the Rice Krispies slowly so that I would not have too thin a coat of this sweet, gooey white gold. I shaped the squares by hand on a Silpat.
They're sitting on the counter now. A far cry from frankincense and myrrh but we do what we can and we give what we are able to make without fucking it up.
Let the food blogging begin.
I have a baker friend. A brilliant and profoundly dedicated baker. The first time I tasted his pain au lait, the world seemed to shift ever so slightly. The light, slightly elastic white bread melted in my mouth and I understood that I had not eaten the right bread for most of my life. What does right mean? I wish I had the words to explain it. It was as if clarity burst into my brain through the roof of my mouth. The pain au lait was ever so sweet with a moisture-leaving quality that most breads don't have. What do you give to someone who has changed your understanding of a food? Who has created loaf after loaf, croissant after croissant of wonderful, well groomed yeast and flour?
He likes Rice Krispy Squares.
Making him Rice Krispy Squares leaves me feeling like the Little Dummer Boy haphazardly whacking a tom-tom for the baby Jesus. But I took to the task with the precision of a professional. I read and re-read the 5 lines in the recipe (3 of the lines are occupied by the ingredient list) and prepared my mise en place. I measured the marshmallows with my digital food scale. I microwaved the butter in 15 second increments so that I would not overheat it. I stirred in the marshmallows until consistently melted; whatever evil they are made of adequately softened and wrangled. I added the Rice Krispies slowly so that I would not have too thin a coat of this sweet, gooey white gold. I shaped the squares by hand on a Silpat.
They're sitting on the counter now. A far cry from frankincense and myrrh but we do what we can and we give what we are able to make without fucking it up.
Let the food blogging begin.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
the keys
Today, I mailed the keys to my New York apartment back to New York. Back to my roommates who will be moving out this weekend, ending a tale that started a little over a year ago.
I went away for no real reason. It was so frivolous really. But I don't have any regrets. I look back sometimes, when someone mentions a restaurant I once knew in New York, when someone speaks of the vibrant energy in Manhattan. I was there. I took in those skyscrapers almost every day.
I'm poorer now, in bank account. I'm less a lot of clothes and shoes and material. But I'm so much more brave. I'm in a job that I have no experience doing and every day, I face my coworkers with the hope that we'll succeed together. And I let them watch me fall but not fail. What a difference a letter makes. Letters are the keys to telling a story and I'm proud of mine.
I went away for no real reason. It was so frivolous really. But I don't have any regrets. I look back sometimes, when someone mentions a restaurant I once knew in New York, when someone speaks of the vibrant energy in Manhattan. I was there. I took in those skyscrapers almost every day.
I'm poorer now, in bank account. I'm less a lot of clothes and shoes and material. But I'm so much more brave. I'm in a job that I have no experience doing and every day, I face my coworkers with the hope that we'll succeed together. And I let them watch me fall but not fail. What a difference a letter makes. Letters are the keys to telling a story and I'm proud of mine.
Friday, June 13, 2008
no air
There is a song currently emanating from the radios of 14 year-olds everywhere by Jordin Sparks and Chris Brown. It's called "No Air" and it's about being in love to the point where your paramour's affections become as necessary as air. It's growing on me as I listen to it here in Aspen. Or maybe it's because I'm delirious from the altitude and the fact that I literally have NO AIR because at this height, the oxygen content of the air is 53% of what it is at sea level. I'm huffing and puffing all day.
The weather is beautiful and I write to you from the balcony of my room at the Aspen Meadows Resort. Thanks to my job and the good people at Food and Wine magazine who sponsor the event which I'm attending, I'm able to gaze at snow covered mountains riddled with dark green pines and yet wear my pajamas outside in the sun as tourists play guitar on the grass below.
We arrived on Thursday afternoon into the valley of this mountain range and had dinner at Cache Cache with Dan Phillips of The Grateful Palate. The restaurant was bustling with locals and visitors alike. I started with a lovely beet salad with goat cheese, mixed greens and a light lemon-truffle vinaigrette. I veered off the beaten path and ordered house smoked salmon and a seared foie gras appetizer for my duo-app entree. The salmon was soft and fishy with tart creme fraiche and accompaniments like capers, onion and chive. The foie was delicious as foie always is (except at eat. on sunset... what a mistake!) For dessert, a trio of ice creams - vanilla, chocolate and a fresh mint and chocolate chip which sorely disappointed me because the chocolate chips were not meant for ice cream and tasted like bits of brown crayon.
Yesterday, lunch was enjoyed at Boogie's Diner where a truly American tasting was ordered. Chili cheese fries, a cheeseburger and a meatloaf sandwich were split between my boss and me. Both of us becoming lethargic and stoney by late afternoon. I splurged on a strawberry malt which was pink and doughy but in a good way.
Back in LA, I left my car in the care of a friend who noticed my tire to be a little flat so he added a few PSI to it. I could certainly use a bit of that here.
More later!
The weather is beautiful and I write to you from the balcony of my room at the Aspen Meadows Resort. Thanks to my job and the good people at Food and Wine magazine who sponsor the event which I'm attending, I'm able to gaze at snow covered mountains riddled with dark green pines and yet wear my pajamas outside in the sun as tourists play guitar on the grass below.
We arrived on Thursday afternoon into the valley of this mountain range and had dinner at Cache Cache with Dan Phillips of The Grateful Palate. The restaurant was bustling with locals and visitors alike. I started with a lovely beet salad with goat cheese, mixed greens and a light lemon-truffle vinaigrette. I veered off the beaten path and ordered house smoked salmon and a seared foie gras appetizer for my duo-app entree. The salmon was soft and fishy with tart creme fraiche and accompaniments like capers, onion and chive. The foie was delicious as foie always is (except at eat. on sunset... what a mistake!) For dessert, a trio of ice creams - vanilla, chocolate and a fresh mint and chocolate chip which sorely disappointed me because the chocolate chips were not meant for ice cream and tasted like bits of brown crayon.
Yesterday, lunch was enjoyed at Boogie's Diner where a truly American tasting was ordered. Chili cheese fries, a cheeseburger and a meatloaf sandwich were split between my boss and me. Both of us becoming lethargic and stoney by late afternoon. I splurged on a strawberry malt which was pink and doughy but in a good way.
Back in LA, I left my car in the care of a friend who noticed my tire to be a little flat so he added a few PSI to it. I could certainly use a bit of that here.
More later!
Monday, June 9, 2008
"112th and Central Park West, please."
It's the last time I'll utter those words for a while.
I'm leaving on a jet plane in a few hours and once again, I'm saying goodbye to the city. But this trip has made it clear to me that one day, I must be back here. Hopefully I'll have found a job and be living in an apartment I like and maybe, if I'm lucky, be in love as well.
My first destination yesterday afternoon after a lazy morning under the hot sun of my apartment window was the Korin store on Warren Street. Surrounded by so many professional chefs, I've learned that a good knife is the start to good cooking so I bought my first "real" knife, a 210mm Togiharu gyutou. It's a carbon steel knife which means it will rust if I don't use it but it also means that it keeps its edge just a little bit longer. Good thing because I tend to lose my edge when I'm back in the confines of Hollywood wonderland Los Angeles. I've been taught how to sharpen the blade and as soon as I get a stone, the smell of my own blood mixed with iron will fill the air of my new apartment. That's how you know you're doing it right.
From Korin I wandered to the Lower East Side to stop into one of my favorite boutiques called Honey in the Rough. Ashley, the curly-haired proprietor of the store is on vacation so I didn't get to thank her in person for the postcard she sent me in LA thanking me for my purchases. The streets emanated the heat of the reflected sun, concrete hoarding the warmth of the day only to release it through the night. I made my way north to the East Village where I met Felipe and friends at Luzzo's for pizza and conversation. It just sort of happened. The Caesar salad Felipe and I shared was delicious with a slick, fishy dressing and hard, crunchy croutons. Two pizzas were ordered, a Tartufata and an Arugola, and both were incredible. Just as I remembered.
I shopped at Filene's Basement in Union Square and had a late night snack with my roommate Karen at Pongsri Thai on 23rd and 7th. She had pad thai with tofu and I pad see-ew with tofu and we chatted about our lives. Returning to the apartment, Karen lasted nary 15 minutes before passing out and I took phone calls from friends who needed to be caught up.
This morning, I left for A Tempo, a boutique on the Upper West Side which had a necklace I needed for a friend. From there I wandered along Amsterdam and Broadway and picked up the necessary items for tonight's event.. mainly I needed baby powder because I was so sweaty all day and a nail clipper. I met Felipe at Niko's on 76th and Broadway for a quick Greek plate of antipasti. I haven't had good Greek food in a month and I was really hurting for some tarama and hummus.
It was then time to pretty-up for the James Beard Awards, the reason I was back. Felipe helped me with my dress and out the door into the 90 degrees we went. We hailed a cab and stopped at a Starbucks before I walked up the red carpet to go know what I needed to know. Outside Starbucks, Felipe and I encountered Bruce Willis, Demi Moore and two of their children. I didn't recognize them as I was focused on my tall iced green tea latte but heard Demi's voice and turned to see Felipe's face in that controlled expressive state of surprise.
He left me at the awards while I waited for my new boss to arrive and watched chef after chef walk the red carpet and stop for paparazzi and interviewers galore. Food is big now, friends. Bigger than most people would have expected. Big to the point where there's actually a red carpet now at Lincoln Center which is traversed by the cooks we've exhalted and the people they've fed or wed or hired to help them.
The ceremony was filled with tributes and acknowledgments. It was kind and respectful and full of admiration. There were famous chefs, products of the Food Network star-making machine (Bobby Flay.) There were badass chefs who ran about the stage as if they'd owned it their whole lives (Masaharu Morimoto and Michel Richard.) There were chefs who spoke calmly to a crowd rapt by their words (Thomas Keller and Grant Achatz.) It was a black tie affair with all the hype of a big splashy awards show except the catering at this event was probably better than anything the Oscars has ever seen.
My chef did not win the award for which he was nominated but he was unfazed. It's still about the cooking afterall and the family he has built in the restaurants he has opened. At the reception after the show, it was all about eating and drinking and hugging old friends. For me, I just tried to be useful by remembering names and polite by not speaking with my mouth full and graceful by not stepping on the train of the red BCBG Max Azria gown I wore while holding clutch purse and programs in one hand, food and drink in the other. In my patent leather blush pink heels. The ones Chef Dong Choi calls "ridiculous."
I left the party around 11pm and walked alone to the line of taxis waiting to ferry revelers to their hotels and homes. I gave the driver my destination and as we drove north along Amsterdam Avenue, I kid you not, the lights turned green one after another as we approached every street. Sixty blocks and we only stopped once.
I leave in 7 hours and I should be asleep now but the lingering warmth of the day has permeated into night and my room is too stuffy for comfort. And part of me, a small bit, doesn't want this to end, this love affair. Until I find my person in life, I will always pine for the city where I loved to be. I will come back to it and for it.
I'm leaving on a jet plane in a few hours and once again, I'm saying goodbye to the city. But this trip has made it clear to me that one day, I must be back here. Hopefully I'll have found a job and be living in an apartment I like and maybe, if I'm lucky, be in love as well.
My first destination yesterday afternoon after a lazy morning under the hot sun of my apartment window was the Korin store on Warren Street. Surrounded by so many professional chefs, I've learned that a good knife is the start to good cooking so I bought my first "real" knife, a 210mm Togiharu gyutou. It's a carbon steel knife which means it will rust if I don't use it but it also means that it keeps its edge just a little bit longer. Good thing because I tend to lose my edge when I'm back in the confines of Hollywood wonderland Los Angeles. I've been taught how to sharpen the blade and as soon as I get a stone, the smell of my own blood mixed with iron will fill the air of my new apartment. That's how you know you're doing it right.
From Korin I wandered to the Lower East Side to stop into one of my favorite boutiques called Honey in the Rough. Ashley, the curly-haired proprietor of the store is on vacation so I didn't get to thank her in person for the postcard she sent me in LA thanking me for my purchases. The streets emanated the heat of the reflected sun, concrete hoarding the warmth of the day only to release it through the night. I made my way north to the East Village where I met Felipe and friends at Luzzo's for pizza and conversation. It just sort of happened. The Caesar salad Felipe and I shared was delicious with a slick, fishy dressing and hard, crunchy croutons. Two pizzas were ordered, a Tartufata and an Arugola, and both were incredible. Just as I remembered.
I shopped at Filene's Basement in Union Square and had a late night snack with my roommate Karen at Pongsri Thai on 23rd and 7th. She had pad thai with tofu and I pad see-ew with tofu and we chatted about our lives. Returning to the apartment, Karen lasted nary 15 minutes before passing out and I took phone calls from friends who needed to be caught up.
This morning, I left for A Tempo, a boutique on the Upper West Side which had a necklace I needed for a friend. From there I wandered along Amsterdam and Broadway and picked up the necessary items for tonight's event.. mainly I needed baby powder because I was so sweaty all day and a nail clipper. I met Felipe at Niko's on 76th and Broadway for a quick Greek plate of antipasti. I haven't had good Greek food in a month and I was really hurting for some tarama and hummus.
It was then time to pretty-up for the James Beard Awards, the reason I was back. Felipe helped me with my dress and out the door into the 90 degrees we went. We hailed a cab and stopped at a Starbucks before I walked up the red carpet to go know what I needed to know. Outside Starbucks, Felipe and I encountered Bruce Willis, Demi Moore and two of their children. I didn't recognize them as I was focused on my tall iced green tea latte but heard Demi's voice and turned to see Felipe's face in that controlled expressive state of surprise.
He left me at the awards while I waited for my new boss to arrive and watched chef after chef walk the red carpet and stop for paparazzi and interviewers galore. Food is big now, friends. Bigger than most people would have expected. Big to the point where there's actually a red carpet now at Lincoln Center which is traversed by the cooks we've exhalted and the people they've fed or wed or hired to help them.
The ceremony was filled with tributes and acknowledgments. It was kind and respectful and full of admiration. There were famous chefs, products of the Food Network star-making machine (Bobby Flay.) There were badass chefs who ran about the stage as if they'd owned it their whole lives (Masaharu Morimoto and Michel Richard.) There were chefs who spoke calmly to a crowd rapt by their words (Thomas Keller and Grant Achatz.) It was a black tie affair with all the hype of a big splashy awards show except the catering at this event was probably better than anything the Oscars has ever seen.
My chef did not win the award for which he was nominated but he was unfazed. It's still about the cooking afterall and the family he has built in the restaurants he has opened. At the reception after the show, it was all about eating and drinking and hugging old friends. For me, I just tried to be useful by remembering names and polite by not speaking with my mouth full and graceful by not stepping on the train of the red BCBG Max Azria gown I wore while holding clutch purse and programs in one hand, food and drink in the other. In my patent leather blush pink heels. The ones Chef Dong Choi calls "ridiculous."
I left the party around 11pm and walked alone to the line of taxis waiting to ferry revelers to their hotels and homes. I gave the driver my destination and as we drove north along Amsterdam Avenue, I kid you not, the lights turned green one after another as we approached every street. Sixty blocks and we only stopped once.
I leave in 7 hours and I should be asleep now but the lingering warmth of the day has permeated into night and my room is too stuffy for comfort. And part of me, a small bit, doesn't want this to end, this love affair. Until I find my person in life, I will always pine for the city where I loved to be. I will come back to it and for it.
Saturday, June 7, 2008
a month and a day
I'm back in the space where I used to lay. I'm sitting in my bed in my apartment in Manhattan. In the apartment I still rent. For a month and three days, I'm bi-coastal.
The smells are familiar. The soap from my roommates' bathroom. The trees across the street. The stillness of humid summer air in the stairwell. I've missed this city.
When I first got back to LA, I immediately felt the absence of skyscrapers and beveled windows. But my time here was so short relative to my life there that moments arose when I had to remind myself that I once lived in this city. That I used to be a New Yorker. I was so happy to see my friends who had celebrated my departure with hope and encouragement. It felt right to be back but now that I'm here again, I'm all goopy inside. And it's not the H and H bagel with cream cheese and smoked salmon I just devoured. Nor is it the jet lag. It's the ache of knowing that I will have to leave brokenhearted.
The smells are familiar. The soap from my roommates' bathroom. The trees across the street. The stillness of humid summer air in the stairwell. I've missed this city.
When I first got back to LA, I immediately felt the absence of skyscrapers and beveled windows. But my time here was so short relative to my life there that moments arose when I had to remind myself that I once lived in this city. That I used to be a New Yorker. I was so happy to see my friends who had celebrated my departure with hope and encouragement. It felt right to be back but now that I'm here again, I'm all goopy inside. And it's not the H and H bagel with cream cheese and smoked salmon I just devoured. Nor is it the jet lag. It's the ache of knowing that I will have to leave brokenhearted.
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