Small Town Winter

Harry said that it’s more dangerous in the country than it is in the city. I had never heard that before, but I have spent years ruminating about it and finding ways to agree.

I have lived in New York City for 11 years now and in New York State my whole life. I grew up in southern Westchester, just a stone’s throw north of the Bronx. My family did not live in a small town, it was technically a little city encircled by suburbs. And both of my parents were New York City kids, which affected how we lived our suburban life: in suspicion of pretty much everyone and their squirrels. My parents spent many years cultivating a well-worn indifference to the majority of our neighbors. So, I never experienced the suffocation and acute yearning caused by growing up in a true one-horse town. It was that one lost year I spent in upstate New York that I felt the first miserable tickle of these creepy crawly town-averse tendencies. This Christmas we went to an Inn in New Hampshire. We spent two days there. It snowed and it was really very traditionally lovely, but that awful sensation welled up again:

It began with coffee that has that halo of watery weakness along the top rim, then came the ugly New England sweaters, turtle-necks, beer guts and typical pleasantries. It all makes me irrationally sick. Even two days of the same chubby judgemental Innkeeper knowing when I swish open and closed the Inn door irritates the shit out of me. Is it too much to ask that you ignore me? I don’t like it that someone is cleaning our room who is probably a cousin of the owner, who now knows we didn’t make the bed or that we have a bottle of Drambuie and an expensive camera in our room. I imagine the townspeople looking me up and down because my coat and boots are different—then I think that I must be going crazy—and then I see them do it.

I want a label for my disorder so I can officially hide behind it. Manhattanitis is too snobby, and I admit that what I have is a neurosis and not a sophistication. Its more like urban itch or a creeping crawling or a shortness of breath. I can really only stay one night at an adorable Inn. And Bed and Breakfast’s are completely out due to the high level of intimacy with chatty strangers at breakfast.

I—like Groucho and then like Woody—have a problem being part of any club that would have me as a member. I am not a joiner. This city is the only place that I can gracefully belong by not belonging. Sure its nice to live near Central Park and Carnegie Hall, but its the gritty anonymity that I need. I need my ipod and my coat and to walk a million blocks all bundled up and unavailable while being continually bombarded by all that is magnificent and horrifying in the world.

I am sure part of my discomfort comes from just being away from the comforts of a home anywhere, which is provincial and high-maintenance and all the things I try hard to resist, but its also true. I admit, I am philopatric, or “home-loving” in Greek.

Now, in spite of my discomfort, if you can believe it, we did actually have fun. We went out in the blizzard and cross country skied in the forest, which was dramatic and beautiful and my left toe turned lavender. But I will tell you about that another time.

Incidentally, since Harry was elderly, I think what he meant was that if you had a sudden health emergency in the country that it would take ages for someone to reach you. But I like to think that Harry also meant that the country could be a danger to that kooky urban freedom.

The Great Pumpkin Pie

Forget turkey. Pumpkin pie is what defines the Thanksgiving table. Its orange ochre silkiness and notes of nutmeg evoke an anthem of autumnal comfort.

This year, for 9 minutes, we stopped to watch the parade balloons inflate. Then, we escaped the tourist-laden streets to have drinks with a friend. After drinks, we went on our pie-seeking way. We headed to the bakery ranked 3rd for the best pumpkin pie in the city. Why 3rd!? Well, numbers 1 and 2 were on the East side, or below 14th St, and the sun was setting fast on Thanksgiving eve. We rushed into the bakery flushed with hasty holiday warmth and anticipation. “We only have the big pies left”, they told us. Our gluttonous minds momentarily fixated on the words big pies, “ We’ll take one!”

On Thanksgiving Thursday, before turkey, and way before any actual conscious giving of thanks, we woke to coffee and a piece of this upper west side tertiary pie. The coffee was, as always, satisfying and delightful. The pie was—to my chagrin—not. Its disappointingly dense body rested in an overly buttery, almost greasy, un-crust. Our mouths considered it, but our hearts didn’t. We mumbled something, blamed ourselves for settling for 3rd, got dressed, and went to my Mother’s for the official celebration.

The meal concluded. And with perfectly cooked turkey behind us, we hunkered down for what we had really come for. My brother had made a pie from scratch, so we left the sub-par pie at home. Now this pie, my brother’s pie, was really something.

It looked as if the filling would spill out all over the table when sliced into, but it didn’t. The first piece I removed stood there on the plate, miraculously contained and regal. It would be a model for all pumpkin pies to come. To be precise, the filling was both pumpkin and yam. And the crust was an expression of ephemeral flakiness. My brother—who I always thought would have made a fine scientist—made the crust with vodka instead of water. The vodka wets the crust mixture at the right time but then evaporates completely when cooking, leaving no trace of vodka flavor, no sugary gluten, only a perfect pie crust in its wake.

With a dollop of lightly-sweetened whipped cream on top, we had what was probably the best, the lightest and most sublime pumpkin pie, ever. As we ate this pie together, we incidentally paused in silence. I know its flavor memory will flirt with our senses for Thanksgivings to come.

Out at the Beach

This September, we went back, even though some of us had never been there before. The place was Rockaway Beach, NY, the date September 25th and the mood, optimistic.

My parents met each other when they were about 9 years old. My father's parents owned a bungalow on Rockaway beach in Queens, my mother's family rented. Each summer, on Memorial day they packed up the big old American cars and drove from East Harlem, and from Corona, out to the beach. They stayed until Labor day. Almost every single summer was spent out there until the early 70's. By then, all three of my older brothers had been born. My mother and my aunts swam with flowered bathing caps, my dad rowed in peace with only the dog in the boat, they watched jets from Idlewild Airport roar overhead and pranced around with the confidence that comes with having fun.

What happened during those summers at the beach was, I am sure, typical of many middle class New York families during that time. But to me, it has always seemed other-wordly and not only because I wasn't there. You see, my family isn't the most festive bunch. They don't allow themselves to embrace many things. Most activities, events and life decisions are met with, what I would call, extreme trepidation. But not the beach. When they talk about the beach, their eyes shine with something else. Its the most happy and the most sad that they will ever be. I know it. My dad's beach bungalow was burned down by vandals. My eldest brother remembers seeing all the items in the house that had been stored for the winter burned in the middle of the living room, and the fiberglass boat melted. They never went back. It was too painful and time was rough on the old neighborhood.

Until this year. My mom read an article about a woman who was organizing a beach cleanup on Rockaway in an effort to preserve the beach and its unique wildlife. She suggested we all go and help. We sat on our comfy suburban couch and wondered if she was serious. But she was. And we all went. My husband and I took the A train all the way out there, getting a full view of the expanse of beach as the train passed through someone else's memories. My parents and brothers met us out there.

We broke up into two teams. We put on gloves and picked up trash. We recorded what we collected. The purpose of the cleanup is to keep a record of the items dumped on the beach in an effort to correct the litter problem and to monitor its effect on the local environment. My brother (who remembers the melted boat) and I, walked further away from everyone else, cleaning steadily. We were met with a wall of extremely tall reeds and grasses. It was well over our heads. My brother walked straight in. I followed. I worried about ticks as I was repeatedly tickled by what was probably fairly dirty beach grass. We kept walking. I didn't know when we would emerge. But I followed my brother. Suddenly, I looked up to the tops of the grasses to see the largest cluster of monarch butterflies that I had ever seen. They fluttered liberally. It was pretty darn close to something childlike and magical. Below our feet, hoards of hermit crabs rushed around with somewhere important to go.

We eventually did emerge from our beachy-natureland, into a diverse pile of garbage; shoes, candy wrappers, couch foam, styrofoam, car bumpers, soda cans, you name it.

When we were done that day, my dad tried to take us to a restaurant that had been there last time he was there. It was gone. So, we drove further into Queens, all stuffed in the car together, tired and dirty. We eventually sat together and ate, but we didn't talk about what really happened that day. That day, my family made a small portion of peace with the past, and this time, I was lucky enough to be with them, out at the beach.

Click here to link to an article about the coastal cleanup. My parents are pictured in the image with the caption that reads, “At Beach 35 Street, recyclables had to be separated before bagging them", my mom is in the hat holding the garbage bag open, my dad is off to the left holding what looks like the moon in his hand.

less bio, same luminescence

I just started a new science blog on the nature network. So, I may be taking some of the occasional “bio” out of this blog and reserving this space for more personal anecdotes.

Here is the link.

http://blogs.nature.com/juliaz/2010/10/welcome_to_evolverie.html

Summery

Summer is wrapping up with a few last gorgeous moments here in New York city. But it wasn’t all roses this summer. It was hot roses. Although, we had a pretty damn good one, took many car trips to visit friends and family, went camping, got out to the beach, Joe saw a shark, I killed a huge cockroach/waterbug in our kitchen with boiling water, celebrated our 3rd wedding anniversary, brunches and coffees with dear friends, I forced Joe to watch Annie Hall, he forced me to watch Inception, our car was broken into, I am going to be an aunt (again), lovely jogs and walks in central park and along the hudson river, we fished, we picnicked, I overslept, we swam, we sweat, we ate chocolate pinkberry. But I cant wait for fall, it really is the best time in New York. And our air conditioner died this morning, it knew. Happy Labor Day Weekend everyone.

Blue Voodoo

“Its barely blue”, she muttered at me as I walked into the auditorium. She was standing too close and I was startled. I looked down at my own shirt, gave her a contrite a look, and continued walking. This was the first time the principal of my high school had spoken directly to me. I don’t think she knew my name. But she knew my shirt was not blue. It was a grey collared shirt, with only a hint of blue. I was, just barely, in uniform, which left me mostly out of uniform. Also, it was known, that blue was her very favorite color, she wore it every single god-given day.

A year later in my art class we were drawing and painting portraits. I wanted to do a portrait of our dear old wrinkly principal, who everyone seemed to love, but I really didn’t. It was uncharacteristically brown-nosey and gutsy for me to want to do this, but her face was so interesting. Also, at that point, I knew I was good. She would know my name now. I marched down to her office. She sat across from me in a chair, in her almost nuns habit, which was really just a habit of wearing the same color every day. I sketched her face, it seemed young and old at the same time, with tracks of disappointment running every which way across it. I was working quickly and nervously. Then, she moved her head. She was falling asleep in the chair. I didn’t say a thing. Maybe she needed a nap. Of course she needed a nap, poor old lady. I finished my drawing. It looked very much like her. We exchanged pleasantries.

I went upstairs to the art room to turn my drawing into a painting, one that would hang in her office for years to come. I would be famous. Sort of. I decided to paint her portrait in cool blue hues, because those were her favorite and because I had to do my blue contrition. I worked it and reworked it, with colors ranging from out-of-the-tube royal blue to the yellow-grey of a bird feather to soft metallic greens. Something was emerging. Something very strange. I put more paint on, painstakingly doing her eyes so they burned cold with equal intensity to her actual eyes. I stepped back to look at it. She looked very very ill in my painting. What had I done? I had particularly messed up her shoulders. Desperately, I cut the painting off at her neck. Now, I had a sick and intense blue head of my principal and it looked very much like her. I frantically pasted it on another piece of white paper. Then it looked something like her blue head on a plate, minus the plate. And maybe in the back of my mal-adjusted high school mind, that is just where I wanted her. That painting never saw another face, blue or otherwise.

Camping at Mongaup Pond

We went camping this weekend at Mongaup Pond, Livingston Manor, NY. Story to follow. Click on the photos to enlarge.