Bone Dry

 
I cannot conceive of the damage Hurricane Sandy has cast upon our city.  My words cannot do justice to the damage. See for yourself at the NYTimes link of pictures taken by people all around the city and beyond. 

The Con Ed Power Station on 14th Street and C had two massive explosions. Just a few blocks away from our building. No electricity or cell service below 26th Street or so.

Our building was not flooded. The basement was bone dry. Unbelievable, since the water was at mid- car height just a block away on Ave. B.

Is this the new normal for New York City and the surrounding region?  Last year we had a snow storm in mid-October, the year before that it was Hurricane Irene.  Mother Nature keeps bitch slapping us...maybe it's time to listen. Watch out New Orleans, we may soon be writing songs about meeting each other down by the levee...we just gotta build one first. Or order one from Amazon. 

Zoning Out

So Hurricane Sandy is due to arrive tomorrow...I think. I can't really get a handle on a solid time frame.  The East Village family homestead is perched curiously at a point where Zone A, Zone B and Zone C converge.  These warnings bring me back to conversations I had with my dad who once reminisced about the wharves by the East River. They were located where Avenue C and Avenue D are before they took their position atop landfill.

Those New Yorkers living in Battery Park City (Zone A) have been evacuated. Deep down they must feel extremely stunned and annoyed. For the most part, they are too rich to be displaced and they must be struggling with this urban truth as they pack their bags. This is a tough crowd. The twin towers fell right next to them and many stayed on despite the smoke and destruction, perhaps as an act of loyalty and defiance. Hurricanes are small potatoes to these people.

My beloved sister is being a typical New Yorker and vaguely acknowledging the fact that there is some sort of natural theatre about to take place tomorrow. I'm sure she has stocked up on several cans of diet coke and.....well she doesn't eat much more than that. She is probably too busy thinking about a business conference call she has scheduled for tomorrow at 10 am. Apparently people in LA don't seem to understand the implications of hurricanes on one's daily commute.

Here in Strawberry Fields it is midnight. Another ordinary peaceful evening. We got back from our house up in the woods at about 7 pm. We did all we could think of to protect it from wind and rain. Falling trees and flooding are beyond our control but not beyond our prayers.

Work at Hippie College is closed for Monday and Tuesday. Ben's school is closed tomorrow. Let's hope Hurricane Sandy gets distracted by the full moon and trails off over the horizon.

Busch League

Charles Busch is magical. 

If you live in NYC or somewhere nearby, you owe it to yourself to go see Charles Busch perform. I was lucky enough to grab two tickets in December to see his annual holiday show Times Square Angel at Theatre for a New City.  It was so creative, funny, beautiful, authentic...the list goes on. At the end of the show, he came out on stage, wished us all a very happy holiday and sang Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas. I nearly burst out in tears. 

Charles Busch is an actor, playwright, screenwriter, director and drag legend. He is perhaps most familiar to larger audiences as the author of the Broadway play The Tale of the Allergist's Wife.  But for me, he will always be the author and star of Vampire Lesbians of Sodom. I will never forget seeing that play in 1980's with my then girlfriend. Everything about it was so outrageous and well crafted. It left me speechless.  I'd never seen anything like it. My girlfriend didn't get it. Some people get lost in the camp aspect I suppose. But I hesitate to describe Charles Busch as primarily a drag queen. That performance element doesn't dominate my thoughts when I'm watching him on stage.  His work is so much richer than a quick laugh or spectacle.

I am so excited to see his upcoming biblical comedy Juidth of Bethulia that's slated to premiere on March 30th through April at Theater for a New City in the East Village. Go and tell me what you think!

Monkey Mind

If there was no such thing as a state of Monkey Mind, then surely Buddha would have created it upon my birth. The term Monkey Mind refers to a mind that is highly distracted by multiple thoughts, memories, emotions, sounds....

Who am I kidding? I have far more than one monkey in my mind. I wonder what Buddha would think about a Monkey House mind? Would he just shake his head and throw up his hands? Or would he embrace me with infinite compassion? Probably both.

And so I begin my humble first steps into the realm of the lotus blossom. While I am meditating for a few minutes, please keep an eye on our country. We appear to be in the midst of an emerging social revolution. Back to a more balanced people loving society I hope.

Beach Bleach

I am in Truro. It is peaceful and beautiful out. After all these years, my routine remains the same.

1. Return to a familiar summer home set back in the woods but close to the beach.

2. Promptly forget what day it is.

3. Promptly forget what time it is.

4. Make a list of all the spiritual cleansing rituals I have in mind.

5. Lose that list shortly after arrival.

6. Bring a list of all the fun things to do between goofing off and sleeping.

7. Complete that list.

8. Do not look at office email....ever.

Perhaps the one part of the vacation ritual that continues to spook me is how I feel for the first two days. Without all the daily responsibilities and distractions of urban life, there is no noise or static between me and my feelings.  I find myself face to face with the stress that I function under and it feels like Clorox pumping through my body. It is amazing how out of touch we can become with our true emotional or physical state and then when the tipping point occurs (illness, depression), we're shocked.

I used to laugh at the 70's term "getting in touch with yourself". I'm not laughing so much any more.

ARTFARM

A few weeks ago, Ben, Brian and I were in our old neighborhood and wandered into the NYC Festival of Young Artists and Leaders.  Even the misty drizzle couldn't dampen how wonderful the event was  with a variety of stages spanning East 4th Street from First to Second Avenue.  There were teen rock bands, poetry readings, dance performances and musicians.  There were also lots of tables promoting programs throughout the city for teens interesting in any area of design, visual and performing arts.

I felt sad to be away from this overload of culture. This vibe is a natural setting for Ben. Of course, he and Brian spent a hunk of time at Rivington Guitars which was on the same block as the festival. Ben put his creative talents to work playing a beautiful vintage guitar from what he (and my husband) consider the sacred 1970's. He then attempted to perform the miracle of having my husband buy it.  Sorry Ben -- your TONY award will have to wait.

While I was wandering around I caught a performance by ARTFARM .  They are an incredible theatrical group out of Middletown, Connecticut that combines performance with a commitment to simple living, social justice and environmental sustainability. They performed Circus for a Fragile Planet - and it was masterfully done. I highly encourage people to invite them to your schools or communities. It is well worth it. Their circus set design and music was out of sight. So simple and yet spectacular in its ability to help the actors and circus performers draw in their audience to examine the most pressing environmental issues of the day in a way that is vibrant and creative.

Ben's summer vacation officially started on Thursday.  He has two months of summer fun ahead of him. It will take that long for Brian and I to fully recuperate from seventh grade and to brace ourselves for eighth....

Make a Joyful Noise....

So you might have noticed that my son's adolescence has been holding me hostage for the last several months. Between the overload of hormones and homework, my husband and I shed tears of joy when the school year finally came to an end on Friday.
Could some kind soul please tell me when adolescence ends? Is it 14? 15? (gulp) 16? I don't know if I have the emotional, physical and needless to say, intellectual stamina to make it through three more years of this.
I am all for an integrated curriculum but having my son do an essay, keynote, video montage and POEM on the interdependent relationship between China and the U.S. as seen through an economic lense is pushing it a little too far.
Thank goodness I now have a garden to escape to on the weekends. Pulling weeds, watering and planting is so satisfying after hand to hand combat with a 13 year old son who is three inches taller than I am.
The above photo is a close up of one of the peonies growing in my garden. Make no mistake, I inherited 80% of these flowers from the past property owners. The white and pink peonies are gorgeous. I think they are the sexiest flowers I've ever seen. They are so voluptuous that their stems buckle under the weight of their round multi-layered bloom.  After two weeks or so, they slowly implode and the pedals fall to the ground.

One treasure I share with Ben is driving up to CT on our own to meet his dad at the house. Ben dons his ipod and eventually starts singing in full voice along to music I cannot hear. I love how he feels free enough to sing in front of me in this way. In "real life", he is too shy to sing much. He weaves in and out of a melody, sometimes a bit off tune, lyrics dropped, sometimes the lead singer, sometimes the background. Make a joyful noise unto the Lord....now that's one line in the Bible I agree with.

Enjoy the late spring!

Ghost in the Graveyard

So what really happens to the thousands of poinsettias produced each year for the winter holidays?

I cannot answer that question. My guess is that a nationwide "poinsettia-cide" is practiced in silent conspiracy across this country. And what leads me to this conclusion? Last November, I purchased several poinsettias for my home. Now that I live in a space that is larger than my beloved east village double-wide on stilts, I have hosted several large holiday gatherings. I was counting on the deep red leaves to distract my guests from the fact that I still had the same sparse amount of furniture as I did in my east village double-wide. The plants made it look like a festive waiting room.

Thanksgiving and Christmas came and went as did the New Year,  Martin Luther King Day, Valentines Day, St. Patrick's Day, Ben's Birthday, April Fool's Day, Opening Day for the Red Sox and Palm Sunday. Lo and behold, my two poinsettias are still thriving.

As a child of the 60's weaned on plastic, red dye number 2 and MSG, I just figured they would politely drop dead shortly after their brief use. This is not the case. Observe the picture above. Both plants are still going strong on my window sill. There is no way I have the heart to throw them out. Perhaps I should start a shelter for unwanted poinsettias? People could leave them in unmarked baskets at my doorstep. It sure beats buying more furniture.

What's Cookin -  Two weeks ago ,I swore before God and everyone else in the grocery store that I was buying my LAST 16 oz. bag of $7 organic granola. Well, I made good on my promise. The heavens opened up and led me to a recipe for maple granola that is simple and equally delicious as the granola that has been running my family into bankruptcy for the last three years.

Free at last, free at last, thank God almighty, I am free at last!!

Scientific American

...that's what I am these days. It has taken forty eight years and finally, I feel an increasing desire to embrace the practical.

Grappling with my soon to be thirteen year old son may be a factor. January was a tough month. For the first time in B's academic life, he earned a series of poor test/quiz grades in each subject over a three week period. One day a 92, the next day a 62 in the same subject. Teachers do not take kindly to this pattern and wrote "what is going on?" across the top of his work.

My husband and I were confused and concerned. B couldn't explain why this pattern was going on. Why he would study some days and not others. He and I had shouting matches, tears and discussions. It hit me that he is now at an age where I can't control his choices or behavior as I did when he was a boy. We were both having to grow up at the same time.

At one point my son said, "You expect me to do well and usually I do. That is a lot of pressure. When I don't do well - the response is even stronger. I don't get a break." Wow. My head was spinning. He saw his performance as something we were greater stakeholders in than he was. As a mom, it was a reality check for me.

B is at an age where his sense of achievement, structure, creativity and curiosity about the world must more and more become his own. He is the bright, free spirited, compassionate boy I hoped he would be. And I need to let him be that in his own way. And his way may be different from something I imagined.

I also realized that my son grew about two inches in January. He looks and acts like a teenager with just a few traces left of his little boyhood. Those hormonal changes also take a toll on behavior and the ability to concentrate.

Luckily, he was able to turn it around and did well at the end of the quarter. Looks like we all figured something out.

What's Cookin': I have been reading a book on food science and it is totally incredible and overwhelming to me. Wow, so this is what is going on behind the recipe direction's curtain!! How do every day people absorb all of these facts? My head is still spinning about the difference between making cookies with butter vs. shortening - and that is just one grain of sand in the desert that is food science! Will I ever know what the heck I am doing in the kitchen?!

"I miss the way you made the bus smell so good in the morning..."

Those were the parting words of M, a dear East Village friend (artist and fellow parent) that I bumped into one afternoon in November back in my old neighborhood.

Brian and I were shuffling up 1st Avenue after running some errands. I wanted some company as I went investigating my old - new looking - neighborhood.

We stood watching a film of the Cream reunion through the window at Kim's Video. Both of us commented on how Eric Clapton and his bandmates had aged...when who should arrive but our friend M. A few minutes laughing together made it crystal clear just how much WE had aged since our youthful days walking down Avenue A in the 1980's.

It was so invigorating to stand there in the street and chat with M. Just to be with someone who shares that old East Village sensibility. He still goes surfing in the early morning hours at Long Beach. Now his son Harry joins him. Summer or winter - he's out there in the waves, greeting the day.

What's cooler than that?

Snapped the above pic at Rockefeller Center en route to a play in midtown. New York is very good at doing Christmas...high camp.

What's cookin: My sister Liz bought me a huge cookbook for Christmas. James Beard's American Cookery. It's pretty interesing. Keep your fingers crossed as I take on a deviled eggs recipe with smoked salmon.

It's so beautiful, it looks fake....

When I was a child in the 60's. the title of this post was the highest compliment you could give about something -- sunsets, hairstyles, cereal. You name it.

Tonight I made fish sandwiches for dinner. Fresh flounder dipped in egg/milk and dredged in flour/cornmeal friend until light golden brown. add lettuce, tomato, slice of cheese, homemade tartar sauce, carefully pile it on a bun next to some thick cut fries and sliced cucumbers and you've got dinner in Guyville.

Brian had a long hard day at work. He took one look at his dinner and his heart took flight. He informed me that my dinner should be on the cover of Gourmet magazine for a comfort food issue. I'm not holding my breath.

Truth be told, I've recently found it difficult to feel inspired when I cook. For the last few months, I don't have much of an appetite. Could it be the vitamin D I'm taking in the morning? I've never felt this way before. Cooking (like writing) has always been a creative endeavor for me. In the last year and a half, we gave in to too many hamburger and french fries requests from Ben (made at home or a nearby diner) and tried to ignore his rapidly shrinking food pyramid. My weekly menu hits all the major food groups but I've found myself avoiding more vegetarian based meals (other than pasta with veggies) because I'm too tired to fight the fight with him. That may have been a mistake. How do I dig myself out of it? I need beans in my life.

By the way, I love my black skillet. It is my favorite pan ever and always will be. My Italian grandma had a big black pan just like mine and I worshiped it. It holds a sacred space on my kitchen wall.

The Sun King

Although I have a working knowledge of world history, I am far from fluent. It's a shame really, because if I knew a bit more about Louis XIV, I would know how to deal with my son Benjamin.

The other night as he lay in bed making one royal pronouncement after another, I alerted him to a startling fact.

Me: "Benjamin, I don't want to shock you but YOU are not Louis XIV and I am not a benevolent old crone wandering around Versailles whose only purpose in life is to do your bidding."

Ben: "I understand Mommy but (fake tears)...life is terrible without my servants!"

Yes, it was a joke but I swear there was more than a thread of truth in those crocodile tears!!

Gratitude

For the past two months my life has been profoundly sane.

Much of August was spent up in Litchfield County and then a bit of beach time on Cape Cod. Up there is a picture of our favorite beach, Longnook in Truro.

Earlier this month, Ben started seventh grade at the alternative school within his school. He once again has 23 kids to a grade and classes split in half for courses just like his time at St. Lukes School. So far the transition is working out.

Thank you baby Jesus!

I also took time at the end of August to turn 48. My appreciation for nature and peace have deepened significantly in the last year.

People advocate for the slow food movement but there is something to be said for the slow life movement.

Sail Away

Ben just finished two weeks of sailing camp. The pic above is the view I enjoyed while occasionally watching his rag tag group of beginning sailors bump into each other and periodically capsize. It was important for Ben to go sailing this summer. Important for both of us.

On the last day of camp, he won an award (a sailing school tee shirt) for being the most helpful sailor. This brief two week experience helped navigate my young son a little farther out of the safe harbor and out toward the open sea. The person who proudly handed me his sailing certificate is a tall, shaggy haired, sun freckled teenager. Gulp.

Cooking Comment:
A new addition to my posts because I could sure use the feedback. What do you consider a good dinner party dish to prepare when you have to feed 6 adults and five teenagers?

Jurraisic Jerk with a Side of Slaw

I have a confession to make.

Over the last year, chicken has become less and less appetizing to me. I still cook it weekly for dinner but a slow ever growing repulsion resides in my tummy.

Why?

Well, one day when I was looking at a live chicken, I realized that chickens look like baby dinosaurs. That thought promptly spiraled into the notion that dinosaurs are related to lizards.

I don't want to eat a lizard OR a baby dinosaur but when I eat chicken I am kind of doing that (give or take a few evolutions across the millenniums).

I shared this culinary crisis with my husband. He looked at me, vaguely smiled and returned to his book. A talent that has kept our marriage afloat for twenty years.

Today I checked out the weekly update on the beloved blog Blue Kitchen. I love the way Terry writes about food and his recipes rock. Please check his blog out - it's listed to the right in my blog roll.

I dove into the archives and read his first post (November 1, 2006). It's a lovely commentary on a dish called Chicken and Wine. In the post, he makes a light hearted reference to the theory that the chicken is a distant relative to the dinosaur. My heart stopped. I then went online to learn more.

The arguments are never ending. But that's a good thing. Because it leaves me with a sliver of hope that the chicken was God's only attempt at intelligent design.

Case closed.

Merging and Purging

When you move out of the City, you do a lot of driving.

When we moved to Strawberry Fields, I made a point of living right in the village so I could walk to the grocery, bakery, deli, and train station.

But the cold hard reality is that my car is now my bed fellow. And sometimes it feels like I'm waking up to a huge frat boy with Saturn LW1 stamped across his butt and I don't know how I got here. When we lived in the East Village, I never used the car. It was an object that I gladly let my husband take gender control over. Well times have changed. EVI must acclimate to this brave new four wheelin' world as she watches dust gather on her ancient red bike that could out pace the M8 bus as it rumbled across downtown.

For two weeks, I've been dropping Ben off at Rockn'Roll day camp, located in a town about fifteen minutes north of us. This commute involves merging onto a a major highway during rush hour traffic.

I HATE HATE HATE merging into major NYC bound rush hour traffic.

I feel like I'm crashing a party I'm not invited to. I feel like I'm being forced to be intimate with a stranger who may or may not
slow down
speed up
move into another lane

This is not a forgiving group of people. They go this route every day and could do it with their eyes closed (some do). There is no time for chivalry or politeness or hand holding the novice commuter (moi). The only thing that sustains me are the lessons I learned as a college student working for the Motor Vehicle Department one summer.
Most New York drivers:

cannot read
cannot speak English
cannot see

That's gotta put me in the top 50 percentile. Right?

On another note entirely, it seems like a death wave passed over my circle of friends and family in the last few weeks. No relatives passed on but friends of relatives. And the reaction has been interesting. My good friend's sister passed away and he is purging his home of stuff he should have dumped ages ago. My mom's good friend died, now she is purging her home of decades of stuff. It made me take a brutal assessment of my apartment and start tossing too.

Clearing the decks, purging the useless crap that we spent years assigning emotional value to...like the magazine with George Harrison on the cover only the cover got ripped off two years ago in our old apartment and the front page is now page 20.

Purging is useful. As long as you keep the finger down your throat a metaphor.

First Steps

Last weekend we hosted our first official guest at our home in the woods. His name is Lucas and he is twelve years old.

It was a maiden voyage for both of us. He had never been away from his family for two nights in a row and I had not hosted someone at my home for two days in a row in years. My NYC pad was just too small. We were both a little nervous and a little excited to be taking this first step.

Lucas is Ben's life long friend. They met when they were both about one and crawling all over the playground at Tompkin's Square Park. Lucas and his family moved to Strawberry Fields from the East Village seven years ago but we always kept in touch. Now we are neighbors which is a blessing I am continually grateful for.

Both boys couldn't have been happier. They went hiking, canoeing, shooting off rockets that got stuck in tall trees, swimming and generally goofing off. His parents came to retrieve him on Sunday afternoon.

Several hours earlier a feeling of terror set into my bones.

Okay. Lunch for three children and three adults (my husband had to work that day). This should be no problem. I am actually known to be a pretty decent self taught cook. My husband and son raved about my meals -- as do my friends and family WHEN I BRING FOOD OVER TO THEIR HOUSE. Suddenly I was making a complete meals for more than my three person tribe.

Lucas and his family are vegetarian so I was careful to construct a weekend menu that he would enjoy. By the time I reached Sunday, I was drawing a complete blank. This meal was different. It was for adults. I didn't have the equipment for a quiche and it felt too hot to grill vegetables.

So I made deviled eggs. And a large colorful salad with a bit of pasta thrown in. And french bread and cheese. And watermelon. And ice cream.

Ice cream is undeniable proof of God.

Of course these guests were so kind that they would have happily eaten a bowl of cheerios with no complaint. By the time all the food was set on the table, I exhaled and my anxiety began to fade. It was replaced with the contentment that comes with good friendship and good food.

Fresh From The Bronx!

...At least that is what the sign said in front of J and G, the Italian deli and market I walked into last week. A statement like that can conjure up a multitude of images. Most New Yorkers know that it's code for crunchy Italian breads, pastries and meats.

Truth be told, I had my doubts about whether this specialty shop could deliver on its promise. One great fear of moving out of the City to just outside of the City was losing easy access to ethnic food. So far, I have been pleasantly surprised.

J and G is in the Chester Heights area of Eastchester/Bronxville. They have got a good guido vibe going on in there. One wall is essentially a tribute to Italian bread. You then wander through a series of tables displaying pyramids made of boxes and bags of semolina pasta of every shape and size. There are many anti pasta items, cheeses and a deli counter that appears to have a heavy cult following.

But what you MUST buy is not in hidden in the pyramids, glass cases or even between two pieces of bread.

There is a small worn out handwritten sign, no bigger than a large index card with "Homemade Sauce $5.99 qt." scribbled across it.

And that my friends, is the reason you go back again and again.

Growing up with an Italian mother and grandmother, tomato sauce is about as personal as breast milk. This is the first time I've ever tasted a sauce that came so incredibly close to hitting the same emotional buttons as the sauce I grew up with.

So I bought six quarts and stuck'em in my freezer. A comforting reserve for those days when I just cannot cope with the thought of making dinner for my family after a grueling day at work.

Nothing like opening a container of instant Italian grandma to sooth a tired soul.

Climbing Mt. Ikea

I am forty-seven years old. It has taken my entire adulthood to prepare for yesterday morning when I took a deep breath and walked into IKEA.

When you live in a small apartment in NYC, IKEA is commonly used as a sedative to be utilized at various turning points in life. Most common among them are:

1. You've decided to stop sleeping on the floor.

2. You've decided to stop sitting on the floor.

3. You realize that having a table to eat on is a good thing.

4. Jesus Christ, you're pregnant.

5. You live in 450 square feet with a husband, your baby and your dog...you need a miracle or you will shoot yourself.

IKEA has done more to extend the leases of thousands, if not millions, of New Yorkers living in untenable space situations than any act of public policy. So needless to say, I walked into IKEA with a bit of baggage....which is why I went to the IKEA in New Haven, CT.

It would have been far too mind tripping for me to go to Brooklyn. I would see too many versions of my past self, wandering through the aisles anxiously trying to find that miracle piece of furniture that would make it all work out. My space. My marriage. My mommyhood. My career. My dreams. All stuffed into 450 square feet.

IKEA would have driven that girl to tears.

I was on a different mission now. I needed a table. A huge table for the dining space in my little house in the woods. Would it shock you to learn that the dining room table I bought is as long as my bedroom in the East Village and just as cheap? There is enough surface area to reenact the Last Supper if necessary. We even bought chairs that were so light and inexpensive that I am wondering if they can endure the weight of an average human being....well, average American human being (add 20 pounds to the early calculation).

Will report back.

Poor People Migrating to Suburbs

So I have been reading more and more about how all the white people with money are taking over all of the cities and that everyone is being pushed out into the suburbs.

This news gives me great hope. That means that the counter culture and emerging art communities will continue to do the same.

Is it possible to think that I will one day be surrounded by my beloved East Village hodge podge again? Why not? Hell, it's a free country.

I wish the entire NYC gay community would take over Westchester County...or at least Tarrytown.