Felt Food

The artist, Lucy Sparrow, behind her register.

Toys are the first friends you can choose for yourself. Your siblings and pets are already affixed in the family dynamic upon your arrival, but a trip down the toy aisle is your chance.  I took a stroll through the Meatpacking District and into an art activation out of my childhood dreams, a New York City bodega housing  9,000 items hand-made of felt by Lucy Sparrow.  The exhibit at The Standard, High Line, titled 8 'till late, houses  everything from cigarettes, women's hygiene and Heinz ketchup to a slop bucket, frozen food section, and a soft pretzel carousel. A butcher counter with dangling meats, mix tapes, and handles of Campari: literally every detail down to the cash register and the ATM sign is accounted for. It is thoughtful, in every way.

As a kid I had an affinity for cash registers actually. From a Pink Barbie one that scanned tags, I matured into an actual register my mom got from Staples. In it I kept dollar bills and coins I accumulated from selling animals made out of beads and painted rocks at the town pool. At one point I had a Cabbage Patch Doll that swallowed plastic celery and pretzel sticks, which was captured in her backpack so that the process could continue, the hum of the mechanical swallowing still fresh in my mind. She was taken off the market because she ate one too many mouthfuls of children's hair. I had short hair, and I loved her. 

As my eyes darted around the bodega I was filled with childhood nostalgia around the rituals we cherished.  Campbell's tomato soup with white rice and grilled cheese on snowy days was one of my favorites.  Today some scoff at packaged foods, but I ate my fair share of them and I was a happy camper. If my sister and I were especially behaved we were allowed to eat Swanson meals, that came partitioned in a little microwaveable tray. I was always bewildered how the tiny brownie cooked to perfection in its designated section, in no time at all. I loved those brownies. Chips Deluxe too. 

Back in the bodega, all of the felt creations are for sale. The cashier rattles off to us the items that flew off the shelves already- Wonder Bread, Spam, Brillo Pads, and Peanut butter. A simple people we are. Wonder bread and peanut butter. I picked up a pack of Tic tacs for myself, a reminder of another ritual from my high school days. For whatever reason, I had a difficult time residing in the present, but rather anxiously worried about the future. My beloved guidance counselor would buy me packages of Tic Tacs as a reminder to pop the cap and take a breath when anxiety threatened my peace. 

My mother tells me I carried around a wicker basket filled with soaps in the shape of nursery rhyme characters. They had personalities and I spoke to them. When I didn't give them adequate face time, guilt washed over me. Eventually they were replaced by an American girl doll I named Sarah. To be young and worry about such things again.  Art and play are critical; my afternoon at the bodega reaquainted me with both. 

Commuter: The Weekender

There are different vibes on the weekend trains. Everything feels more celebratory. Chatter of children is heard, fans are donning their team's memorabilia and out of towners are counting the number of stops before they embark on a city adventure. I can identify with them because I am still nervous on new routes I haven't frequented enough.

I smell Taylor ham, egg and cheese. Let me tell you, New York City is missing out on pork roll. I asked for Taylor on my bagel at Ashby's and the cook had no idea what I was talking about, but the woman behind me let out an audible sigh that she wishes they had it too. She was a Jersey girl. I'm saying it here, Taylor Ham would change the bagel game in New York. 

Devices have substantially changed the way we  travel, the way we live.  We have a podcast plugged in our ears,  a puzzle in our hands, alerts from CNN as they happen. If not for my new found affinity for writing on the train I would enact a no phone policy and just gaze out the window or at other people even. The train is a privilege not afforded to all and I want to relish the experience. 

I peek over at a young family with a sweet child, a mammoth camera and fruit smoothies all around. With the onslaught of the wellness movement is Juicy Juice no longer a thing? During my childhood, it came in a can. A half gallon sized can that you had to pierce with a bottle opener on both sides in order to pour. I really liked Juicy Juice, and the taste of Dimetapp too but that got recalled. Oops. We had fewer answers when I was a kid and we survived. Even fewer answers the years before that, and they survived too.

I've lost the look of someone who doesn't know where they are going. I helped tourists identify that the Freedom Tower and Central Park are not next to one another.  I felt something like pride when that happened. 

Commuting is like other hierarchies. When we are new at something, we reside in a vulnerable space. Unless we have unfaltering self confidence like Molly Brown, but even those people are vulnerable in new situations. It's human nature. Then we accumulate experience and assume the role of the senior, the veteran, the sage. If we are mindful, we retain the feeling of being the unknowing and hold on to awareness of the pain that comes with it. We treat the new person in a vulnerable position with dignity and respect. I penned a letter during a troubling time right out of college where I was quite lost in the work world. I called it "Read this when you are no longer entry level." And when someone is blubbering in the station, looking for the right platform, I'll surely help them, but only if I'm not lost myself.  No guarantees. 

Commuter: Connectedness and a cake

Someday I want to say that a splendid work was written in the notes app of my iPhone while waiting for a train, bereft of cell phone service. During the time I wasn't able to access the distraction of the inter web, the mindless scroll of social media and the compulsive checking of my four email accounts. As much as I crave the connectedness, I feel something like liberation when I am cut off from everything, however briefly. Then I charge up the steps into the sunlight or evening dusk to re-engage with the world, rather than lingering in the curated version accessible from my palm.

Much happens when we connect with what is in plain view. We talk to the young mother sitting next to us, rather than longing to be somewhere else on a lavish adventure. We find the poetry in the mundane.

When I was purposefully observing the other day, I got reacquainted with some truths: Laughter out of context is still infectious. Someone is chuckling incessantly in the row behind me and I am desperate to know what they are laughing at. Simultaneously, I don't care what the stimuli is, I feel happier anyway. 

People are predominately good and well-intentioned. There is a baby on the train screaming, bone curdling screams. Her mother is desperate to soothe her, all the while feeling judged by the serious commuters, when in an instant everyone in proximity to the little one find their silliest faces and as a community calm her down. I mean everyone including the suave, well-groomed man I see nearly everyday, who never smiles. Until now. 

The hum of the whistle makes me feel like a character in The Polar Express. I'm reminded of our family's tradition of reading the story each Christmas Eve and exchanging just one gift before laying cookies and carrots out on the fireplace. We haven't done it the past few years, but we should. 

Two teens giggle jovially, picking at their pimples in the reflection of their iPhones and dishing about the latest mean girl encounter at school and picture day. They seem so innocent, unencumbered by the threats all around us.

Across the way an Irishman and his wife are laughing as if the hydrant to their souls had come unplugged. Bursting with glee, sipping on beers and vowing to feign ignorance if they get caught with them. The man jokes that the subway itself holds more people than his tiny town. He observes that everyone's brow is furrowed and looking angry and suggests we try and relax a little more, enjoy the journey. We being the folks sharing the Path car with him erupt into laughter. There are group photos and high fives. They are off to a football match, and to be quite honest for a moment I longed to he going where they were going, or at least to be living like they were living, freely by the moment.

Then I listen to myself again. While it might be nice to be a teen again absorbed in the quandary of school picture day, or sipping a beer on the way to a football match, I have faith in this here journey, where my feet stand. I catch laughter from my neighbor and smile at children. I'm reminded to relate to others, to connect,  but not to compare. How do we know with any level of certainty that their story is favorable to ours. And if it was would it matter?

PS: The cake is an Olive Oil Spice cake. I use Botticelli Foods Extra Virgin Olive Oil.  The applesauce in the cake was freshly made from left over pears and apples, and a little sugar. Buttermilk was made from milk and lemon juice as I didn't get to the grocery store, although I recommend actual buttermilk. The berry cherry basil mixture was residual from another baking project. It's all connected. 

Israeli Couscous Salad

My husband has off from work today in observance of Memorial Day so he rose early to trek into the city with me. The man that rises at 7:00 on weekends to frequent the farmers markets before a crowd, as I grasp my iced coffee, sporting a baseball cap to cover my unkempt hair and leggings because I don't do zippers on Saturday morning.  Right about now he is off wandering the museums and if I know my James, consuming Pure Leaf Iced Teas in quick succession. After my half day schedule, we will do some exploring and eating of course. More on that later.

During our train ride, he told me about the first time he laid eyes on New York City, a young Marine on ship, during this very week, Fleet Week. He came over from Camp Lejeune on the USS WASP and had by that time in his life seen much of the world, but hadn't yet seen New York. I am thankful for the sacrifices of those in uniform throughout the generations who have secured for me the opportunity to sit in the sun and munch on some couscous salad this weekend. You have my eternal gratitude. 

If you're hosting a gathering this weekend and are short on time, sternos or patience, pasta salad is a reliable go to. Food52 shared a genius collection of not quite recipes to make a series of appealing salads, sure to please. Basically combine a pasta or grain, something seasonal, something crunchy, something sweet and a solid vinaigrette. Here we are using Botticelli Foods Extra Virgin Olive Oil and Balsamic Vinegar. 

You'll need:

• 1 ⅓  cups Israeli Couscous
• 2 cups Baby Spinach Leaves
• ⅔ cup Sliced Pears
• 1 ounce Goat Cheese, crumbled
• 3 tablespoons Dried Cranberries
• 1 ½ tablespoons Sliced Almonds, toasted
• 1 tablespoon Botticelli Extra Virgin Olive Oil
• Kosher Salt and Black Pepper

For the dressing:

• 2 tablespoons Botticelli Balsamic Vinegar
• 1 ½  teaspoon Honey Mustard
• 2 tablespoons Botticelli Extra Virgin Olive Oil
• Kosher Salt and Black Pepper

To Prepare:

1. In a 2 quart saucepan, sauté 1 ⅓ cups couscous with 1 tablespoon Botticelli Olive Oil over medium heat until couscous is lightly browned, about 5 minutes. Slowly add 1 ¾ cups boiling water and return to a boil. Reduce heat to medium low and cover. Simmer for 10-12 minutes or until liquid is absorbed.
2. Let the couscous cool to room temperature.
3. Meanwhile, make the balsamic dressing. Whisk together balsamic vinegar and honey mustard in a small bowl. Slowly pour in olive oil as you continue to whisk. Season with salt and pepper to taste.
4. Place the couscous in a salad bowl along with the spinach, pears, goat cheese, cranberries and almonds. Reserve some almonds, cranberries and cheese to garnish. Add the dressing and toss to combine.

Commuter: Best Laid Plans

It was late in the evening. I could have gone home. I was fatigued in the way a woman of reasonable privilege could be fatigued. I have one job, no mouths yet to feed and a low-stress life in the traditional sense, if you discount my subsurface anxieties. My husband encouraged me to stop by the event I was invited to. He said "see all that you can see."

Waiting.  

I took the F by myself, in the right direction and didn't miss my stop. The memory of my train blunders from a few weeks prior still etched into my memory. I missed my transfer to the Path, had to backtrack to get to it, missed my train home by a minute, waited an additional hour in Hoboken, and finally missed my stop in Clifton, half asleep mindlessly scrolling, ending up in Paterson with no cash for a cab, at midnight no less. My mom's nervous words, always have a key in your hand if you have to use it at the top of my mind. She was robbed as a young woman in the city years ago, so I understand her reservations. Our parents and loved ones bring with them a set of life circumstances and do their best to prepare us, while letting go enough so we can see and feel on our own. Thank you ma.

Commuter South Carolina Coconut cake from Porter House Bar and Grill. 

Back to Paterson: The kind Lyft driver welcomed me into his warm car and I made it home to a snoring husband and cats begging for food, vowing not to get lost in the palm of my hand  again, as I sit here writing, not paying attention to my surroundings. But situations lead us to unintended destinations, better than we could have envisioned. A Wharton waitlisted high school student that found home on the hilltop at Georgetown. Nursery school assistant reject turned hostess, that found a partner in the last month of my college career. A fearful commuter that the big city beckoned.