Social Hour

I attempted to unplug for the day and broke that resolution the minute I Instagram storied from my semi-monthly brunch with a dear friend Molly, at our most favorite spot, Raymond’s in Montclair, NJ. Although we don’t work together in that sweet little house on Park Street for years now, we have been diligent in maintaining our sisterhood. Same place, every other month or so, a corner booth, hot cappuccino for her, iced for me, over easy for her, scrambled for me, butter for her, butter and jam for me.  There are animated giggles, angst balanced by joy, and cold home fries because we just have so much to say that we can’t quite finish the food in its “hot” window. I surely can’t unplug now as I feverishly type from another cafe, brimming with thoughts from our two plus hours of being immersed in one another. 

Molly always graciously shares her wisdom and assurance with me, I share with her my latest frenzy or accomplishment. We are quite possibly mirror images of one another born in different times. Catholic-raised, anxiety-ridden, maternal, a little rebellious, introspective, deeply feeling, and bearers of smiles on the outside even when we are hurting on the inside. Per usual we dove to great depths covering topics like social comparison, shame, guilt, and fear. She had recently taken herself off a few social platforms as they were not serving her in a productive and healthy way. And while my job is precisely to reside in this strange digital world, I can’t quite disagree with her choice. I think it was a prudent practice in self care. She asked how I can subject myself to reading and digesting all of this highly polarizing and evocative content on a daily basis. Image after image, narrative after narrative. “Isn’t your brain fatigued from all of these perspectives?” she said. “Whose truth is actual truth because yours is surely different than mine. And why should anyone else's perception be superior?” Preach, Molly. 

I am endlessly seeking information from the outside in. Social cues, suggestions from media, family and peers, and mandates from thought leaders set the pace for my day. Quite frankly, it is tiring to react every moment of every day. To attach uncessecarily to the plot that unravels around me, I become a character in a play I never auditioned for. I compare my uncut footage to someone's highlight reel, or worse I portray a highlight reel for fear of sharing what is imperfect. Sometimes, most times, it is a monologue of my own vicious making. “Words are powerful,” she said, “and we are most harsh when speaking to ourselves.” Right again she was. 

During our social hour, Molly shared with me wonderful, personal news. Yes, you heard right. We exchanged news in person, face to face, not via a screen. We touched hands and celebrated. We chatted about gender bias, podcasts, how to establish routines, how challenging it can be to exercise first thing in the morning, and her position on television. Words are powerful. Best we share ours thoughtfully with people deserving of them, and disengage when it all gets to be too much.

Commuter: The State of Affairs

The news is unsettling, rather heartbreaking. People are suffering as their homes are ravaged by Hurricane Harvey. Parents pray that their children can grow up in some semblance of peace. I asked my parents if it was like this when they were young. "Should I have kids? Is it going to be ok?" They say there were bullies as long as they can remember and their parents before them; they just dressed differently. People were aggressors since nearly the beginning of time. But still we hold on to the idea that we will someday live in a violence and bias free world. There are enough polarizing opinions out there. There is sufficient blame and shame being cast in different directions so I am going to find the common ground. I am confined to a metal tube each morning and each evening, Monday through Friday, and I am comforted by the state of affairs as I have experienced it on the train. 

When you have a television sized smart phone, you forfeit some level of privacy. Lock screens are available for passersby to see and sometimes admire. Lock, Unlock, Spotify, Instagram, Lock, Unlock, Fruit Ninja, Twitter, Lock Unlock, Skimm, Text, Lock. Every lock screen I have gazed at unintentionally features something beloved. A child, a partner, your favorite food. Predominately children, I have seen. People find comfort in children. When we clutch our devices day in and out, the first sight we need to see is something beloved. 

A mother putting suntan lotion on her babes is such a small act that solidifies the goodness in humanity. It conveys, I've birthed you and I will care for you, your scalp and the spots behind your ears. 

Predominately, seats are offered to the elderly, the disabled, and pregnant women. This is a tricky one, because some do not want to have a seat offered to them and some women may appear to be pregnant but are not. Nonetheless, the intention is universal to offer a seat to someone else whose labor might be lessened, even slightly, by a chance to rest their legs or feet. I've offered many seats, even just by scooting over in a three seater, to the undesirable middle spot, so that someone could have a seat. The people have mostly been appreciative. 

Whether or not we care to acknowledge it, we are all affected by implicit bias. There is no way around it. The noblest among us will claim not me. But we were programmed since the days of Sesame Street to identify that "one of these things is not like the other." We received shiny tickers on our worksheets for identifying what is different. We were shaped by culture, fear and imperfect teachings. To deny our own ignorance is more damaging than to embrace our fallacies as friends, and teach them well. To extend a hand to someone who doesn't look or believe as you do, to try and understand what made a person behave as they do, to attempt an open mind. I cannot change another person by shaming them, hurting them, or ignoring them. I can work on myself though. 

When the Path train comes to a sudden stop, we all sway in the direction that inertia carries us. Like a scene out of a musical I queue music by Pasek and Paul in my head comprised of the hum of the train, a syncopated rhythm, and crunch of metal. Heads bob. Music and travel combined make me feel like life is a film and this is the soundtrack. I am surely not alone in having the vivid experience of life slowing down when a song comes on that you love. A calm comes over you as you travel from point A to point B, the star in your own movie.  

To assemble a brownie pie, line a 9 inch tin with your favorite crust. I use this one from Williams Sonoma. Fill with brownie batter and bake in a 350 degree pre-heated oven for 50 minutes. I used my Cricut Explore Air 2 to make Labor Day themed stencils. Top with powdered sugar, and serve. 

I felt something like shame ordering pepperoni pizza and fried calamari on the train. It was not the quiet car but I am always self conscious speaking on the phone when people can hear. I was hungry and did not want to wait, but was oddly nervous people would think ill of me ordering a whole pizza for two people. But how would they know? AND why should I care. A woman a few rows up grabbed her phone and dialed for Chinese.  Solidarity, sister. 

Bros will be bros.  I smirked because I was confined to the corner of the train in my spot where I lean between the door and the end of the seat, so I don't have to touch anything but I have something to balance against. Two guys forfeited confidentiality when they spoke loudly directly in to my ear budless ears. "My plan for the winter is to get fat," one said.  "Well fatter I should say." Raucous laughter between them. "Social media is like the Tinder of advertising." I got a kick out of this one. Makes some sense. But he went on,  "I will never use Tinder again." "Dude, you have been dating your ex's close friend for five months. Tinder would be your safest bet." I chuckled discreetly and the lady next to me had taken out her ear buds to enjoy the exchange.

Worker bees funnel out of the train. Most of us have to work; it is not a choice but a certainty. We work morning, noon and night and still barely make the bills on time. If we are fortunate, we can choose to some degree how we labor. Are we making music, are we trading, are we erecting buildings, laying floors, counseling the addicted, healing the sick. On the porch in the Pocono mountains I was lamenting unnecessarily about student loans and feeling indebted, still, to a system. My Dad looked at me and said paying bills is a noble undertaking, if not a privilege. Yes, he made paying bills sound enviable. I will think twice before cursing my responsibilities. They represent opportunities, wonderful experiences of the past, and ideally security in the future.  

Sweater weather, pumpkin spice, and legs shaven less frequently is nearly upon us. I am surely not the only one looking forward to one or all of these fall themes. Another thing we might have in common. Men and women plunge in to violent waters to save stranded horses and dogs. Ladies rally to fix hair and build the spirits of others. Officers line the streets to protect people who distrust them. The men and women of the armed forces fight to ensure liberties, go fund me pages pop up to help a comrade in need. While we are infinitely fallible, there is good to be found and celebrated. The state of affairs is nowhere near perfect, but was it ever? 

Dear D.C.

My bottom was sore from sitting on the floor of Secaucus station, my hand burning from scrolling through my phone while it charged rather than just letting it charge. My Mega Bus which I will forever more call Mega Bust was three going on four hours delayed but I had a donut and a cold brew to appease me. The last seats remaining on the beyond delayed bus were in the way back and each time we hit a bump I flew into the air. For the first time in a long time I felt light. I met two kind souls and we talked for most of the ride which made the time accelerate. They gave me moral support as I fought for my $26 dollars back from the bus ticket. It might not be a lot of money to a corporation, but after that egregious delay and a missed opportunity to wander Georgetown at night, I wanted it back. I booked an Amtrak home and extended my stay through Sunday afternoon, hell with how much it cost. Experiences have value too.

Copley Hall at Georgetown University was my home sophomore year. 

Gooey cookies and subs from Wisemiller's, or Wisey's, were a favorite indulgence as a student. 

Although the delay was a nuisance, a departure from my normal routine still felt momentous. Train stations and airports hold much significance for me because the stories unfolding there are so palpable. Soon to be companions meeting for the first time while they share a bench and bake in the heat waiting for their bus, loners running away, a soldier coming home. My bus buddy was from Baltimore, around my mother's age, and had been in Boston for a week with a special "friend". Her children hadn't wanted her to take the trip because she is terminally ill, but she refused to compromise her plan. She only told me she hoped her friend would not fall in love with her because she didn't know how long she had. Her courage astounded me, but being prone to seizures and fainting, I could see why her children would be concerned. When we passed into Philadelphia she dozed off to sleep and I leaned over to check that she was breathing. A slight scar shown on the upper part of her chest as she inhaled and exhaled.

Colored and cozy on 36th street in Georgetown. 

Loaves at Baked and Wired. Georgetown Cupcake pales in comparison to this spot. 

Just around 1am I tumbled into bed, freshly bathed in hotel body wash, at the Key Bridge Marriott, where my parents and grandparents stayed whenever they visited me at Georgetown. I rose early the next morning and walked over the Key Bridge gazing out at the row boats on the Potomac and landmarks in the distance. I caught up with two dear friends, celebrated the pending nuptials of two other beloved friends, and found my way back to Georgetown for Thomas Sweet Chocolate Chip Cookie Ice Cream and rainbow sprinkles. Not to be confused with Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough, this ice cream literally tastes like cookie batter and is unlike any other ice cream I have ever had. 

The same menu at Filomena. 

On Sunday I visited the restaurant that gave me the life I now know, Filomena. One of the managers, Anton, greeted me as if no time passed. He only asked if James and I had children yet. Not yet I said. The cast of characters at Filomena remains the same although the hostess, like me back then, looked like a student. The menu hasn't changed, the decor hasn't changed, nor the music. The restaurant continues to do 400 covers a night effortlessly; why change a thing?  I embraced a few old friends and settled in to dip crusty bread in an Olive Oil confection complete with olives and herbs. For lunch I chose the Smoked Chicken and Mozzarella Ravioli with a thick rustic tomato sauce. I didn't take a photo of it although taking photos of food is one of my great joys. The food at Filomena is not made for Instagram. It is made to be savored. 

I leaned back in my seat with a full stomach to make room for my favorite Turtle Cheesecake and reflected on my brief five months of employment. In that short time I got a taste of the hospitality industry, made friends, practiced my Italian, ate too much dessert, and found the man I would marry. Fast forward to our long distance relationship, James, then an Executive Sous Chef, would call me to confirm the spelling of Italian words for the day's specials. I would send text messages back, privately wishing that I was there for one more "family" meal. I followed him back to D.C., he followed me to NJ and now we have family meals of a different kind.

I depart for the train. The bustle and magic of Union Station feels like my own Platform 9 3/4 only I have no years left at Hogwarts. This chapter isn't all that bad though. 

24 Hours in Brooklyn

Have you ever played a tourist in your own backyard? This past Friday marked my dad's first trip on a New Jersey transit bus. In 57 years of life in New Jersey, he had never taken a bus to New York City, citing his need for control as the reason for avoiding bus travel. A mock dinner service at the soon to open Circa Brewing Co. in downtown Brooklyn changed all that. He let go of the reigns and boarded the bus. My mom dropped off this burly man of nearly 300 pounds at the station and he gleefully revealed to me that he bought his own ticket. Like an expectant student on the first day of school when he arrived, I intercepted him in Chelsea and my sweet colleague helped us subway navigate to Brooklyn around the F train horrors.  Dad revealed he was nervous to make a trip by himself on the subway because in those 57 years of life living 20 minutes from Manhattan, he had taken the subway a total of 2 times. 

Coincidentally, I had purchased tickets to a private dinner in Brooklyn held by one of my favorite culinary entrepreneurs, Gabriele Corcos. I'd been to Brooklyn only once before this year and now I was doubling my visits in a weekend. My husband surprised me with a room at the McCarren Hotel and Pool so we could explore rather than rush home late in the evening with bellies full of porchetta. We rise early on Saturday, 7am to be exact, thanks to James and his military urgency. I curse the sun that peeks through my window and immediately retract my negative feelings because it is a gorgeous day, ripe for adventure. We arrive so early at the hotel that we secure free street parking and get a glimpse of the McCarren Pool in all its tranquility before a Veuve Clicquot summer party moves in; James and I don't quite fit in that scene so we take to the street. 

In that instant I am Francie Nolan, one of my favorite literary characters, from A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. I am subtly insecure, on occasion uncomfortable in my skin, perhaps trying too hard,  but my intentions are good and I open myself to what the world has to offer. James and I are giddy exploring McCarren Park Green Market. We sample pickles and ginger teas, pet pups, and practice taking pictures of beautiful root vegetables. I've been to farmers markets before, of course, but this one feels more like a village all its own as if the market rendered this location relevant and the people flocked here to be a part of it. 

We snag a matcha iced latte and a chocolate croissant at Woops! to fuel our journey and walk nearly 3 miles before realizing we are going farther from our destination. I am enjoying myself so thoroughly it doesn't phase me. We hop on Citi bikes and ring our bells, passing joggers, babies, and dogs, lots of each. We embrace our roles as tourists: sun burnt, dehydrated, foolish, and loving every moment of it. Advertisements are painted on the sides of buildings. We watch a man carefully finish off a portrait of a woman to advertise some brand that escapes me as I write. I only see the artist and the woman. 

We finally arrive at Smorgasburg. James instructs me to find the booth with the longest line and hop in that line, queues indicating something is coveted and worth trying. We opt for Mao's Bao  and are not disappointed. We walk more and settle in to Shelter to balance out all of the fried confections we had eaten with a selection of grilled Camembert, roasted vegetables, lox flatbread, and cold Brooklyn Lager. 

That evening we Lyft to the Tuscan Gun Officine Alimentari for Summer Porchetta Nights. I have long been a fan of Gabriele Corcos and Debi Mazar, of their show, their book, and the values of family and community that they champion. They are as I envisioned genuine, passionate, and inclusive. I tend to build in my mind an aspirational perspective of those I revere. For these two, the perception is upstaged by their true characters. Gabriele and his team work methodically in their small space to put out two kinds of bruschette, carrot soup with rosemary and chickpeas, pasta puttanesca, and his iconic porchetta. There are Aperol spritzes for me and bottles of Peroni for James. In his backwards baseball cap, Gabriele shares with us the origins of Pasta Puttanesca. As the story goes after a long night in a brothel somewhere in Italy, everyone had developed an appetite. They canvassed the pantry for items to cook with and only found olives, jarred capers, and sardines. Alas, puttanesca incorporates the shelf stable goods you'd expect to find in a brothel. After a long night of conversation with our new Brooklyn friends, Lisa and Chris, we sip on cappuccino and eat bite sized cornmeal cakes. I get a hug from Gabriele and realize one of my culinary life list goals.

Gabriele Corcos, James Beard Award recipient, tv host, author and culinary entrepreneur plating dessert. 

Sunday morning we wander through Brooklyn Bridge Park and take in the World Trade Center from yet another perspective. The sheer magnitude of the bridges and the buildings take my breath away. At Almondine, we have draft lattes and butterful pastries. I envy the French lifestyle of indulging in these decadent confections and maintaining a trim figure. If I ever make it to France, I'll be sure and inquire how they do it. Lastly, we find enamel plates, vintage baseball cards, and artwork entirely drawn on post-it notes at Brooklyn Flea in Dumbo. After being rushed off a corner for a movie filming, we pile into the Jeep and head back across the river. We never boarded a plane or traveled extra far but it felt as momentous as if we had. 

Grass is green wherever you water it, as they say, and you need not go terribly far for an adventure.  Board that bus, take that subway, wander with wonderment in your own backyard.  

Commuter: The sea and silence

It's the first day back after the long Fourth of July holiday weekend. A commuter near me is particularly agitated and Shhhh-ing anyone who utters a peep in his "quiet" car. The door is jammed and rhythmically knocks; this happens when the train isn't level. My sunburn is itchy. I close my eyes.

Waves are pounding against the shoreline. I am back on the beach alone with the rush of the wind and my thoughts. My college roommate's mother always said "never go into the deep confines of your mind alone, it's a dangerous place." I went there anyway.  Other than the gulls, the waves, the wind, all the sounds God intended to bellow on into perpetuity uninterrupted, there is silence. The sound of silence. I am not accustomed to it, rather more familiar with noise.

Taylor ham for this Jersey girl at Dockside Diner. 

Long live cold brew.

I resort to talking in the moments I doubt myself. Discomfort creeps in and I feel an urgency to explain. When I am wronged, the first remedy is to utter the words: to my mom, my husband, the cats, even social media "friends" if very desperate. I try not to do this as I know everyone has their own set of complex issues and Facebook makes a poor therapist. As I sit, I'm reminded of my Nana's love of the sea.  She used to walk the beach with her mom early morning until noon each day in the summer. I lay back on the cold sand and fog rushes over me like J.K. Rowling's dementors. I peer into the sky and pray for peace in my heart and in the hearts of the people I love. Anxieties try to challenge my serenity but I do not let them in. I am regenerated alone on the beach with no one around to judge or affirm.  The sea reacquainted me with silence, the silence that the city took from me. The sea taught me to stop filling the space, to forfeit the spewing of words, when silence can heal instead.

Linguini aglio olio. 

James knew to lure me from my slumber with the promise of cold brew iced coffee each morning: the Nitro variation from How You Brewin is the Guinness of iced coffee and Chameleon Cold Brew served at the Dockside Diner is my new elixir. When hunger peeled us from the sand, we cooked. My sun kissed skin still warm from the beach and my unruly curls contained with a headband, my uncle said I looked like an Italian peasant farm girl stirring the risotto. It was the best compliment I could have received. We drank wine and indulged in assorted cheeses from The Cheese Shoppe on the front porch to the tune of classic rock. After our bellies were full we would walk around the island and reminisce. We waved at strangers because who could be hostile in a beach town?

One meal two ways: Seafood risotto turned arancini. 

On the morning of the fourth, we leapt into our Jeep with the windows down. I wanted to check emails even though I knew driving next to someone with their head planted in a screen would be a nuisance. "I wish for once you would let yourself enjoy your surroundings," he said.  So I put my phone down to take it all in.  We sang off key. Well he sang off key. I am always on key thanks to Nana and those years of singing lessons. He drummed the steering wheel and I peered at everyone else heading home.